Always Never Yours(82)

File for future reference: Owen can crush me with a word.

“Owen . . .” I turn away, trying to hide the tears welling in my eyes.

He steps forward and places a hand on my arm. “Does it have something to do with Tyler? I saw you with him last night . . .”

I jerk back. “Did he say something?” On top of everything else today, I couldn’t handle it if Tyler was spreading some story about us that didn’t happen. Knowing what he’s capable of, I wouldn’t put it past him.

“No.” Owen frowns. “Wait, what would he have said? I just meant that he tries to make you feel bad sometimes.”

I sag against the dresser in relief. “No, it wasn’t that. He . . . tried to hook up with me. Nothing happened,” I rush to say, not wanting Owen to believe I’m the kind of person who could go behind my best friend’s back like that. But he’s still looking at me with concern, and there isn’t a trace of judgment in his dark eyes. “It just changes everything I thought about him and me, and him and Madeleine,” I continue.

Confusion traces a crease in his forehead. “Which was what?”

“I guess I could accept being dumped, or even being cheated on, when it meant Madeleine having something perfect.” I drop my gaze, unable to meet his, and study his rumpled black sweater and the smudge of ink on his thumb. “But I don’t understand why Tyler would break up with me if this is how he’s going to treat her.”

Owen pauses like he’s searching for words. “It’s not about you or Madeleine,” he says slowly. “It’s not about you being inadequate or her being perfect. It’s Tyler. The guy’s an asshole. He was never going to be a good boyfriend, to either of you. He’s like every guy you date—” He stops, correcting himself. “I mean, they’re not assholes, not every one of them. It’s just, Will, even Anthony, who was obviously gay—you pick guys who will leave you, who will hurt you, who could never be what you deserve. You’re trying to protect yourself from getting your hopes up.”

Indignant, I flush. He’s one to talk. He hurt me and deserted me just like the rest. “Who do you think you are?” I say, fire in my voice. “You’ve only known me for a few months. What gives you the right to come in here and tell me that my relationship history is some sort of fucked-up self-fulfilling prophecy—”

“Every prophecy is a self-fulfilling prophecy, Megan,” he says seriously. “You taught me that. We have only known each other a few months, but you’ve seen me in a way nobody else ever has, and I think I might know you better than anyone, too.” I feel myself softening, until he continues. “You tell yourself you deserve to be dumped, but you don’t. You choose it.”

“Wow,” I say harshly. “Thanks, Owen.”

“No, I—” he stutters, backing away from me and beginning to pace across the room. “This isn’t coming out right. I mean—I know what you were thinking when you saw Alyssa on stage playing your role. You were thinking what you’re always thinking. That you’re replaceable.”

He does know me better than anyone. The realization hits me like a blow, because despite him being here, despite how he’s unfailingly loyal and passionately caring, he isn’t mine.

“But you’re not.” He pauses in his pacing to look up at me, and there’s an undeniable change in the air. “You’re irreplaceable. To your family, to your friends—to me.”

The ashes of everything I felt when he was kissing me weeks ago leap into a flame. He’s standing in the middle of the room, watching me with his eyes unguarded, and I can read in them everything he wants. It’s exactly what I want, too.

I walk forward like I’m being drawn to him, then stop, only inches away. He reaches out and takes my hand, and whatever was between us finally crumbles as I bring my lips to his. He kisses me back softly, still without stepping forward to meet me. Pressing his fingers into my palm, he pulls back.

With his free hand he traces the line of my cheek, and in his touch I feel a hesitation, like he’s holding back hope. “How do I know this is for real?” he asks in a whisper.

“Doesn’t it feel real?” I’m breathless, hardly able to form the words.

“Yes, but it’s felt real to me before, even when you were just flirting for fun. How am I supposed to know you mean it? Especially considering I’m not exactly your type. You know . . . shy, sweet.” He grimaces on the word.

I tilt my head to find his eyes, forcing him to meet mine. “Here’s a hint. With you, it was never just for fun.” He nearly smiles. “Besides, my type hasn’t exactly worked for me, as you eloquently pointed out. And yes, you’re sweet. I like that you’re sweet. But you’re not only sweet, you’re witty, fascinating, charming . . .” I close the distance between us. “And we both know you’re not shy.” I raise an eyebrow.

He leans in, laughing, and kisses me once more. And this time, there’s nothing hesitant about the way he grabs my waist and tugs me tightly against him. Without letting him go, I lead us toward the bed. I remember what I felt the last time we were in this position, how desperate I was to have as much of him as I could, but . . . it’s different now. For the first time, I’m not focused on when it will end. I sit down on the sheets and wait for him to climb on top of me.