Always Never Yours

by Emily Wibberley

  “Don’t yell at her, Pop, will ya?” Owen’s incensed voice pulls my focus back to the stage. In the moment, because of the way I’ve blocked the scene and the way Owen’s squaring his shoulders, he actually looks bigger than Tyler on the stage. He’s bringing an intensity to the final lines that he hadn’t in rehearsals, and I’m impressed.

  Tyler hunches over and drops his voice to deliver Willy’s final line. “Give my best to Bill Oliver—he may remember me.” A couple of people in the audience covertly try to wipe their eyes in the heavy pause that follows.

  The lights come back on, and the audience applauds as my actors take their bows. Feeling the heady rush of a perfect performance, I begin to step back from the curtain—but then I catch Tyler beckoning me on stage, wearing the ridiculous grin he gets every time he’s in front of an adoring audience.

  “No way,” I mouth while Tyler continues to wave me on.

  I watch him—unbelievably—exchange a knowing glance with Owen, who darts to where I’m hiding behind the curtain and, before I know it, hauls me by the elbow onto the stage. He holds me firmly in place under the spotlight.

  “Could we give an extra-loud round of applause for Megan Harper,” Tyler shouts to the crowd. “Who’s probably going to kill me because of this, but not right now. Too many witnesses.” The audience laughs, still under Tyler’s spell. I can’t blame them. Even if he’s right and I will kill him after this.

  “Not only is Megan an extraordinary director, she put together the entire Senior Showcase,” he continues. “She’s done amazing work in four years of bringing drama to life on this stage—and giving me more opportunities than I deserve to make a fool of myself in front of you guys.” He unleashes his cockiest grin for the span of a second before his features settle into something sincere. “It’s been an honor working with her.”

  Nothing in my history with Tyler prepares me for the way he looks at me then—with genuine respect. A stagehand comes out of the wings bearing a ridiculous bouquet of white orchids, and Owen gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. I turn to look at him, but he’s already releasing me and stepping back out of the spotlight. Leaving me alone at the center of everything.

  Heat rises in my cheeks. I must have taken the flowers from Andrew Mehta’s hands, because distantly I’m aware of the petals pressed against my shoulder while the audience applauds me.

  By choosing to be a director, I’ve tried to avoid moments like these—moments where everyone’s eyes are on me, where my classmates’ cheers and Rose’s loving smile are for me. I thought this would feel like an unwelcome reminder of what I’ll inevitably lose when everyone moves on. But it doesn’t.

  It feels like everything I’ve missed out on.

  I hear someone backstage shout, “Get it!” and I know without a shred of doubt it’s Anthony, whose Pulp Fiction monologue was, for the record, amazing. Jenna and Kasey laugh behind me, and in the moments that follow, the applause gradually dies down. Everyone begins to shuffle out of the auditorium, everyone except Madeleine. She pushes through the crowd to reach the stage, her smile lit up with pride.

  I jump down off the stage next to her. “You on your way to meet Tyler in the boys’ dressing room?” I ask, waiting for her to flush.

  Which she does. “No,” she protests. “I’m waiting for my incredibly talented, gorgeous, director-extraordinaire best friend.” She sweeps me up in a crushing hug.

  “You’re the best for coming,” I say into her sweatshirt. “Now seriously, I saw Tyler go backstage.”

  Madeleine releases me from the hug and glances behind me, hesitating.

  “I have to go talk to Rose,” I reassure her. “You should congratulate Tyler. I’ll find you later.” She squeezes me in a final hug, but it’s all the encouragement she needs, and she bounces to the stairs up to the stage. I join the crush of people filing into the quad. Hoping to find Will—I figure he has to be here somewhere—I do a quick sweep of the crowd outside. I frown when I don’t find him, but then again, it’s nearly impossible to tell who all’s here.

  Rose, however, stands out. She’s waiting next to the refreshments table, and despite how packed the courtyard is, everyone’s giving her pregnant stomach a three-foot radius. She looks lost. I understand why—she’s never done this kind of thing before.

