Garrison raises his brows in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” Lo, with his sharp as ice cheekbones and narrowed amber eyes, seems more frightening than the fire itself.
“It’s true,” Rose validates. “He’s horrendous.”
Lo flashes her a dry smile. “Says the girl dressed like a possessed ballerina.”
“Black Swan is a real thing.”
“Sure.” Lo’s gaze drifts back to me. “So what I’m saying is, you didn’t ruin anything by being here, except a goddamn haybale that no one is going to miss. I’m just glad you didn’t catch on fire. Because you—I would’ve missed.”
My eyes fill with tears, but a different kind.
“Me too,” Garrison chimes in.
“Me three,” Rose proclaims.
I nod, more assured than before. Okay.
How I end up smiling, I can only attribute to these people, in this kitchen, who made me feel loved when I felt lost and alone.
Okay.
I smile. “Okay.”
And for the first time in a long time, I’ve felt a part of a group.
A part of a family that I know is my own.
Garrison drives me to my apartment. As his Mustang slows by the curb, I wonder if I should invite him in? We’re not together, and I don’t know if it’d come across as a suggestion.
“Thanks for letting me tag along with you to the party,” he says first.
“Thanks for wanting to go with me at all.” I take off my blonde wig and shake out my hair, a couple bobby pins were sticking into my scalp. “You’re lucky that you left me for a while. I could’ve burned you.” I’m not a smooth-talker, and in the quiet of his car, I feel more like a dork. He knows you’re a geeky dork. And still, he wants to hang around me. That’s something, isn’t it?
He puts the car in park and rests his forearm on the steering wheel. We both sort of angle towards one another on our seats. I like how his hair always catches his eyelashes, and his eyes peek between the brown strands.
“About what Mrs. Nash said,” he starts.
“It doesn’t matter what she said.” I wonder how long this has been eating at him.
“Yeah it does,” he breathes. “Because…it’s true, Willow. Loren can compare us all he wants and say that he did worse shit, but I did shit to him. I wrote on his mailbox. I put dog shit on his front porch—I even filled a bucket of…” He looks away from me, ashamed.
I know what he did.
Lo told me everything, and I told Garrison that he did. There must be a place inside of him that still feels so guilty. Or else he wouldn’t feel the need to confess outright like this.
Garrison stares out the windshield, gathering his courage, as he says, “I filled a bucket up with liquor, so it’d pour on his head as he opened the front door. Knowing—knowing, he was an alcoholic and he was fighting to stay sober. I did that.”
He doesn’t add, my friends were there. I know they were, but he’s not making excuses or shirking the blame. He’s taking it all.
That’s why he’s a good person. Beneath what happened. Beneath his bad choices. He’s a good person. I hope one day he can see this too.
“Lo forgave you,” I remind him.
Garrison shakes his head, and softly, he mutters, “I can’t forgive myself.” He holds my gaze. “You shouldn’t be around me, and I don’t think I can be the better person and walk away from you, so you gotta do it for me. You have to tell me to stay away from you. You have to tell me to never come back here.”
It’s my turn. I shake my head vigorously. “No. I won’t do that.”
His eyes well. “Willow—”
“I’m not a fool.” I remove my glasses, wiping the foggy lenses. “I’m just a girl from Maine who wants a friend from Philadelphia. You’re my friend. I chose you as much as you chose me.” I put my glasses back on to see how reddened his eyes have become. “You’re the second friend I’ve ever had in my whole life, and I’m picky about my friendships. But I chose you.”
This might be the most I’ve said in one sitting, my lungs filling with oxygen and threatening to burst.
Garrison tilts his head, his features twisting through so many emotions. “What kind of friendship requirements did I pass to be yours?”
“You’re kind.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re good.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re honest.”
He pauses.
“You make me feel safe.”
He looks up at me, and the air tightens between us. Garrison extends his arm over the back of my seat, but he never drops it to my shoulders. He just keeps it there for a second, staring intently, thinking hard.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure.” We’re both trying to find our place in the world, at the same time. Sometimes it feels like we’re floating, and we’re not sure which way to land or if we even can. Before I ask if he wants to come in, his phone buzzes.
I notice the Caller ID says Mitchell. I think that’s one of his brothers.
“I should take this. He’s been calling me all night.”
I get the hint, and I open the car door. Just as I close it, he rolls down the window and ducks his head so he can see me on the curb.
“Season six,” he says, “want to watch it together next weekend? My house.”
A Supernatural marathon with Garrison Abbey. His favorite show. At his house. The first invite I’ve ever gotten there.
“Definitely.”
7 BACK THEN – November
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 18
Mom: Happy 18th Birthday! Do you want anything special for dinner tonight?
I briefly look up from my cellphone. On a Sunday afternoon, the mall is packed with families. Babies cry in their strollers, and parents holler at wandering toddlers. I loiter next to a retro arcade called Galactica Arcadia and text my mom a simple reply.
Something like: I don’t want anything for my birthday. Don’t worry about it. I already have plans for tonight.
I basically just told my mom that my plans don’t include her—which they don’t. Guilt should strike me. My mom is nice.
Nice but completely…I shake my head, not wanting to touch any of this. Not wanting to spell out any more words relating to my parents.
While I wait for a certain someone to show up, I log into Tumblr and start digging through Willow’s latest questionnaire. She tagged me in one, and I promised Willow the answers if she bobbed for apples during Halloween.
More than anything, I’m curious what questions she actually wants me to answer. It’s different than the first one. Here, she’s actively choosing which questionnaire I’ll fill out. Whereas the first one, there was no initial intention that some guy from Philly would appear and ask for her username and yada, yada, whatever.
The past is already written, isn’t it?
So here I am. In a noisy mall, filling out the new questionnaire with one hand stuffed in my leather jacket, the other gripping my cellphone.