Poppy Calloway & Sam Stokes (30) – the private couple. Both Poppy and Sam tend to remain out of the spotlight, but what we know is that Poppy is a stay-at-home mom and Sam works for Fizzle.
Children
Lily & Loren: Maximoff Hale (2 months old)
Rose & Connor: Jane Eleanor Cobalt (3 months old)
Poppy & Sam: Maria Stokes (7)
That’s the basic run-down. Another important fact that you might want to know—Loren Hale and Ryke Meadows are half-brothers. They have the same dad: Jonathan Hale. There’s been some terrible allegations in the press lately about Jonathan Hale. I’m not going to repeat them here because there has been zero proof, and like I said, they’re serious allegations.
I’ll have more information as it breaks. Until then, check out the photos and gifs page!
Love you like Loren loves Lily,
xo Olive
5 BACK THEN – August
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 17
Mom: Where are you?? Your brothers are leaving tomorrow, and you need to be here before it’s too late. You already missed dinner.
“Garrison, it’s your turn.” Nathan Patrick nods to me, chewing on a toothpick with a wry smile. His combed red hair might as well be fucking brown from my vantage. Smoke from cigarettes and joints create a filmy haze in his family’s den—the door open as people drunkenly pass in and out.
I suck a joint between two fingers before standing up and flipping my cards on the poker table, my two queens losing to Nathan’s three kings.
Of ten people, three girls let out short cheers. Another two girls in only bras and panties smile but make no loud exclamation. One of them sits next to me: Rachel Barnes, a brunette with diamond earrings and Zeta Beta Zeta aspirations like her sister in college.
She’s prescribing to her family’s legacy—something I can’t stomach without another crappy joint and bottle of vodka.
After overturning my cards, I lift off my black shirt, revealing whatever muscles lacrosse has granted me and a black skull tattoo on the crease of my forearm and bicep. In small font, my favorite lyrics from the Interpol song “Rest My Chemistry” outline the inked design.
I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I remain standing and blow gray smoke up at the ceiling, my mind lulling and eyelids slowly closing. I’m almost always surrounded by people—friends and acquaintances from Dalton Academy—and even when I stand in a room with them, even when I’m physically here, I always mentally check out for a few seconds.
More if I can.
I always want to be alone, but then when I’m alone, I want to be with people. It’s a fucking curse.
Whoever built my mind needs to redo the wires and find better balance because I’m leaning all over the place. I’m tilted and sideways and so fucked up—this isn’t even half of it.
The weed is making you a paranoid shit.
I suck the joint one last time before passing it to Rachel, who hesitates before putting it between her lips. She takes one short drag and then coughs into her fist.
Nathan and two other guys give her a hard time. I don’t come to her defense—since she’s going to be in a sorority anyway. It’s not like she’s going to need to know how to smoke a joint.
“Your deal, Abbey,” Nathan tells me, stretching over the table to pass me the deck of cards. I begin to shuffle.
A girl clears her throat loudly, sort of adjacent to me. “Hi, um…” She taps Rachel’s shoulder. I’m not surprised. Rachel looks the most approachable.
Most of the guys are smoking and drinking, one even wears a gargoyle mask from a Halloween store, more stacked behind him on a leather chair. The other girls here have low-cut tank tops and nose piercings.
Rachel is the only one that looks like someone you’d take home to your parents. Though I’ve brought them all over to my house before. I don’t discriminate.
I barely make out the girl’s features among the smoke. All I can tell for certain: she’s wearing overalls, like the saggy kind you’d put on to paint a house.
I frown. She can’t live around here.
“Hi?” Rachel says uncertainly.
Not surprisingly, Nathan takes over, standing from his chair. “How’d you get in here?” He makes it seem like his party is invitation-only, when in fact most of Dalton Academy has been traipsing in and out all night.
“I…uh, the front door was open?”
“I mean the neighborhood. It’s gated,” he says.
The girl takes a step back, more towards me, but I stay still, as uncertain as her, as uncertain as everyone else. My eyelids are heavy, and it takes more control not to sink into my seat and just finish dealing slowly.
“The gate was open…someone was coming in, and I followed them through,” she explains. “I’m just trying to find someone. I know he lives in this neighborhood, and I thought you’d be able to point out his house—”
Nathan snorts, and two of my other friends start snickering. “Let me guess—you want to see Loren Hale.”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
I grimace and turn my head away from her. Fuck him, I think. Rich bastard. I swallow spite and something else—because if I look around, I see thousand-dollar paintings, an antique globe that probably costs a fortune; I see Rachel’s Cobalt diamond earrings, Henry’s Rolex watch—my Balmain designer jeans that purposely appear worn.
We’re all loaded.
Rich fucking kids. Fuck me.
I want to be alone right now.
But I want to be with people.
I don’t know what I want to be.
“So…” the girl says. “Can you help me?” I have to strain my ears to hear her quiet voice.
Help her. All I have to do is point at the house literally down the street. I know the one. I’ve been around it with my friends too much. But something keeps me quiet. Something keeps me tight-lipped and blank-faced.
“Are you a weirdo stalker?” Carly asks. She lets out a short laugh. “Like, are you going to bring him a locket of your hair?”
“Carly,” Rachel whispers and then ends up laughing with her.
The guys start in and laugh again.
They all stare at this girl. They all stare, and I keep my head down. I wish I had my hoodie. I wish I could just block everyone out for a second.
The cards slip from my hands, and I end up crouching to gather them, my reflexes fucking tortoise-slow from the weed.
“So you can’t help me then?” the girl asks one last time, sounding meeker than when she first arrived—which is hard considering how shy she seems.
“Are you dumb?” Nathan laughs.
My face heats beneath the table, grabbing a king of clubs. I wonder if I was paying enough attention, if I would’ve made the same comment, the same way. I hope not—but I’m not a good person either.
I’m just as foul, and I wonder if I’m the only one that knows how cruel we all are. How fucked up we all seem.