Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  “And yet, when one relationship ends, you jump easily into another.”

  “Which, as the entire student body can tell you, means I’m flirtatious and boy-crazy. Two things I’m not ashamed of, by the way,” I add, chin up.

  “Of course.” He nods quickly. “I’m not saying you should be. I just wonder why, if you’re only flirtatious and boy-crazy, you go from relationship to relationship instead of hookup to hookup.” His eyes bore into mine again.

  I blink. I haven’t known Owen very long, and somehow he’s seen into the quietest, smallest corner of my heart. It’s a wish I don’t let out very often. Not everyone finds someone perfect for them. Or if they do, sometimes that person doesn’t think you’re perfect for them. My mom’s lingering affection for my dad showed me that.

  “I thought this was supposed to be play brainstorming, not psychotherapy or something.”

  Owen puts down his pen, his expression growing gentle. “You’re right. You’ve given me a lot of great stuff to work with.”

  The silence hangs in the air. I don’t know what to do next. I guess I’m here to ask about Will, but would it be weird if I did? Or would it be weirder if I didn’t? Would that just show I’m more rattled than I’d like to admit? I wish I could think of something to dispel the tension.

  “Not amazing, huh?” Owen asks suddenly, and I’m thankful he’s smiling. “Tyler, I mean.”

  I feel a grin spreading across my face. “His final performance didn’t exactly live up to the acclaimed early previews.”

  Owen lets out a quick laugh. “Not a long run then?”

  “Closed in minutes. Hoping Will lasts longer . . .” I raise an eyebrow.

  “That’s Sexy Stagehand Will to you,” Owen says seriously.

  “Of course.” I lean forward. “Your turn. What’s up with Sexy Stagehand Will? What’s taking him so long? It’s been days of me giving him my best bedroom eyes—and not like shitty, twin-bed bedroom eyes,” I add. “Like four-poster, silk-draped, chateau bedroom eyes.”

  “Bedroom eyes?” Owen cocks his head skeptically. “Is that a thing?”

  On the bed, I lean a little closer and look up at him through smoldering, half-lidded eyes.

  “Ah,” he says almost immediately. “Well, Will’s not used to this kind of thing. He wouldn’t make a move unless he knows you’re interested.”

  “I’m not just going to march up to him in the middle of school or rehearsal and plant one on him. Not if he might not be into it. I do have some dignity.”

  “What if it’s not at school?” Owen muses. “Will’s band is playing a house party this weekend. It’ll give you guys a chance to find some privacy.”

  Yes. In front of a crowd is one thing, but if I can get him alone, I’d definitely make a move. “Perfect,” I say. “Sounds like I’ll have a new boyfriend by Monday.”

  Owen looks at me curiously. I can read the question in his eyes.

  I sigh with impatience, and maybe a little something else. “I told you, I’m not holding out hope for love. I like Will. I want Will to be my boyfriend. Even if I hope someday, something like . . . true love”—I almost can’t get the words out—“is possible for me, I’m expecting nothing from him other than our relationship falling apart just like the rest.”

  “You’re certain it’ll fall apart,” Owen asks, “and still you’re eager to start a new relationship?” There’s nothing judgmental in his tone.

  It’s not like I haven’t asked myself the very same question. “What else can I do? Otherwise I’ll just be watching everyone else.” I get up off the bed and pick up my bag by his door. He’s still watching me with the scrutiny of his interview, even though he’s put his notebook down on his desk. “Besides,” I add, throwing my bag over my shoulder, “it’ll be fun while it lasts.”

  NINE

  JULIET: Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die,

  Take him and cut him out in little stars,

  And he will make the face of heaven so fine

  That all the world will be in love with night

  And pay no worship to the garish sun.

  III.ii.23–7

  EVER SINCE MY DAD TOLD ME ABOUT the move, just being home puts me in a bad mood. I’ve spent afternoons this week doing homework in the drama room or, when Jody goes home for the night, in the corner booth in Verona eating half-baked pizza and watching Anthony watch Eric. But on Friday night, I’m home early to talk to Mom.