  I walk over to her, not really knowing what I’m going to say. I want to thank her for coming, but we don’t often talk one-on-one. It’s not like I have a script for this sort of thing. Besides, I still feel like I’m betraying my mom by being happy Rose is here.

  Her eyes light up when she spots me coming out of the crowd. Instead of telling her something appreciative, what ends up coming out when I reach her is, “Where’s Erin?”

  Rose blinks, then her composure returns. “I figured we should wait until she’s three before we expose her to Death of a Salesman’s suburban nihilism,” she replies, and despite myself, I laugh. Encouraged, she smiles gently. “It was wonderful to watch your scene. The whole thing, really. You put on quite an event. I loved your staging—how Willy was increasingly isolated from the rest of the actors as his advice grew more delusional.”

  I reach for words, surprised. It’s precisely what I was going for. “You—know the play?”

  “I was an English major in college,” she says with a smile. Betrayal of Mom or not, I feel guilty I didn’t know that about Rose. There’s probably a lot I don’t know about her, I realize. Where she grew up, her favorite movie, whether she’s ever been in a play herself, why she chose to be a paralegal.

  “It was really nice of you to come,” I finally say, knowing I should’ve just done so earlier.

  “I’m glad I could.” She nods to something behind me, her smile turning knowing and playful. “Looks like Biff Loman wants to talk to you, which I think is my cue. I’ll see you at home.”

  “Yeah. See you there.”

  “You want me to take your flowers?” She points to the bouquet I forgot I was holding.

  “Oh.” I hold them out to her awkwardly. “Probably a good idea. Thanks,” I say, then turn to find Owen a few feet behind me, fidgeting with his tie.

  I walk up to him and tug it out of his hands. “You were incredible,” I tell him, meaning it. He smiles for only a second before his nervousness returns. He looks just like he did in the green room, wracked with stage anxiety. Except the scene’s over. “What’s wrong?”

  His eyes drop. “Could we, uh, talk somewhere?”

  “Definitely, but give me a second. I haven’t found Will yet. I should let him know before I disappear on him.” I look past Owen to search the quad, where there’s still no sign of Will, but Owen takes my hand. My eyes latch on to his.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” His voice is lower, urgent now. I feel a tremor tighten my chest.

  “Owen, what’s going on?”

  “We should talk somewhere private.”

  He gently leads me by the hand back into the auditorium, up the stairs to the vacant backstage, and toward the green room. It’s empty except for Brian Anderson, who nods with a smile I’m too wound-up to return. “Kickass job, Megan,” he says, stepping over the ears from Courtney’s cat costume on his way out.

  “Thanks,” I say distractedly. “Your Rosencrantz was kickass too, Brian.”

  “Totally, right?” He shuts the door behind him.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I round on Owen. “You’ve been acting weird today.” A horrible explanation drops onto my heart like a lead weight. “Is this about the other day at Verona?”

  “No, it’s not— Wait, what?” His eyes betray no impression he’s bothered by our possibly flirtatious, definitely awkward discussion of Bishop’s Peak.

  “Never mind,” I say, relieved.

  Owen goes on, his words coming in a rush. “Will texted before the performance telling me he wasn’t going to make it. I shou
ld have told you then, but I didn’t want you to worry about him instead of watching your scene. You’ve put so much work into tonight.” He looks off into a corner of the room. I watch his jaw clench and the tendons in his neck tense visibly. He’s not nervous, he’s angry. “I hate Will for doing this. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to hide stuff from you—”

  “Owen,” I cut him off, wanting him to just get it over with. “What is it?”

  He produces his phone from his pocket, and I catch a glimpse of a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge on the screen—probably a place he took Cosima when they were in New York together for the theater program. Wordlessly, he opens the Messages app and passes me the phone.

  The conversation on the screen is with Will. My eyes land on his text reading, Hey Owen . . . Cover for me, k? I don’t think I’m going to make it. It’s time-stamped twenty minutes before we went on stage. Before I fixed Owen’s tie and he told me Will would be late.

  I scroll down. Owen instantly texted him back. What the hell?? What could you possibly be doing besides going to your girlfriend’s show?

