Confusion traces a crease in his forehead. “Which was what?”
“I guess I could accept being dumped, or even being cheated on, when it meant Madeleine having something perfect.” I drop my gaze, unable to meet his, and study his rumpled black sweater and the smudge of ink on his thumb. “But I don’t understand why Tyler would break up with me if this is how he’s going to treat her.”
Owen pauses like he’s searching for words. “It’s not about you or Madeleine,” he says slowly. “It’s not about you being inadequate or her being perfect. It’s Tyler. The guy’s an asshole. He was never going to be a good boyfriend, to either of you. He’s like every guy you date—” He stops, correcting himself. “I mean, they’re not assholes, not every one of them. It’s just, Will, even Anthony, who was obviously gay—you pick guys who will leave you, who will hurt you, who could never be what you deserve. You’re trying to protect yourself from getting your hopes up.”
Indignant, I flush. He’s one to talk. He hurt me and deserted me just like the rest. “Who do you think you are?” I say, fire in my voice. “You’ve only known me for a few months. What gives you the right to come in here and tell me that my relationship history is some sort of fucked-up self-fulfilling prophecy—”
“Every prophecy is a self-fulfilling prophecy, Megan,” he says seriously. “You taught me that. We have only known each other a few months, but you’ve seen me in a way nobody else ever has, and I think I might know you better than anyone, too.” I feel myself softening, until he continues. “You tell yourself you deserve to be dumped, but you don’t. You choose it.”
“Wow,” I say harshly. “Thanks, Owen.”
“No, I—” he stutters, backing away from me and beginning to pace across the room. “This isn’t coming out right. I mean—I know what you were thinking when you saw Alyssa on stage playing your role. You were thinking what you’re always thinking. That you’re replaceable.”
He does know me better than anyone. The realization hits me like a blow, because despite him being here, despite how he’s unfailingly loyal and passionately caring, he isn’t mine.
“But you’re not.” He pauses in his pacing to look up at me, and there’s an undeniable change in the air. “You’re irreplaceable. To your family, to your friends—to me.”
The ashes of everything I felt when he was kissing me weeks ago leap into a flame. He’s standing in the middle of the room, watching me with his eyes unguarded, and I can read in them everything he wants. It’s exactly what I want, too.
I walk forward like I’m being drawn to him, then stop, only inches away. He reaches out and takes my hand, and whatever was between us finally crumbles as I bring my lips to his. He kisses me back softly, still without stepping forward to meet me. Pressing his fingers into my palm, he pulls back.
With his free hand he traces the line of my cheek, and in his touch I feel a hesitation, like he’s holding back hope. “How do I know this is for real?” he asks in a whisper.
“Doesn’t it feel real?” I’m breathless, hardly able to form the words.
“Yes, but it’s felt real to me before, even when you were just flirting for fun. How am I supposed to know you mean it? Especially considering I’m not exactly your type. You know . . . shy, sweet.” He grimaces on the word.
I tilt my head to find his eyes, forcing him to meet mine. “Here’s a hint. With you, it was never just for fun.” He nearly smiles. “Besides, my type hasn’t exactly worked for me, as you eloquently pointed out. And yes, you’re sweet. I like that you’re sweet. But you’re not only sweet, you’re witty, fascinating, charming . . .” I close the distance between us. “And we both know you’re not shy.” I raise an eyebrow.
He leans in, laughing, and kisses me once more. And this time, there’s nothing hesitant about the way he grabs my waist and tugs me tightly against him. Without letting him go, I lead us toward the bed. I remember what I felt the last time we were in this position, how desperate I was to have as much of him as I could, but . . . it’s different now. For the first time, I’m not focused on when it will end. I sit down on the sheets and wait for him to climb on top of me.
He doesn’t. Instead, he reclines next to me, and with one unexpectedly quick motion he pulls me on top of him. I let out a surprised laugh and lower my face to his. But before our lips meet, I draw back suddenly.
