Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  “What’re you doing up there?” he calls.

  I gesture in the direction of Will and the band, who’ve finished their first song to drunken cheers. “Better view!” I shout.

  “How Juliet of you.” Owen nods at the balcony, his grin widening. I have no choice but to roll my eyes. Beside me Anthony groans, and I glance to Eric—whose hands have risen perilously close to Blondie’s chest.

  Anthony’s head drops into his hands. But he jerks upright when I take him by both shoulders and spin him to look me in the eye. “Anthony,” I say urgently. “This?” I gesture to him crumpled on the railing. “Isn’t how you get guys interested. Especially not when you’re wearing the blazer and button-down you know leave people breathless.” He gives me a weak smile. “Pull yourself together. Get down there,” I continue. “Talk to him. Dance with him.”

  My monologue doesn’t exactly leave Anthony looking like a virile sex god, but some of the despondency’s gone out of his expression. He straightens his blazer and walks inside, and I lean over the balcony’s edge.

  “Owen,” I shout. “This is ridiculous. Come up here.”

  Will counts off the second song, and I take special note of the way he pushes his slightly sweaty hair out of his eyes. Sometime between the hair push and Will gripping the mic with both hands in a way that makes me wish it were my face, Owen comes out onto the balcony.

  “Did you bring a date?” I ask him when he joins me by the railing.

  He frowns, but I can tell he’s trying to hide a smile. “No, Megan. I didn’t bring a date. I have a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, right. I keep forgetting.”

  He scrutinizes me for a second. “Is there . . . applesauce in your hair?”

  “What?” I quickly try to hide my head from Owen and grab my hair, mortified when I feel something sticky. “It was—a crazy pregame,” I mutter, furiously trying to brush it out.

  Owen turns back to the band. It feels like he’s giving me a moment to collect myself, and I’m grateful. “They sound okay tonight,” he says.

  “They sound amazing. They’re probably the best band I’ve ever heard.”

  “You mean seen,” he says with the hint of a smile.

  “Seen, heard . . . What’s the difference?”

  Owen laughs. “Remind me to take you to a real concert sometime.”

  It’s a tossed-off comment, but for a moment my mind lingers on the idea of Owen Okita taking me to concerts, to other places on nights out . . . But I lose my train of thought when I hear Will sing, “Come on, baby, touch me and feel me burning for you!”

  I can’t stop listening. Hot lead singer notwithstanding, they are good. “You’re a fire in the night, crimson in the trees,” Will sings. “If you do nothing else for me, baby, burn me down, please.”

  “Wow . . . Will, these lyrics, it’s working for me,” I say in a low voice.

  Owen rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable.

  “Wait.” I grab his arm. “Owen. Did you write these?”

  The blood rushes from his face. “Yes, I did.”

  “No wonder you’re with your fair Cosima if she inspires lyrics like these. A few weeks of theater camp and you two really got down to business.”

  He shakes his head sharply. “The lyrics weren’t inspired by anything. I was just trying to channel Neruda’s love poetry in a modern context. It was a poetical exercise.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  “I swear,” he insists. “They’re completely innocent.”

  “Sure, Owen.”

  I feel my phone buzz. Pulling it out of my purse, I find a text from Anthony. YOU NEED TO COME DOWN HERE, it reads. Anthony texts entirely in capitals. When I asked him why, years ago, he told me “the world won’t wait for men who write in lowercase.”

  y, I send back.

  I WANT TO DANCE WITH ERIC. TOO SCARED. NEED BACKUP.

  I look down into the crowd and spot Anthony awkwardly hovering near Eric and the girl. I notice the Saint Margaret’s lacrosse boys have moved away from the dance floor to the keg by the doors. Smiling, I stow my phone and grab Owen’s arm again. “Come on,” I command. “We’ve got to go dance.”

  He looks startled. I swear, one of these days that expression’s going to stick. “Us? Now?”

  “It’s a group thing. For Anthony.” I walk backward while tugging him toward the door. “It’s nothing to make Cosima jealous.”

