Always Never Yours(92)

“You never know.” I hear the smile in Owen’s voice. “I’ve seen Juliet-ish behavior come from the unlikeliest of people.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “Well, I found her chewing on a copy of your play in the living room. Is that Juliet-ish behavior?” He laughs ahead of me. “It was my favorite scene, too. I think I’m going to need you to print me a whole new copy.”

“You don’t need to read it again, Megan,” he says, sounding secretly pleased.

“Of course I do. My boyfriend wrote an amazing play, and I intend to read it every month until forever.” We reach the top of the mountain, and I walk to the edge of the campground to take in the view. “Wow, you were right. This is nice.” The forest opens in every direction below us. It’s quiet, and the trees have grown in their new leaves, washing everything in bright green. I remember looking at the photos of this place, Bishop’s Peak, on my phone with Owen months ago. It looked beautiful then. It looks nearly unreal now.

I take a quick picture and send it to Madeleine, who graciously lent me her hiking boots this morning. In the months since Romeo and Juliet, we’ve become even better friends. I told her about Tyler when I got home from Ashland, and she promptly broke up with him. She was upset for a couple of days—until she got into Princeton early, continuing her trend of being, well, perfect.

I turn to look for Owen and find him sitting on a log, notebook already out on his lap. I walk over and gently take it out of his hands, setting it down next to him. He glances up at me questioningly. “Owen, I didn’t really bring you up here to write.”

His eyebrows rise. “No?”

I climb into his lap, the bark rough under my knees. “Remember when you told me you hadn’t gotten lucky up here, and I told you we should do something about that?”

His hands find the small of my back. “I have a vague memory of that, yes.”

“Owen”—I lower my lips to his—“we should do something about that.”

In the moment before our mouths meet, he laughs. “You know,” he says, pulling back, “I had no idea what to do the first time you said that. I was utterly out of my depth.”

“And now . . . ?” I whisper.

“Still utterly out of my depth,” he replies, kissing my neck, “but I have an inkling.”

This time it’s he who moves to meet my lips. His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me closer. “Wait,” I breathe, leaning back. “I want to say one thing first.”

He nods, waiting with calm curiosity.

“I love you, like, really love you,” I begin to ramble. “Like, a lot. Like, so much. So much that if you were to do something stupid like climb my nonexistent balcony in the middle of the night or compare your lips to two blushing pilgrims or something nonsensical like that—I’d still want to kiss your face off.” Somehow I stop talking.

Owen brushes a hair from my face, his fingertips tracing the shell of my ear. “I love you, too.”

“Wow.” My face flares. “This is why you’re the writer. Economy of words. I should have gone with that.”

“Your way was perfect, Megan. And I would’ve elaborated, except you, on this mountain, with me, telling me everything you just told me, your hair looking the way it does and your beautiful eyes”—he stares right into them—“have me not at my most eloquent.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling even less eloquent myself.

His smile softening, Owen presses a long and deep kiss to my lips, and I realize it was a terrible idea to haul myself to a place with Owen and thin oxygen and expect not to faint.

“Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘Ay,’ and I will take thy word,” he whispers, catching my chin and tilting me closer.

“Owen,” I say, recognizing Juliet’s words. “That’s my line.”





Acknowledgments



THANK YOU, READER, FIRST AND FOREMOST, FOR picking up this book and following Megan’s story. Imagining this in your hands is why we do what we do.

We’d be nowhere without the amazing Katie Shea Boutillier, our agent, who believed in this book from the beginning and who’s given us incredible guidance in the form of keen editorial comments and an unwavering understanding of exactly what this story should be. We are endlessly grateful.

While we were utterly thrilled for this book to find a home with Puffin and the Penguin Young Readers group, we had no idea how lucky we’d be to work with the wonderful Dana Leydig, editor extraordinaire. For sharpening this story with commentary that consistently rang true, for finding depths where we didn’t know to explore them—and for making us laugh in your line edits—thank you from the bottom of our hearts, Dana.

Thank you to Kristie Radwilowicz for capturing the perfect cover design we’d always hoped for and never could have imagined. And thank you to our publicist, Katie Quinn, and the entire Penguin Young Readers marketing and publicity team for getting the book into readers’ hands.

To Julie Buxbaum, Huntley Fitzpatrick, Morgan Matson, and Micol Ostow, thank you for the blurbs of our dreams and for your encouragement and wisdom on the publishing journey!

To the Electric Eighteens, you guys rock. Thank you for making our debut year a hundred times better with your enthusiasm and your invaluable insight, and, of course, for giving us so many wonderful books to read!