  I head downstairs to hydrate before the party. I’m in luck—Dad’s at a school board meeting, and the house is quiet. In the kitchen I walk past Erin in her high chair contemplating the universe over a tiny bowl of applesauce. When I grab a bottle of water and close the fridge, something splatters on the wall next to me. I spin to find Erin regarding me, pink plastic spoon in hand and a big grin on her face. She lets out a giggle, and I notice there’s applesauce in her ear.

  I sigh. “Rose?” I call. There’s no answer. Seeing no other choice, I turn back to Erin. “You can’t go around looking like that,” I chide. Gingerly, I scoop her out of her high chair, careful to avoid the applesauce sliding down her cheek. She shrieks in delight.

  I leave the water running while I wet a paper towel and wipe down Erin’s face. Clearly thinking this is the best thing in the world, Erin flings her hand through the stream, splashing water on the halter dress I’ve chosen to catch Will’s eye. I put my hand on my hip and adopt an indignant tone. “You did not just do that.” I flick a drop of water at her in return, and she explodes into giggles.

  “Megan?” I hear Rose from the hall before she steps into the kitchen, her eyes jumping from me to Erin. “Sorry, I walked away for a second to pee for the twentieth time today.” She smiles. “You two look like you’re having fun.”

  I was. But when Rose lays a hand on her swollen stomach, I’m reminded of why my dad’s moving across the country. “You left her with applesauce. I had to clean her up,” I tell Rose, working to keep my voice unemotional.

  “Thanks, Megan,” she says gently as she walks forward to pick up Erin. “Erin would thank you, too, if only she could pronounce your name,” Rose adds, smiling. “The hard G, you know?”

  I only shrug before I head upstairs.

  * * *

  When I get on FaceTime with Mom five minutes late—as usual—I must still look out of sorts, because she immediately studies me, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you know Dad and Rose are planning to move to New York?” I blurt out.

  Mom looks taken aback, but she quickly recovers. “They . . . haven’t told me about that, no.”

  “Well, they’re looking at houses,” I charge on. “I only found out because they left a real-estate catalog in the kitchen.”

  I watch her fuss with the mug of tea she’s holding, one I realize I don’t recognize. It wasn’t one of the things she packed into cardboard boxes before she left Oregon, and her marriage, to find a new home in Texas. I’ve never known how that felt to her, but now I’m beginning to understand. I’m beginning to know the disconnection from home she must’ve felt, even though I’m staying put in Oregon for college—hopefully—and she moved halfway across the country.

  I blamed her the night they told me she was moving. I didn’t understand why she’d decided to leave. When I caught her hours later forlornly staring at the family photos in the hall, I realized she hadn’t. Not really.

  “Megan, I’m sure they were going to tell you,” Mom says softly. “You know your father. He never lets anyone into his plans until he’s figured the details out himself.”

  “Yeah. I guess,” I mutter.

  “If this bothers you, you should talk to your dad.” Her voice is still sympathetic, but there’s a patented Mom firmness to it. “He’d want to know you’re upset.”

  “Why bother? It’s not like they’d listen to my opinion.”

 
Mom says nothing for a second, her eyes flitting downward. I know we’re both remembering some of the worst fights of her and Dad’s final months together. Shouting matches about Dad’s tendency to make decisions for the whole family without listening to her, or even talking to her. There’s a motorcycle in the garage to prove it.

  “You know, New York might not be the worst,” she says with a hesitant smile. “You could go to shows in the city when you’re home from school.”

  She’s trying, like she must’ve when she unpacked in her new home. She must’ve searched for what was exciting and worth looking forward to where she’d be living. Not wanting to worry her, I nod.

  “You could come to Texas,” she adds in a quietly hopeful voice.

  “Maybe,” I say. I don’t tell her moving to Texas wouldn’t fix the real problems. It wouldn’t keep my dad and Rose from building a new life without me. It wouldn’t keep them from erasing the only home I’ve ever known, consigning my childhood memories to the past.