“Wait,” I say, leaning up while straddling his waist, my heart plummeting out of my chest and onto the floor. “We did this. You have a—”
Owen cuts me off. “I broke up with Cosima.”
“What?” I stutter, reaching for my heart on the floorboards. “When?”
He props himself up and strokes my side. “Pretty much the minute you left my room.”
It takes a moment for the words to come together in my head—it’s possible his hand on my side isn’t helping. But when they do, I’m overwhelmed. Relief, indignation, and adoration fight for space inside me. It’s all I can do to kiss him deeply before pulling back and peering at him admonishingly. “You really should have told me.”
A smile spreads across his face, then slowly fades. “I thought you weren’t interested.”
I take his face in my hands and stare into his eyes, refusing to let him misunderstand me this time. “Sweet, witty, fascinating, charming,” I say slowly, “and an idiot.” He’s laughing when I lean forward to pick up where we left off.
I lift my shirt over my head and take no little pleasure from the way his eyes widen. “Off,” I order, pointedly nodding at his sweater. With boyish urgency, he pulls it off, and—
Owen has a six-pack.
Years of pursuing jock-bros like Wyatt Rhodes, and it’s Owen Okita who’s finally going to fulfill my high school goal of hooking up with a six-pack. The universe works in mysterious ways. They’re not the most defined abs I’ve ever seen—he’s not Zac Efron—but they’re there. Isn’t there some law of nature that the sensitive, writerly guys shouldn’t be ripped?
“Owen!” I prod his stomach. “How did this happen? Explain yourself!”
He looks down, uncomprehending. I run a finger down the line of his muscle, and his face lights up. “I don’t know,” he says with a lazy smile. “Just enjoy it, Megan.”
Laughing, I get off him and walk to the door. But with my hand on the deadbolt, I pause.
I don’t want to do what I’ve done in every one of my relationships before. I don’t want to rush. With Owen, though, this doesn’t feel like rushing. It feels exactly right, right now. I don’t want to be with him in this way because I think I have to now, before he disappears. I’m not doing it under a deadline, under the expectation of everything falling to pieces—it’s not rushing because it’s not for the wrong reasons. If I know it’s real, and Owen knows it’s real, it doesn’t matter how fast it is. I want to be with him because I want to.
I close the deadbolt and turn to face him. “Those too . . .” I point in the general direction of his gray corduroys. I’m expecting the Owen blush, but he only smiles.
“Okay, okay.” While he undoes his belt, I step out of my jeans. Thankfully, I’m wearing more respectable underwear today. Nothing written on it.
I climb on top of him, and we kiss in the way people do when there’s not a hint of doubt it’ll progress to something else. I let my hands explore his chest and—yes, his six-pack. His fingers brush the skin of my back, skimming the lace at the bottom of my bra. I urge him on with my lips.
When I guide one of his hands lower, he pulls back. “I . . .” he starts. “I wasn’t expecting anything like this to happen.”
I’m thrown, and I tense up. “Do you not want it to?”
“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not that. It’s just . . . I’ve never . . .” He trails off once more, this time with a vivid blush.
My eyes widen. For the first time I consider the possibility he’s not feeling everything
I am right now. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— If this is too fast, or not special enough—” I move to get off him.
Owen’s hand on my hip holds me in place. “It’s not that. I just wanted you to know.”
“Oh,” I say, relieved. “Yeah. I understand. Well, I have,” I add, not at all sure how to have this conversation.
“Yeah, Megan. I know. You told me in detail.” The corners of his mouth twitch upward. I feel mine do the same.
“Never with Cosima?” I prod his chest. “You guys were at camp.”
He grabs my hand. “I hadn’t known Cosima for very long.” His voice has gone hushed. “I wanted to wait for something meaningful, for someone I cared about so deeply I needed this to express it.”
