8. BACK THEN – November
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW MOORE
P laying video games with Garrison Abbey is like sharing one milkshake with two straws. I wear an uncontrollable smile that hurts my face. The kind of smile I’ve tried to suppress, but it’s becoming fruitless the longer we play Streets of Rage in Galactica Arcadia.
I can only remember feeling this way one other time, when I imagined Tom Hiddleston (AKA Loki, Thor’s brother and foe) running into me at Superheroes & Scones. He’s never actually been to the comic book shop, but sometimes dreams are better than reality.
Except this reality. Right here and now, my cheeks are sore from the amount of times they’ve stretched towards my ears. We laugh. We curse when the game bosses arrive, and he helps me when I fumble with special combinations.
I may be better at everything comic-book-related, but Garrison is an absolute pro at gaming. I think he’d be able to work both joysticks and buttons with relative ease.
Time slips by fast, and when we run out of quarters, we come to a stop.
“New high score,” Garrison reads the screen. We’re second to someone who typed in the three initials: SUX.
“Not very clever, is it?” I say, pointing at the SUX scoreboard leader. It’s the go-to initials for one-time players, really. Lots of machines probably have at least two sux in their records.
“I never really am that clever,” Garrison tells me, catching me off guard.
“Wait…what?” My mouth falls. “This…is you?” I gesture to SUX, and as he nods, I want to collapse on the star-patterned carpet and bury my head. I just insulted him.
On his birthday.
What kind of friend am I?
My new eulogy: that turd, Willow Moore, she’s a “whatever” kind of friend. You should’ve left her while you had the chance.
Garrison isn’t looking at my downtrodden features. He’s scrolling through letters to lock in the initials: GPW. I barely hear him say, “Garrison Plus Willow.”
If he’s not hurt over the comment, then I shouldn’t agonize over it either, but for some reason, I zone in on this awkward part over every other great one. I wish I wouldn’t do that. I rub my face beneath my glasses and then fit them on again.
“You okay?” he asks, not even noticing what threw me off. I’m making something out of nothing. Before I say yeah , his gaze travels to the glass entrance, and he curses, “Shit.”
A scruffy older man lingers outside the arcade, his phone positioned towards us like he’s using the camera. He must be playing the part of “coy paparazzi” today. I’m not sure if cameramen are allowed inside the mall or not, but I’m certain he’s here because of me.
“I’ll go to the bathroom,” I say, “and when I come back, he’ll probably be gone.” I think I’m pretty boring compared to the Calloway sisters, and if I’m not with them or my brother, only one or two cameramen usually trail me during a whole week. It’s not even a daily occurrence like it is for them.
“I’ll wait here.” Garrison keeps an eye on the older man.
I depart and find my way through the rows of arcade machines. The bathroom is lit with a neon sign that says Relieve Yourself . I grab the doorknob to the girl’s bathroom.
“You’re Loren Hale’s cousin,” someone says behind me, the male voice more accusatory than questioning.
I glance over my shoulder. A preppy guy waits outside the boy’s bathroom. Collared shirt, khaki slacks, combed blond hair, twenty-something-years-old—he looks like a walking fraternity ad. Except for his face.
His angular features hold more contempt than I’ve ever personally met. He knows Loren Hale. And he hates him. It’s the only conclusion that makes sense.
I instinctively shrink and refuse to answer the preppy guy. I just slip into the girl’s bathroom. A sickening feeling descends to the bottom of my stomach.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” I mumble and reach for my backpack.
I freeze.
I left my backpack with Garrison. I have no phone. “Okay,” I whisper to myself and exhale a short breath. I’m making up something out of nothing again. That’s what this is. At the sink, I remove my glasses and splash water on my face.
People say, trust your gut.
They also say, step out of your comfort zone.
So which one is this? Just a regular bout of anxiety or a real threat? How do I even determine the difference?
Using a paper towel, I wipe dripping water off my face, slip on my glasses, and look into the mirror. That Willow Moore . I’ve lost color in my cheeks, and my flyaway hairs stick to my forehead.
I swallow. “Step out of your comfort zone,” I tell myself.
After tossing the paper towel, I exit, hoping the person has left. The minute I swing open the door, I’m met with two preppy twenty-somethings.
Hatred flames their eyes.
“That’s definitely his cousin,” the new guy says, looking from me to his cellphone screen. He must have found a picture of Loren Hale’s cousin! from the internet.
I rush to leave, but the angular-faced guy physically blocks my path. I take a step backwards. “I’m just trying to leave,” I say, much softer than I intend. “I don’t know you.”
“But we know Loren,” the angular-faced guy says. “He slashed the tires of our car in college.”
“Oh.” Oh my God. “I’m sorry about that—”
He plucks my glasses right off my face.