  “How’s the play going?” Mom asks, and I know she’s trying to distract me.

  “It’s going okay,” I mumble. “We’re mostly just working on memorizing. I haven’t done a lot of real performing yet.”

  She sets down her tea, a worrisome gleam in her eye. “Well . . . Randall and I have gotten tickets to come to the Ashland showcase.”

  Shit. “Wow,” I say instead. “Sounds great, Mom.”

  “It’ll be Randall’s first trip to Oregon,” she goes on excitedly. “I was thinking the three of us could go to the lake. I finally get to show him where you grew up, and I know Randall’s looking forward to spending more time with you.”

  “That—would be really nice,” I get out.

  Mom cranes her neck to look behind her. “He’s in the other room if you have time for a quick hello.”

  “Um, sorry. I have a party to get to. How about next time?”

  “A party?” Her eyebrows lift. “You’ll tell me about the new boyfriend tomorrow, I expect?”

  I roll my eyes. “There’s no boyfriend.” Yet.

  Mom gives me a look that says she knows better. “Be careful, Megan.”

  “Bye, Mom,” I say loudly before I disconnect.

  I shut the computer and put on my burgundy lipstick in front of the mirror. The thought of both parents and their significant others in Stillmont puts me on edge. It’s hard to watch Mom and Randall next to Dad and Rose, the perfect couple Mom and her boyfriend will never be. Mom met Randall online after two years of blind dates and setups in Texas. Dad met Rose months after the divorce. They were married within the year, and with their second kid on the way, they still have Friday date nights and can’t keep their hands off each other.

  Because of course Dad bounced back. It’s easier to be the one letting go.

  * * *

  I park at the end of Derek Denton’s driveway, an impossibly long path to where his house perches on a bluff. Cars are parked the whole way up like it’s Coachella and not a high-school house party. It’s dark here, without streetlights among the trees. This is one of the priciest neighborhoods in southern Oregon, and I can see why. When I look up there’s nothing but treetops and endless stars.

  It takes ten minutes to walk up to the door, though my heels are partly to blame. It’s a chilly October night, and I gratefully pull my jacket tight. When I get inside, I’m surprised I don’t recognize everyone here. Stillmont is a small school, and I’ve only been to a couple of parties where the invites reached into other towns nearby, but Derek’s living room is filled with people I’ve never seen before. The house is even bigger than it looked from the outside, with a wide oak staircase up to an indoor balcony where a group of girls lean on the railing, nodding along to the music. I look over the heads of the already inebriated crowd to the double doors that open onto an illuminated azure pool, where a few brave souls have jumped in despite the weather.

  But next to the pool I spot what I’m looking for, a cleared space with a drum kit and a couple of amps. Setting up a microphone in front of the drums is the tall, leather-jacketed, gorgeous reason I’m here tonight.

  I plunge into the crowd, stepping past the coffee table where Jeremy Handler is presently passed out. Courtney Greene shoves a red Solo cup in my direction. “I’m good!” I yell, not to be deterred.

  “Megan!” someone shouts in my ear, and I turn. There are only a couple of voices that could stop me right now, and one of them is Anthony’s, especially when I know tonight’s the night he’s supposed to be out with Eric. He looks no less surprised to see me than I am him.

  “Wait.” I recover first. “Wasn’t Eric’s party—” Then I realize. “This is the party Eric invited you to?”

  “Yeah,” he says. I notice he’s wearing one of his best outfits—his caramel chinos and the iconic navy blazer over an oxford with the top two buttons undone. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming out tonight.”

  I throw a glance toward the makeshift stage where Will’s now tuning a guitar. Be still my heart.

  “I see.” Anthony nods slowly.

  “How’s it going with you?” I search the crowd. “Where’s Eric?”

  Anthony seizes my arm. “It’s going great. Eric picked me up, and we drove over here together. Which means he’s driving me home.” He gives me a smile I recognize from years of being front row to his flirtations. “High hopes for the night.”