  Will didn’t reply until ten minutes ago. I’m at Alyssa’s man! Not leaving anytime soon ;)

  A winky face. It’s stunning how hard the semicolon and parenthesis knock the wind out of me.

  I return Owen’s phone, unable to read the screen a second longer. Will’s words repeat in my head like a broken record. Utterly broken. At Alyssa’s. Not leaving anytime soon. I expected this. I expected this. Didn’t I? Even if I’d begun to wonder about . . . someone else, I put away those questions because I cared about Will. Or convinced myself to care. Why was I stupid enough to believe he cared about me?

  Owen’s watching me with concerned eyes. “I’m sorry, Megan. He’s an asshole,” he says, and I can tell he means it. I’m not ready to reply. “This is the first I’ve ever heard of him and Alyssa,” he goes on. “I had no idea. Otherwise, I would have said something.”

  “It’s fine,” I get out, hearing how hollow my voice sounds. “It’s not like I haven’t been through this before.”

  “Don’t do that.” He frowns. “Don’t pretend it’s fine, because I know it’s not. What Will did was messed up, and you should be pissed at him.”

  The empty ache fills with anger. But not at Will. “I know how to handle a breakup, Owen,” I snap, knowing he doesn’t deserve my resentment but not bothering to control it. “Don’t tell me what I should be feeling.”

  He flinches. “It’s not— What I mean is you deserve better.”

  As quickly as it flared up, my anger collapses. “My boyfriend didn’t think so.” I feel tears choking my voice, and my eyes start to burn. Damn it, I thought I was past being hurt by this kind of thing.

  “Will is a moron,” Owen says gently. “I’m definitely not giving him any more lyrics for his stupid band.” A tearful laugh escapes me, and Owen smiles. “What you deserve is to go out and celebrate this incredible show you put together. Everyone’s going to Verona. I’ll buy you a real pizza—you know, one we ordered, not someone’s leftovers.”

  I smile weakly. “But what about your costume? Don’t you need to change?” I nod to the gray suit and pinstriped tie he’s still wearing.

  “I’m not worried about it.” He shrugs. “Besides, I won’t look any more ridiculous than the employees.” He holds the door open for me.

  “Thanks,” I say. He wraps an arm around my shoulder, and I know he understands I don’t just mean the door.

  Walking into the empty auditorium, I remember every time I’ve joked with Madeleine, Anthony, and even Owen about my “curse,” my “whirlwind romances,” my endless stream of breakups. It’s less funny now. It’s easier to joke when I’m not feeling this, when I’m not feeling replaceable. But the truth is, I have no reason to hope I won’t be playing this role forever. To hope one day I’ll be the one chosen and not just the girl before.

  NINETEEN

  FRIAR LAWRENCE: Confusion’s cure lives not

  In these confusions.

  IV.v.71–2

  I KNOW ABOUT ALYSSA. WE’RE DONE, I text Will the following day. I silence my phone, not wanting to read whatever he replies, and in a final moment of closure, I slide off Will’s Ophelia bracelet and throw it behind me.

  I’m sitting in my car in front of Luna’s Coffee Company, the only coffee shop in town other than Birnam Wood Books and the Starbucks in the mall. It’s in the nicer part of Stillmont, up the street from the salon where Madeleine and I had our hair done before junior prom last year. I proposed Randall and I meet here when we coordinated this morning.

  It’s a testament to the awfulness of my weekend that the prospect of coffee with Randall doesn’t sound terrible. I’m here early, but I decide I don’t need to spend more time sitting in my car dwelling on Will. I walk in and begin to head for the line, but I stop when I realize Randall’s already sitting at a table, giving me a tentative wave. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he’s here early. He sounded especially enthusiastic on the phone this morning.

  For whatever reason, he stands up when I reach the table. I try to take a seat, but before I have the chance, he’s bending forward for one of those uncomfortable one-armed hugs. “Oh, uh . . .” I stutter, returning his hug.