  Owen breaks into a grin. “So you admit she’s real?”

  “You’re impossible.” I roll my eyes, leading him down the stairs. “Come on, lover boy.”

  I keep hold of his arm as we make our way through our drunken classmates. The crowd hasn’t thinned out, and I’m nearly elbowed in the face by a couple baseball guys I recognize from Tyler’s games. I let go of Owen when we reach Anthony, who’s worked up the courage to move closer to Eric. Luckily, Eric and the blonde have separated long enough for us to join them and form a lopsided dance circle.

  I reach for Anthony’s hand and playfully grind up on him, and he places his hands on my hips. Anthony’s a good dancer once he’s been loosened up.

  As soon as the blonde walks off to join the group of girls beckoning her over, I nudge Anthony in Eric’s direction and face Owen, who’s making a good effort at dancing. I watch him bob his head for a couple beats before I take his hands and dance lazily with my fingers entwined in his. I feel him hesitate for a second, but then I exaggeratedly flip my hair, and he relaxes, grinning.

  When the band starts a faster number, Owen cranes his neck to look over my shoulder. Following his eyes, I turn and catch sight of Anthony and Eric swaying near each other, holding hands below their waists.

  I whip to face Owen. “Oh my god,” I mouth. He nods slowly, eyebrows arched. I laugh and pull him closer, our bodies just barely touching. He stiffens, but still he doesn’t pull away. By the time the song ends, he’s gripping my hands tightly and we move faster in rhythm through the next couple songs.

  “That’s our set. Thanks, Stillmont,” I hear Will’s voice coming over the mic. “You’ve been a beautiful audience.”

  I step back from Owen and wipe the sweat from my forehead, catching my breath. He gives me a shy smile, a smile in which I see a different Owen than the one hunched over his notebook in Verona. An Owen willing to follow me onto a dance floor and match my every move with one of his own. Just when I think I have him figured out, he keeps finding ways to surprise me.

  The thought hangs in my head for only a moment because, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the blonde girl from earlier heading our way, followed by two Saint Margaret boys. Eric drops Anthony’s hand—and while Anthony watches in stunned silence, Eric grabs the girl and presses his lips to hers, folding her into a shameless kiss.

  I lock eyes with Anthony.

  Horror, heartbreak, and anger collide on his face. I open my mouth, trying to think of something to say—of what I could possibly say—but he’s storming off before I’ve even gotten his name out. The crowd’s breaking up, staggering back into the house. I push aside exhausted couples clinging to each other on the patio, following Anthony.

  I finally reach him by the pool, but he holds up a hand. “Please, Megan,” he says in a low, uneven voice. “I just need to be alone right now.”

  “Let me drive you home at least,” I say, because it’s the only thing I have to offer.

  “No, go back inside. Find Will. I’ll be fine, really. I’ll get a ride with Jenna.” He irons a little of the waver out of his voice.

  I stand there and watch him slowly walk into the house with everyone else, wondering if I’d be a shittier friend to let him leave or try to follow. Before I’ve decided, Owen steps up beside me.

  “Is he okay?” Owen asks.

  “Not really. But Anthony’s tough.�
�

  He nods. “Well, I wanted to catch you because the band’s packing up. Now’s your shot with Will.”

  He’s right. I’m here for a reason, and I can’t leave without trying. I look to the stage, where Will’s drummer and guitarist are hauling equipment toward an open van parked in the back. But Will’s caught in a circle of girls near the mic stand, each of them leaning in a little closer than what could be considered friendly. I’m not surprised to find Alyssa’s among them.

  Part of me irrationally hopes he’ll look for me over the heads of his new groupies. But of course he doesn’t.

  “Are you going?” Owen sounds expectant.

  I gesture to the girls encircling Will. “I’m not interested in playing that game.” And I definitely don’t want to stick around and watch him notice someone else. “I’ll just wait until everyone’s leaving and talk to him then.”