  Behind him, I catch sight of Eric in a neon frat tank, holding up two Solo cups and heading our way. Anthony grins, and I gently shove him in Eric’s direction. The screech of an amp cuts through the shitty dance music inside, and I take it as my cue to press on to the back door.

  Finally, I reach the stage. “Will!” I shout from a couple feet away, trying to sound like I’m surprised to run into him—not like he’s my single objective for the night and hopefully the next couple months.

  “Megan, hey!” Will faces me, looking genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know you’d be coming.” He sets his guitar down and gives me a grin that has me rethinking the whole privacy premise of tonight.

  “This house is crazy, right?” I nonchalantly toss my hair. “I heard there’s a path to a bluff with an incredible view.”

  “Really?” He looks interested, and my stomach somersaults. He crouches down next to an amp to plug something in. “Give me a—”

  “Hey, Will!” The voice comes from what must be one of Will’s bandmates, who’s standing on the other end of the stage. “The PA’s broken again. I’ve tried plugging shit in everywhere and—nothing. We need that stagehand magic.”

  Will sighs, frustrated, and looks at me apologetically. “I have to—” he starts.

  “No worries,” I cut him off, hoping he doesn’t hear my disappointment. “The show must go on. I’m looking forward to it.”

  His devastating grin returns. “Find me after, okay?”

  “Definitely.” Like he has to tell me. Even though it physically hurts to pull myself away, I retreat into the crowd growing on the edge of the stage.

  Will must be a genius with PAs, because it’s only five minutes later that he steps up to the mic while the rest of the band take to their instruments behind him. Without introduction, Will counts them off and strikes the first chord. He’s incredible. I am dead. They’re playing a kind of alternative punk that I’d probably enjoy even without the hot singer.

  I try to move up, but I’m blocked by Dean Singh, my ex from two years ago. He’s dancing overeagerly with Amanda Cohen, whom he left me for when she transferred to our school three months into our relationship. I watch him smash a sloppy kiss on her lips in front of me.

  I hesitate, wrestling with the warring desires to get a better view and to avoid Dean. I didn’t exactly exit the relationship gracefully. I wasn’t completely used to being dumped yet, and I let Dean know I was pissed. There might have been defiling o
f his locker involved. We haven’t spoken since, and I’m not looking to break the streak. In a moment of panic, I spin and search for a new vantage point to watch the band. My eyes find Anthony on the outdoor balcony.

  I quickly go inside and step over a worrisome bikini top on my way up the stairs. It’s less crowded up here with everyone on the dance floor. When I walk out onto the balcony, Anthony’s draped on the railing, his eyes fixed on the crowd below. Immediately, I know something’s wrong. In no typical party would Anthony be by himself while everyone else is having fun.

  “What’s up, Anthony?” I hesitantly ask when I reach the railing.

  He wordlessly points to the edge of the dance floor, where I glimpse a flash of neon. Eric.

  He’s dancing—with a girl, the sort of girl someone like Eric would be expected to attract. Bleach-blonde hair, tall, curvaceous.

  “They could just be friends,” I say, watching the girl press her butt into Eric’s front. “Besides, you said things were going great. I bet it’s nothing.”

  Anthony turns to me, his eyes combative. “Does she look like just a friend?” He nods to where Eric’s now running his hands down the girl’s sides.

  I have to admit, it doesn’t look good. A guy in a Saint Margaret’s School lacrosse jersey walks past Eric and thumps him on the back. That’s where Eric goes to school, I have to guess. He exchanges bro-nods with the lacrosse guy, then returns to his concentrated grinding.

  “I don’t get it,” Anthony mutters. “I really felt like we connected in the car.”

  “I’m sure you—” I hear my name shouted up from the lower level. Anthony and I both turn, startled, to peer over the railing.

  Owen’s standing under the balcony. He must be the only person in the entire party not dancing or watching the band. He’s wearing a gray sweater and black jeans, and even though I know I’ve seen the outfit before, it looks somehow better tonight. When our eyes meet, he grins.