I gasp and reach out for them, but I can’t see. I catch air. My world is a blurry mess, especially with the dark lighting and the glow-in-the-dark shapes.
I hear the crunch beneath his shoe.
My heart nosedives. He…he just broke my glasses.
“You tell Loren that the public may love the person he’s selling them, but everyone who truly knows Loren Hale still hates the fuck out of him.”
I back up into the wall and reach out for the bathroom knob. I knock off a poster or something, and I go completely still.
They no longer speak. I listen for their footsteps, but it’s hard to hear over the pinging of arcade machines. I think they left. I hope they left.
“Garrison,” I say in a panicked breath. I meant to yell his name. So I try again. “Garrison.” Slightly louder. Not loud enough. I crouch into a squat, feeling the carpet for my glasses. “Garrison!”
I touch the bent frame, broken in half, and the lenses are shattered. I prick my finger on the sharp glass and retract my hand.
“Willow!” Garrison must sprint because he’s next to me in a hurried second. “What happened? What the hell?”
I can’t see him. I can’t see anything in here.
I start to ask, “Can I—”
He knows what I want. Garrison immediately catches my trembling hand and helps me to my feet. I edge closer to his frame, and his other palm rests on my waist. My heart beats so fast.
If I start picturing their faces, emotion threatens to well and glass my eyes. It’s not even that I met real hatred for the first time. It’s that they feel this boiling disgust towards someone I love.
Garrison keeps me close. “Do you have an extra pair of glasses in your backpack?”
“No, just in my room.” My throat swells closed, but before he asks again, I start briefly explaining the encounter. He scans the arcade for signs of “preppy” guys, but he says it looks like they’re gone.
Of course, I can’t read his expression, but his body radiates with heat, angry and upset. Instead of hunting them down, thankfully he stays beside me.
My hand in his hand, he guides me out of the arcade. My backpack slung over his shoulder. (I ask to make sure he hasn’t left it.) But I’m too nervous to ask if the cameraman is still looming.
“Escalator,” Garrison says, pulling me back as I try to walk forward. His arm is wrapped securely around my waist.
Oh my God. Through everything that’s happened, I still heat from the new touch. I can’t help it. I’m stiffer than him. I’m unbending and hardly breathing properly.
Focus. I start to whisper, “I can’t tell Loren what happ—”
“I hate The Omen too,” Garrison cuts in, raising his voice. “There are so many better horror movies than that one.”
I understand the hint. The older man with the camera phone—he must be right behind us. Riding down the escalator. Video-recording our conversation. Our every move.
I shudder. And this is just a taste of what Lily and her sisters deal with every day.
We both stay quiet until we reach the parking lot. Once inside his Mustang, Garrison locks the car doors. Lily dropped me off at the mall on her way to Superheroes & Scones, so my car is still at my brother’s house.
The plan had always been to leave the mall in Garrison’s car, but not…this soon. Not like this. I struggle with my seatbelt, unable to find the hole for the metal tip.
“Here.” Garrison stretches over the middle console and helps, his hand on my hand. My nerves flutter. He guides the buckle, and I hear the click.
Secured.
Garrison places my backpack on my lap, and I hug the jean fabric to my chest. He pauses before starting the car. I feel him studying my features.
I replay what happened, and I go numb. My skin tingles as I try to submerge emotion like my mom taught me to do. Don’t let it out for other people to see. Bottle every last bit.
He breaks the silence. “Did they touch you?”
I shake my head, the motion heavy. “Just my glasses.” I swallow again. “I’m fine.” It could’ve been worse. Partly, I think I’m in shock, throttled by the “could’ve beens” and the regret of not trusting my gut.
Garrison lets out a tense breath, his keys jangling like he’s about to start up the ignition. He stops short. “What can I do to help?”
I open my mouth to speak, but I have no clue what to say.
“Will holding you make you feel worse or better?”
I shake my head again. Unsure. “I don’t know.” Tears threaten to rise, overwhelmed by everything: what happened, this moment, how nice he’s being to me.
“You know I’m here for you,” he tells me.
I nod and instinctively try to push up my glasses—which do not exist right now. “Thanks.” We make a game plan to fetch my spare glasses at my place in Philly, and then we’ll head to his house. I assure him that I’m not too shaken and that I still want to hang out.
He acts like his birthday means nothing to him, but he once mentioned that all his birthdays were spent with lots of friends. I imagine the crowds resembled the ones at Nathan’s party—the one I crashed on my search for Lo.
Now Garrison is down to just one friend. Me. He has no extravagant party. No adoring crowds. He just has Willow Moore from Maine, and I hoped this would be a birthday he wishes to remember, not one he craves to forget.
I can’t really replace his old friends, and I worry, in time, he’ll only yearn for them more.