Always Never Yours(81)

“Take thou this vial, being then in bed—” Owen pauses in the middle of his monologue when he sees me. Jody follows his gaze, her eyes narrowing.

Without bothering to call the scene to a halt, she walks up the aisle toward me. Her face is red, her mouth pulled tight in something between irritation and disappointment. “Where have you been?” Her voice rises on the final word and echoes in the empty theater.

“I—I overslept,” I mumble.

Her eyes widen. “You overslept? In the four years I’ve known you, Megan, you’ve never been less than ten minutes early to a rehearsal. I know you weren’t thrilled to get the Juliet role, but I thought you were mature enough to handle it, or at least that you respected us enough to show up and try.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” I force impudence into my voice to push down the tears.

“You’re here an hour late to the most important rehearsal of the entire production. You were off your game in class yesterday, obviously distracted. I’m tired of fighting you on this, Megan.” Her expression softens, and she looks unfamiliarly sad. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you win. I’ll give you what you’ve always wanted. You’ll play Lady Montague, or nothing.”

I don’t answer. Alyssa watches me from the stage, and I realize what’s happened. They don’t need me. They never did. Jody waits for me to decide, but I turn and walk toward the door. Away from what I knew deep down to expect.

If they want to replace me, fine. It’s probably better if they do.



* * *





I’m halfway to the hotel when I feel my phone vibrate. I pull it out, dreading a gloating text from Alyssa or one from Anthony telling me I’m the worst friend ever.

Instead, it’s Owen.

What the hell was that?

Blinking back tears, I send him what I hope will end the conversation.

What should have happened a long time ago, Owen. Just leave me alone.

It’s the first time Owen’s voluntarily talked to me in weeks, and under better circumstances I wouldn’t pass up the possibility of figuring things out between us. But not today. Not now.





TWENTY-FIVE




CHORUS: But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,





Temp’ring extremities with extreme sweet.


II.prologue.13–4


I HAVEN’T LEFT MY ROOM IN SEVEN hours, except for the trip to the vending machine to pick up what passed for dinner—which hardly counts. I pretended to sleep when Alyssa returned to the room to be counted for nightly room checks by a parent chaperone, and while my former understudy unpacked noisily, probably wanting to wake me up in order to brag about Juliet, I didn’t budge until she left for Will’s again.

I’m flipping channels between two stations of Ashland nighttime news when there’s finally a knock on the door. Three quick taps, light but deliberate. I’ve been expecting Jody to try to talk to me, or maybe lecture me some more, ever since rehearsal ended. I’m surprised she waited this long.

What if she waited this long because she’s sending me home? Worry constricts my chest. What if she had to organize my transportation, or whatever? Knowing I can’t ignore her, I drag myself to the door.

But I crack it open to find Owen, clutching his notebook.

“What do you want?” I ask, holding the door open only a couple inches.

His expression is guarded but gentle. “I want to show you something.”

I start to shut the door. “I’m really not in the mood, Owen.”

“I finished it.” He holds up his notebook, and in a moment I realize what he means. His play. It surprises me enough that I release my hold on the door, and he brushes by me into the room.

I collect myself, rounding on him. “You ignore me for weeks, and now you barge in here to show me your play? That’s . . . great. I’m really happy for you,” I say sarcastically.

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” His voice is quiet.

“We haven’t talked since . . .” I can’t bring myself to complete the sentence. To put a name to whatever happened between us in his room.

“What you said about Cosima and my play stung, and I know I said enough to make you hate me. I was ashamed and frustrated with myself, and I needed distance.” He fervently flips the pages of his notebook. “But I couldn’t ignore you. Not even if I tried.” He looks up at me, a tentative smile curling his lips, and my heart does a familiar Owen-related leap. But it turns back into lead when I remind myself of everything that happened this weekend and everything that stands between us.

“Well, thanks,” I say stiffly. “You can go now.”

His smile disappears, but he doesn’t move. “I won’t go until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I know you better than that, Megan,” he says, looking at me intently. “Your text had complete sentences and perfect punctuation. I know something’s happened.” I say nothing, knowing he’d see through whatever bullshit explanation I give him, and he continues. “What you said to me in my room, you were right.”

I look up sharply. About Cosima?

“I was afraid to write because I was afraid I’d suck,” he goes on, and I deflate a little. “I didn’t want to hear it, but I needed to.” He places the notebook on the bed. “I wanted to show you the play because it’s entirely thanks to you. I thought you might need a reminder of how important you are.”