Always Never Yours(88)

My dress fluttering in the wind, I march into the crosswalk on Fork Street. I’m in the middle of the road when, several steps in front of me, I spot a familiar friar’s costume.

“Hey, Owen,” I call to his back. How do I talk to someone who was heard having an “intense” conversation with his Italian ex hours after I took his virginity? I’ll figure it out.

He turns in the middle of the street, his eyes lighting up when he sees me.

Whatever’s going on with Cosima, I’m not going to be weird about it, I decide. I want to keep Owen as a friend, no matter how last night redefined everything for me.

“I heard about your epic speech to Jody,” he says when I catch up to him. He’s holding the schedule binder Jody handed out to everyone. “I’m really glad you’re going to be Juliet.”

“Thanks.” I scramble to hold together everything his smile unravels in me.

“You look beautiful,” he says, not doing me any favors.

The way he’s looking at me—I can’t help but remember him helping me when I was stuck in the dressing room, his hands brushing my back, his fingers lifting the hem up my body. And yesterday. Yesterday. But I play it cool. “You look chaste.” I nod to his frock.

Owen steps up onto the sidewalk and twirls in place. “You know, appearances can be deceiving, Megan,” he says, stunning me with a wry smile.

I blink. He’s 100 percent flirting with me. I know it when I see it. I take a breath, walking beside him. “Hey, so, um, I heard you talked to Cosima this morning.” I force myself to sound casual.

His eyes narrow quizzically. “Who told you that?”

“Just . . . some of the girls, you know.”

He shoots me a sidewise glance like I’ve just claimed the Earl of Oxford wrote Shakespeare’s plays. “No, I don’t know. But, yeah, I did talk to Cosima. She just wanted to clear the air. We left things kind of ugly the last time we talked.”

“Oh.” I pause, replaying his words in my head and searching for clues. “And . . . ?” I finally ask.

“And . . . then we hung up?” he says like he has no idea what I could be implying. He looks over at me again, and he must notice the desperate curiosity in my expression. “Oh my god. Megan! I was reassuring her the breakup wasn’t her fault.” His eyes go wide. “Tell me you didn’t think I was getting back together with her.”

I feel my face redden. “I thought you might feel like last night was a one-time thing—” I begin defensively. I hear how empty it sounds, how illogical. It’s a reflex, born of breakup after breakup.

“I snuck out of my room after room checks,” Owen cuts in, talking over me, “I told you you were irreplaceable, I showed you my play, and then we—” His face flushes spectacularly, and he gestures emptily in the air. “Which, remember, is something I’d never done before and something I’m desperately hoping is not a one-time thing.”

We stop in front of the door to the back of the theater. When I look up at Owen, for the first time today I don’t hold back what I’m feeling for everything about him, every part of him. Not for the crooked smile he’s giving me this very moment. Not for the way he made me laugh while telling me exactly what my heart wanted to hear. Not for his intelligence or his humor. Nor any other part belonging to a man, I hear Juliet’s voice in my head.

“I’m hoping it’s not a one-time thing either,” I say softly. “I kind of . . .” I feel a thought forming, and I follow where it leads. “I want to make this official. I don’t know. What do you think?” I ask fumblingly.

Owen looks surprised, and then an uncontrolled laugh escapes him. “O, speak again, bright angel,” he quotes, and I roll my eyes, recognizing Romeo’s line. I move to shove him lightly, but he pins my hand to his chest. “I really want to make this official, Megan.”

He kisses me, and I feel like call time might as well be in a million years, because I could do nothing but this forever. It’s every bit the raging rush it was only hours ago in my hotel bed. His hair—ever too long—brushes my cheeks. My fingers, numb with cold only moments ago, tingle and trace burning lines over his shoulders. My pulse races.

I hear giggles behind me, and I realize what we look like to whoever’s walking into the theater. Here I am, Juliet kissing a Romeo she never expected, who’s dressed in the costume of a monk. Owen evidently notices them, too, because he holds up the binder to hide us from view, never once breaking our kiss.

I finally pull back and look up at Owen, arms still encircling his waist. “You’re in luck, you know,” I say. “Every one of my boyfriends finds the perfect girl right after we break up.”

Owen kisses the top of my head. “Not every boyfriend,” he murmurs into my hair. “I have her right here.”

I don’t have words for how this feels. I don’t know that there are words. Not even in Shakespeare.



* * *





Heavy makeup coating my face, I wait in the wings for the curtain to rise. I didn’t often force myself to imagine what this moment would feel like, but on the occasions I did, I didn’t imagine this. There’s no knot in my stomach, but I’m not giddy with excitement either. I feel calm. Centered. Each of my scenes lies before me in a lighted path to the final bows.