  With nothing better to do, I follow Owen into the enormous, trashed living room, where inexplicably he begins picking up beer cans and Solo cups and throwing them into the black Hefty bag taped to the wall. Feeling guilty next to Mr. Party Samaritan, I grab a towel and wipe up a salsa spill on the chip table.

  “You’re his friend. What has Will said about me?” I ask after a couple minutes.

  Owen drops a can into the trash bag, then stops, seemingly weighing his words. “He said you’re hot in a deep way.”

  I straighten up. “What does that mean? No, wait, it doesn’t matter. It sounds promising.” I take a seat on the stairs and smile to myself, until curiosity gets the better of me. “But what does that mean?”

  Owen laughs at my change of heart. He leans on the banister, his eyes becoming contemplative. His words come slowly at first, but they gather momentum while he speaks. “It means you’re, like, this unafraid force of being. You know exactly who you want to be, and you never pretend to be someone you’re not. It’s inspiring. Being around you—” He looks up sharply, then shakes his head. “This trash bag’s going to break,” he says abruptly, tying off the bag beside him, eyes averted from mine. “Would you hand me another?” He points to the box of bags on the table.

  Judging from the limp outline of the one he’s tying shut, it’s nowhere near full. But I grab a new bag anyway.

  I hand it to him, saying nothing. I don’t know what to say. Owen tapes the new bag to the wall, then straightens his sweater like he’s desperately searching for a distraction. I feel something I hardly recognize—a blush rising in my cheeks.

  No one’s ever said anything like that to me. I’ve never thought of myself as a force of . . . anything.

  “No wonder you write the lyrics,” I say lightly before the silence gets too awkward.

  Owen’s laugh sounds relieved, but he stuffs his hands into his pockets.

  “Will didn’t say all that, did he?” My voice comes out soft, and at first I think he didn’t hear me over the music pounding through the walls. No one’s turned the iPod off even though the party’s dying down.

  “Not exactly,” Owen says after a long moment. He glances sideways, and I want to ask him what he was going to say next, before he cut himself off to ask for the trash bag, when I hear someone’s footsteps coming from the now nearly empty patio.

  “Hey,” Will says when he sees us.

  “Good set tonight.” Owen sounds casual, none of the gentle sincerity of a couple seconds ago lingering in his voice. “I should head home,” he continues, tossing a pointed look in my direction. I know he’s purposefully giving me time with Will. “I’ll see you guys for rehearsal on Monday.”

  He leaves us by the stairs. I waste no time in getting up and smoothing my dress. Without saying a word, we drift back outside. There’s a certain charge in the air, like we both know where this is headed.

  Will pauses under the strings of small, dim lights strung over the patio. “I looked for you after the show, but I couldn’t find you.”

  “I knew you were getting mobbed.” I shrug, not wanting to think about Alyssa and the groupies right now. “Hot lead singer and whatnot.”

  He laughs, his voice rough and raspy from an hour of singing, and I wish we’d skipped the small talk. “You get right to the point. I like that,” he says, eyeing me like he’s wishing the same thing.

  I’m leaning forward to kiss him when there’s a horrible retching sound next to us. We both startle back to find Jeremy Handler, head between his knees, spewing an acrid beige outpouring onto the grass. “Wow . . .” Will mumbles.

  “Yeah. We have to find a better place for this.”

  “What was it you said about a bluff with a view?” he asks, a smile returning to his eyes.

  “Yes.” I grab his hand. “Perfect.”

  The path begins behind the pool, and it’s startling how quickly the backyard full of beer cans—and now vomit—disappears on our way up. Hardly a five-minute walk up the trail, it feels like Will and I have stepped into a starlit night completely our own. I lead him to the rocky edge of the bluff. The view is unbelievable, sweeping over the sparse lights of Stillmont and the moon reflected in Hudson Lake.

  “I don’t want to be the kind of guy who fishes for compliments,” Will speaks up after a moment of looking out on the view, “but what’d you think of the band?”

  I grin and face him, my hand still in his. “I think you’re a great vocalist,” I say not untruthfully. I take a step closer. “And Sexy Stagehand Will is an understatement.”