A tiny tremor runs through me. I feel everything he’s saying, but it wouldn’t be unreasonable if—
“I was waiting for this,” he says. He pulls me down for a kiss, and for a while we just sink into each other. His hand in my hair, his breath on my cheek, I reach off the bed for my bag.
“I have the . . .” I say, my fingers catching the plastic wrapper.
Straightening up, I notice him watching me questioningly. “Not that I’m not grateful, but who were you planning—?” He stops, reconsidering. “You know what, it really doesn’t matter.” He reaches to kiss me again, but I place a hand on his chest.
“Nobody, for what it’s worth.” I smile sideways at him. Dropping my gaze, I bring his hand back to my thigh. “Nobody I’d rather . . .” I finish the sentence with a kiss.
We don’t rush. Each motion is a step onto uncertain ground, into an unexplored place. My hands find the back of his shoulders, and I clutch him close to me, our hearts pounding together. It’s nothing like it was with Tyler. It’s how it’s supposed to be. From the way Owen’s eyes hold mine, I know he feels it, too.
I’ve spent the day in this bed, in this room, committing to memory every detail of the paint on the walls and the kitschy pattern of the curtains. It’s been empty, suffocating, but with Owen it’s bursting with light. It doesn’t matter the hotel is cheap and plain, the view out the window ordinary—it’s perfect. I don’t need skinny-dipping under the stars. I only need this.
Owen breathes my name, and I feel like the center of the universe.
* * *
We lie in bed for minutes that feel like seconds or hours, my head resting on the hollow of his shoulder.
“Wow,” he whispers in the darkness. “No wonder you thought I was insane for having a girlfriend all the way in Italy.”
I feel him smile, and I laugh softly. “Yeah, now you know what you’ve been missing out on.”
“I was missing out on a lot before I met you.”
I slide my hand up his chest. “To be fair, I didn’t know it could be like this either.”
“Really?” He tilts his head down.
I look up, meeting his eyes. “Really.” I pause, a little nervous to ask the question in my head. “Do you want to stay?”
He hugs me tighter. “Of course I do.”
I close my eyes, not bothering to wonder how long he means. Tomorrow, two weeks, it doesn’t matter—right now is enough.
TWENTY-SIX
ROMEO: I have more care to stay than will to go.
Come death and welcome. Juliet wills it so.
How is ’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day.
JULIET: It is, it is. Hie hence, begone, away!
III.v.23–6
WHEN I WAKE, OWEN’S NEXT TO ME.
I roll onto my side to find him already awake. He’s lovingly tracing a finger down my arm, and when our eyes meet, he kisses me lightly on the shoulder.
My stomach growls. Owen looks startled, then amused, and I realize exactly how hungry I am. Madeleine’s brownies and the two granola bars I had for dinner aren’t holding me after the events of last night. How long has it been since I ate? I glance at the clock. “Shit!” I elbow Owen. “It’s seven twenty!”
“Ow, Megan.” He’s rubbing his ribs when I turn back over, and in the morning light I’m given new appreciation of his shirtless chest.
“Sorry,” I say, not really meaning it. “Seriously though, you’re going to miss morning room checks if you don’t leave.” In the back of my mind I notice Alyssa hasn’t returned yet either. Whatever she’s doing with Will, she’s really cutting it close on time.
Owen props himself up on his elbow, blinking. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He tosses off the covers and begins searching for his clothes on the floor. Pulling on his pants, he pauses and faces me, concern in his eyes. “Hey, um,” he says hesitantly, “everything’s . . . okay, right?”
Touched, and noticing his ears have gone my favorite shade of red, I smile. “Oh my god. You’re perfect.”
“Um, thanks.” A smile flickers on his face. “But you didn’t exactly answer the question.”
I leap out of bed and fling my arms around his neck. Tilting my head upward so our noses nearly touch, I smile shamelessly. “Okay would be putting it mildly.” I crush my lips to his, spurred on by his adorableness. Without hesitation his arms encircle my waist, and—I feel him leading us toward the bed.