  We sit. It’s only then that I notice Randall looks . . . better somehow. He’s trimmed his usually overlong curly hair, and it’s possible he’s lost a couple pounds. He’s not wearing one of his customary short-sleeve button-downs and opted for a navy polo instead. His mustache remains, however.

  “Thanks for sparing the time to meet me, Megan,” he says, grinning bashfully. “I ordered your favorite. Unless your favorite’s changed since you visited over the summer.” He gestures to the solitary cappuccino on the table.

  “Thanks,” I say. Despite whatever questions I have about Randall, I can’t deny he’s thoughtful.

  I wait for him to say something. The burden of conversation is on the inviter, right? When a few moments go by and he doesn’t, I try the only question coming to mind. “How was the flight?”

  He looks startled, like he didn’t expect us to talk during this coffee date. “It flew by. I had a full binder of spreadsheets to review,” he says as if the one relates in any way to the other.

  With no response to that, I wrack my brain for other Randall-related topics while the conversation descends into silence. Finally, one comes. “How’s your and Mom’s pottery class?” I know I’m fidgeting with the handle on my mug.

  “It is terrific,” Randall replies unhesitatingly. “Your mother’s nearly finished a complete set of bowls for the house.”

  My mother, finisher of bowls.

  “Cool,” I say because I have literally no other way to contend with that statement.

  “How’s Romeo and Juliet going?” Randall asks.

  I know he’s trying. But right now, I’m in no mood to remind myself of playing Juliet on Will’s sets, in front of Alyssa whispering behind my back. “It’s good,” I reply shortly.

  He says nothing, and faced with the prospect of having to come up with a third conversation starter, I consider faking a call from my Dad or a forgotten obligation. But I decide to try one final question first. “Why’d your firm send you out to middle-of-nowhere Oregon?”

  Randall’s demeanor changes visibly. He shifts in his seat, his shoulders rising, and he reaches for a napkin and begins anxiously folding it in his lap. “They, uh, they didn’t,” he finally says. “It’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  If his firm didn’t send him to Stillmont, why is he here? “Does Mom know?”

  “She doesn’t,” he replies haltingly, “and I, well, I need you to keep it that way.”

  “Okay, now you’re making me nervous. I don’t—”

  “I want to propose to your mother,” he interrupts.

  My hand clenches on the cup of lukewarm cappuccin
o. “Oh.” My mind empties. I’m unable to process what he said. “Um, okay.”

  Randall’s face breaks into a grin. “Okay?”

  “Yeah, uh . . . Wait, what?” He’s looking at me like I’ve just done him a huge favor, but I don’t know what it is.

  “I wanted your permission.” His grin falters when he realizes I haven’t exactly given it. “You’re the most important person in your mother’s life, and of course you knew her before I did. I wouldn’t feel right trying to build a family with her without your blessing.”

  The word family from Randall flips me upside down and shakes out my thoughts like the pieces of a puzzle. Family. Mom and Randall. It’s the kind of thought that on most days would have me asking myself all the questions I have for months. If they start a family like Dad and Rose did, where will I fit in? Who will I be except the bump in the road before my parents found the families they wanted?

  But today, something’s different. My eyes find the place on my wrist where Will’s bracelet no longer rests. I know none of my relationships can even begin to compare to what my parents had—years and decades of marriage, of messy effort, of memories stinging and sweet. I’ve never fallen for someone the way my mom fell for my dad.

  Yet I know a piece of her pain. I know what it’s like to watch the people you care about replace you and never look back. I’ve gone through it eight times now. In the hardest moments, when I face my mom and find my reflection, I can’t help feeling convinced we’ll end up the same in love, forever cast to play the Rosaline in real life. If Randall changes that for her, if he heals even a fraction of the wounds my dad inflicted . . . she should be with him, even if it means starting her own family without me.

  I lift my gaze back to Randall. “I think you should definitely propose to my mom. It would make her really happy,” I say softly, ignoring how the words ache.

  He lets out a breath of relief. “I’m delighted to hear it!” He grins broadly. “I want to do it when the three of us are together. I thought . . . the trip when we’re here for your performance in December might be the right time?”