  His eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. “Is that what people call me?”

  I close the distance between us. “Certain people,” I say in a hushed voice. Then my lips are on his. He stills and pulls back after a second, looking at me questioningly. “You said you liked that I got right to the point,” I whisper. “This was the point, wasn’t it?”

  Will’s uncertainty fades, replaced by something that stops my breath. “Yes. It definitely was.”

  For a single heartbeat, I look into Will’s eyes and wonder if I’m doing this right. If I shouldn’t slow down and get to know him before beginning this. The whisper of an idea slips into my mind. Maybe I shouldn’t begin every relationship with the expectation it’ll end. Maybe it could last if— I bury the thought. I don’t have time to waste. I’m going to enjoy every second I have with Will before it’s over.

  He pulls me in this time and kisses me hard. Even though we’re a long way from the ocean, it feels like waves crashing.

  * * *

  I glance in the mirror once I’ve gotten back in my car, and holy shit, is my hair messed up. It’s fifteen minutes past my curfew, but there’s someone I have to text before I go home and have my phone taken away for the weekend. I haven’t texted Owen before, but we exchanged numbers after our first play-brainstorming session.

  went gr8. Thx ur the best, I send him with a kissy emoji.

  Who is this? he replies.

  u didnt put my # in ur phone??? megan, I shoot back.

  It’s a couple moments before my phone buzzes again.

  Forgive me for not recognizing you through the grammar of a sixth grader from 2001. Is this how you write everything, or are you very drunk?

  Smiling to myself, I return, NOT drunk. who do U usually text w/? david foster wallace?

  David Foster Wallace is dead, Megan. I WISH I texted with David Foster Wallace.

  I find I’m grinning wider.

  back 2 point: Will!!! (RIP david foster wallace)

  My phone buzzes seconds after I’ve hit SEND.

  Punctuation! Like rain in the desert!

  keep it in ur pants, Owen, I fire back.

  I watch the typing bubble for a half minute before I receive his reply.

  I’m happy for you about Will. I hope you still want advice, though, because my play’s nowhere near done.

  I know this is probably just Owen being a Serious Writer, but still I’m touched
he wants to hang out. I send back, dnt worry, Im not going anywhere.

  TEN

  JULIET: O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon,

  That monthly changes in her circled orb,

  Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

  II.ii.114–6

  WILL’S WAITING FOR ME OUTSIDE ENGLISH WHEN lunch begins. I wasn’t expecting him, and I beam when I notice him leaning on the lockers. It’s nearly been a week, and we haven’t had the conversation where we “define the relationship.” But it doesn’t matter if we’re dating, or hooking up, or just friends with benefits, even if it’s only PG for now. Whatever we are, I’m enjoying it.

  He reaches for my hand as we walk down the hallway. Momentarily surprised, I jerk to face him. “Handholding? I’ll take it,” I say coyly. In the past couple days, we’ve jumped straight to the more physical, more private forms of contact, skipping over the simple stuff like holding hands.

  “I’m not moving too fast, right?” He flashes me his irresistible smile.

  I play along. “I don’t know, Will. It’s bold of you.”

  “Megan Harper talking to me about being bold?” He releases my hand and spins to walk backward facing me.

  I laugh. “I haven’t a clue what you’re implying.”

  “Oh really?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Even with what happened yesterday after rehearsal?”

  My stomach clenches deliciously at the memory of a Grade-A make-out session in the green room, complete with a costume rack knocked over and a shattered prop lamp.

  “You raise an excellent point,” I concede. Still thinking about yesterday, I grab his hand and stop him outside the art closet. His eyes light up. Wasting no time, he follows me inside and closes the door.

  * * *

  Twenty-two minutes later, I straighten my skirt and step out into the hall. Will places a hand low on my back, and we head to the quad. We find Tyler and Madeleine, Owen, Jenna, and a few juniors I know on the hill outside the drama room. Without warning, Will sweeps his arm behind my back, dips me slightly, and kisses me. With tongue.