“Owen!” I say, chastising. Not that I blame him for his enthusiasm. I did just throw myself at him without a stitch of clothing on.
He looks taken aback. “But you just said it was—”
“You have nine minutes,” I interrupt, picking up his shirt and halfheartedly offering it to him.
He only grins. “Nine minutes is so much time, Megan.”
I laugh and shake the shirt. “No, really. I don’t know why Jody didn’t drop by yesterday, but she’s definitely going to today, to lecture me or something before call time. Besides, do you want Alyssa to walk in on us? She’ll be back any minute.” Owen groans, and I have no choice but to toss the shirt in his face. “Out, Romeo!”
* * *
Morning room checks happen with no sign of Jody—or of Alyssa. Brian Anderson’s mom, the chaperone, picks up my Juliet costume for quick alterations to fit Alyssa’s petite height and measures me for the Lady Montague dress, and I realize Jody’s given me the part whether I like it or not. I guess that’s her style. I’m beginning to wonder whether she’ll ever come talk to me or if she’s written me off completely.
I’ve just returned to my room after running downstairs to grab a bowl of oatmeal—I wanted to hit the buffet before everyone else got there—when I hear a knock on the door. I know it’s not Jody, who’s discussing set placement with the stage crew for their scheduled meeting in the theater. It’s probably Owen coming back to get his belt that he left when I kicked him out. I open the door, the belt in hand.
“Dad?”
I hurriedly toss the belt in the trash can behind the door while he strides past me into the room. He looks around without appearing to really take anything in. “We have to talk, Megan,” he announces.
“Why are you here?” I ask haltingly.
He raises an incredulous eyebrow. “You disappeared from rehearsal on a school field trip.”
“Yeah, but how do you—”
“Jody called me,” he says, his voice suddenly lowering. “She sounded angry, saying something about you no longer playing Juliet. Is that true?”
Now I understand why Jody hasn’t come to see me. She brought in the big guns. “Yeah, it’s true, but it’s fine. I didn’t want to be Juliet in the first place.” I keep my voice steady despite how I’m still reeling from his intrusion. “I’m Lady Montague now, the part I should have had from the beginning. I have, like, two lines.”
Dad perches on the edge of the bed and frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, the part you should have had from the beginning,” he says eventually. “I know you’ve put a lot of work into this play. It’s why your mom flew home to watch you.” I hate how innocuously he says home, like he doesn’t
know he forced Mom out of the place where she belongs. “Then we get an irate phone call from a teacher who’s always loved you—your mom and I are worried.”
“Don’t pretend you care how Mom feels,” I shoot back, surprising myself, and him. He recoils, confusion written in his eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I know I probably should take it back, but everything I’ve watched happen to my family over the past three years is boiling to the surface, and I charge on. “Weren’t you paying attention when we had dinner at the house together? Or were you too busy with your new wife to even notice how upset my mom was?”
“Your mother’s not upset,” he says calmly, like I’m the one who has this wrong. “We went out to lunch yesterday, the four of us.”
“She was crying, Dad. When she put Erin to bed, I found her in Erin’s room crying, alone.” I feel a tremor in my own voice. “She’s heartbroken. She’s always been heartbroken. It’s why she shouldn’t have even come here in the first place—it only makes her sadder. But what would you care, right?”
“That’s not fair.” Dad tries to interrupt, but everything I haven’t said to him for years is rushing out of me.
“You’re the one who divorced her, who stopped loving her. Then you jumped into bed with Rose, not even caring how hurt Mom was.” I take a breath. I’ve run out of words for what I’m feeling.
“I wasn’t in love with your mom anymore,” he says gently, his shoulders sagging, “but I do still love her. I’ll always love her. Your mom knows that. She understands why we couldn’t be together anymore, but she knows how I feel about her.”
“She obviously doesn’t, Dad,” I return. “If she did, I wouldn’t have found her crying upstairs in her old home. Remember?”
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