I glance towards the bar. Salvatore leans a hip against it, bodies packed between him, but he’s focused on a brunette with skin as pale as mine, wavy brown hair, and a deep blue velvet minidress.
“Speaking of ages,” Sheetal says, capturing my attention. “I’ve been thinking about our little group.” She waves around the table, but her eyes are on me. “Tess and I are nineteen. You and Salvatore are twenty. We’re all the oldest in the class since we started Wakefield late, and I could see Professor Flynn grouping us off on purpose.”
Tess nods. “It’d make sense, right? Our families are all well off, too.”
I remember something. “He grouped all the Aussies together.”
Sheetal lets out a breath. “Well, that probably confirms the theory. He’s giving every group an advantage. Like a commonality somewhere. Being a fresher is hard enough, maybe the fella wants to ease some of the stresses on our first year.”
“He is my nicest prof,” I say.
“Mine, too,” Tess agrees.
The music in the pub changes to a popular Arctic Monkeys song as I sip my beer. The liquid goes down bitter. Garrison loves this band.
“Oh no,” Tess says. “You have that look, Willow.”
“What look?” I ask and reach for a fry.
“Relationship trouble,” Tess says. “Are you missing your boyfriend?” I only briefly told them about Garrison because the more I talk about him, the more I long for him to be beside me.
I’m waiting for the day where that doesn’t happen. Where it doesn’t hurt. But I’m also terrified if that day finally comes.
“I wish he were here,” I admit. “Garrison and I have been through a lot together.”
Salvatore comes back to our table and takes the opened seat beside me. He sets his whiskey down along with a basket of something fried-looking. “What are we talking about?” he asks.
“Willow’s boyfriend,” Sheetal says.
Salvatore swings his head to me. “The one in Philadelphia?”
“That would be the one.” I point to the basket. “What’s that?” I whip out my phone to take a pic. New food. New experiences. College success, but why do I feel so badly about it? My stomach twisting.
“Pork scratchings,” Salvatore says.
“Or for us Americans, pork rinds,” Tess adds and takes a couple.
“Do you have a pic of him?” Sheetal asks me.
I nod and scroll through my photos, landing on one where he’s in his usual black hoodie. Only the hood is down, so you can see more of his face. Hair brushes his eyelashes. Messy like that. We’re standing in front of a Groot cut-out in the movie theater, his arm around my waist.
The sinking in my stomach intensifies.
I understand now.
I’m at a pub. Trying new food. Drinking with new friends. Garrison is alone in Philadelphia. Either working himself to the point of exhaustion or in his apartment trying to fend off Jared, his fame-seeking neighbor. Guilt. It assaults me tenfold.
I pass the phone to Sheetal. Tess leans over her shoulder to see the screen, too.
“Willow, you like the bad boys,” Tess says into a grin.
“What?” I frown. “How can you tell?” It’s not like Garrison is wearing a sign that says I’ve done some questionable things in my past…right?
Tess and Sheetal laugh lightly.
“I couldn’t tell,” Tess admits, “but now we know.”
Sheetal hands the cell back and smiles. “You and your lad look like a knockout together, of absolute cuteness.”
“Thanks,” I mumble and pocket it.
Salvatore looks me over in a slow appraisal like he’s trying to figure me out. “How is he bad, exactly?”
“He’s not,” I counter. “He’s a good guy. When he visits next semester, you all can meet him and see for yourselves.”
“Looking forward to it.” Salvatore takes a sip of whiskey. “He’ll love me. I have the best first impressions.”
Tess snorts. “Yeah, it’s your second and third impressions you need to work on.”
Salvatore smiles but nudges my shoulder when he sees I’m not doing the same. He grabs a couple of the pork scratchings and places them on a napkin in front of me. “Give us your Pennsylvania-Maine opinion.”
“Whoa! YEAH!” A drunk college student starts screaming at the bar. “Chug! Chug!”
Bodies begin shifting and three people knock into our table. I’m not fast enough this time. The pitcher collapses sideways, and I jump up before beer soaks me.
These assholes don’t apologize. Instead they face the bar, their bodies still close enough to ram into the table again.
“Hey! Watch where your arses are bumpin’ into.” Sheetal snaps at the rowdy guys.
They turn on her in an instant, and I just barely make out one of them say, “Daft twit.”
“Hey.” Salvatore walks in front of them. “Back off.”
Tess tosses napkins on the spill, and I walk around the table to stand beside Salvatore. “Just give us some space,” I tell the guys. I’m pretty nice about it, so I don’t really expect their response.
“Just give us some space.” The taller one with blond curly hair mimics my American accent, only he over-emphasizes it like I’m an airhead.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Salvatore says.
“Wankers!” Sheetal yells at them.
Salvatore sighs heavily, but he’s smiling up at the ceiling.
Tess laughs.
I’m trying my best not to grin. Lips pressed tightly together. Curly Blond pins his glare on me, as though my effort to suppress laughter is the serious crime.
Salvatore slides closer to me, and then puts an arm around my shoulder. It’s sudden and all for show, but it still causes me to solidify to utter stone.
“I said back off,” Salvatore tells him.
Sheetal eagle-eyes the Curly Blond and mumbles into her beer. “What a divvy.”
He’s about to reply when a server walks over. “We got a problem here, mates?” He looks between our group and the asshole, but unlike the four of us, all of the asshole’s friends have left him and migrated back to the bar.
Curly Blond grinds on his teeth. “No. I was just leaving.” He steps back.
The server sees the empty pitcher, plus the sopping wet napkins, and he gives us an apologetic look. “I’ll grab some towels and bring you lads another round on the house.”
He leaves and we all look between each other, seconds away from breaking into laughter.
Barnaby’s is our spot. Officially.
And then it hits me. It was a silly, normal argument. That guy didn’t recognize me. Didn’t start a fight because he hated my brother. Didn’t call me names because of my relation to the Calloway sisters. London and Wakefield are bringing me this overwhelming sense of normalcy, and I don’t want to let it go.
But I don’t want to let go of what’s back home either.
Garrison.
My family.
I love them more than anyone here can understand.
11 BACK THEN – September
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY