12. BACK THEN – November
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW MOORE
“S o this is my room.” Garrison swings open his door. His house is abnormally large. Mansion-sized. A dream home. I’d get lost finding a bathroom if there weren’t seven of them.
“Whoa.” My eyes widen behind my spare glasses, vision impeccably clear. His bedroom quadruples my tiny dorm room.
With a curious gaze, I quickly sweep the area: king-sized bed, plain black comforter, a huge entertainment system against one wall (stereo speakers, multiple game consoles, flat-screen television), plush carpet, framed vintage Nintendo posters, and shelves and shelves of horror movies.
One thing is excruciatingly apparent: he is neat. And clean.
So clean, in fact, that I wonder if I should take off my shoes. Instead of asking, I notice that he keeps on his Converses, so I decide to leave on my sneakers.
Walking further inside, my head swerves left and right. Laptop propped on his sleek metal desk, the screen is black. No turtle, but I remember he said that Abracadabra first belonged to his brother Mitchell. Maybe the turtle’s tank stays in Mitchell’s room.
Garrison tosses a couple expensive black beanbags to the floor.
When he takes a seat, I plop down next to him and keep gazing at every wall and shelf.
He flips the remote in his hand and then glances at me. “What’ve you noticed?”
You have no pictures of your family. “You’re not messy at all.” No ashtray with cigarette butts. No scattered, half-opened DVD cases. No Fizz or Lightning Bolt! cans.
“That’s because a maid cleans once a week,” he explains.
I remember his spotless car, and I doubt the maid cleans his Mustang too. “Did she just come?”
Garrison contemplates this for a second. “No…I think she comes tomorrow.”
If his room looks this picked-up after a whole week, then it proves he’s neat. After two days, a pile of dirty clothes usually compounds on my desk chair.
At first I wonder if he’s scared to be called neat, but after a while, I realize that maybe no one has ever pointed this out until now. Maybe he’s never noticed his own trait.
Garrison switches on a DVD player for Supernatural. The title screen with Sam and Dean Winchester appears. I’m deeply aware that I’m currently in a boy’s bedroom.
Alone. About to watch a television show.
We’re just friends , I remind myself, still trying to relax and not sit so stiffly. Or else my stomach will start cramping.
More nervous than giddy, I interlace my fingers and unlace them. Unsure of where to put my hands. I try not to be suggestive.
After Garrison presses play on the episode I left off, he glances at me and shifts his arm close but then tenses. Pauses.
He ends up clutching his knee.
Someone knocks on the door—we both jump.
“Shit.” Garrison hops to his feet, and he looks back at me with a you alright? expression. I nod, and he focuses on the incomer and opens the door.
For some reason, I expect his brothers, but the moment a stunning brunette woman appears, I remember they’re away at college.
Standing on the other side of the doorway, his mom wears a pink dress that molds her hourglass figure.
Diamonds cascade off her ears and neck, and her makeup, all pink shades, gives her a benevolent glow.
Her straight hair is slightly curled on the ends, the kind of perfection I’ve only seen on Real Housewives shows. (Maybe she has a personal hairstylist.)
She’s unquestionably beautiful, and if she wasn’t a former model or beauty queen in her younger years, I bet people told her that she could easily be both.
Mrs. Abbey meets her youngest son’s dour expression with a heavy sigh. “What did I do now?”
“Nothing,” he snaps. “I’m just busy.”
She peers into the room, at me, and offers a tiny smile before returning to Garrison. “If I knew you were bringing a boy over, I could’ve ordered pizza for you both.”
Oh my God. She thinks I’m a boy? I stare down at my baggy overalls. Don’t change , I try to remind myself. Don’t change because of his mom.
“She’s a girl ,” Garrison emphasizes, and even though I only see the back of his head, I imagine his eyes narrowing a little. “And I already told you that I didn’t need anything today.”
Mrs. Abbey sighs again. “Why do you have to speak to me in that tone?”
Garrison shrugs. “Sorry.” His voice is entirely dry, and I try to concentrate on my cellphone to give them privacy. It’s hard not to overhear.
“You’re acting like I’ve demolished your entire world, and all I wanted to do was say hello , how was your day ?” She seems nice.
Garrison grips the door like he’s seconds from slamming it closed. “It was really good. Now can I go?”
Mrs. Abbey’s blue-green eyes flit to me, then back to him, and she tries to lower her voice. I still hear her say, “What happened to Rachel?”
He groans. “We’ve been over this. Rachel isn’t my friend anymore.” In my U.S. Government class, I heard Rachel vilifying Garrison. Saying things like, he should’ve convinced Nathan and his friends to do the right thing. He’s no better than them.
She hates him.
“I just spoke to her mother yesterday,” Mrs. Abbey explains. “She may forgive you if you just apologize and spend a little time—”
“ No ,” Garrison cuts in. “I don’t care about befriending Rachel again.”
“She’s a sweet girl,” Mrs. Abbey continues. “I always thought she’d be a great influence on you, and if you go to the same college—”
“Mom,” he groans and rests his hands on his head. “Just accept that your hopes and dreams of me marrying Zeta Beta Zeta royalty are over and move on . It’s not like Rachel and I were ever a thing. You just made it all up in your mind because you’re best friends with Rachel’s mom.”
“That’s not true,” she says, offended. “I just want what’s best for you.”
Garrison goes rigid, and eerie silence passes. A lump rises to my throat, but I stay quiet and respect their space.
Mrs. Abbey says softly, “You should apologize to Hunter.”
Garrison drops his hands and stares at the floor.
“He graciously invited you to Penn for the weekend, and he told me that you cursed at him. Every single one of your brothers is making an effort to include you in their lives, and you keep pushing them away.”
“You know why,” he says, almost inaudibly.
She sighs for the third time. “Boys play rough. Your father is right; you need to stop being so sensitive.”
My lips part at her response, and Garrison has completely shut down. He no longer speaks back.
“All I want and hope and pray,” she says, “is that my four boys will be together as family. Please don’t make this Thanksgiving uncomfortable by hiding yourself in your room. Please .” She looks and sounds on the verge of tears.
My stomach knots at what she’s asking him to do. By being around his brothers, he risks another bruise, possibly a broken bone—his safety. Yet, she acts like he’s at fault for the strained sibling relationship.
In the aching silence, I find myself standing up and saying softly but loud enough, “I invited Garrison to Thanksgiving with me.” I didn’t really, but I suppose I just did.
His head whips towards me, surprise opening his mouth.
I approach but not too close, and Mrs. Abbey tries to place my appearance. I seem familiar to her because I’ve appeared on entertainment news sites. Which is just surreal in itself.
“I’m Willow,” I greet with a sheepish wave.
Recognition floods her face. “Loren Hale’s cousin.” Half-sister , I mentally correct. She touches her heart. “I deeply apologize for what my son did to your cous—”
“Mom,” Garrison interjects. “You don’t have to go around making amends for me. We’re already friends.” He gestures between me and him.
Mrs. Abbey forces a kind smile, obviously peeved by Garrison’s attitude. “So you’ll be spending Thanksgiving with the Hales then?”
“Um…” I hadn’t thought about this. Lo has already offered, but I’ve been contemplating returning to Maine to spend a little time with Ellie. I’ve been saving for a plane ticket. “I might actually visit my little sister in Maine, but Garrison is welcome to come.”
Garrison knows about my strained relationship with my mom and my little sister. Maybe that’s why he says, “Thanks, Willow, but I can’t.”
Did I do the wrong thing by interjecting? I just wanted to give him an escape if he needed one.
Mrs. Abbey radiates with joy. As though Garrison’s rejection of my offer was an affirmation that he’ll try to get along with his brothers.
I drift backwards as Mrs. Abbey tells us to “have fun”—not even worried that we’ll hook up.
No mention of “keep the door open” or “behave responsibly”—just, have fun.
I wonder if it’s because I don’t look like anyone Garrison would ever hook up with.
Or if she’d categorize hooking up as a teenage expectation for her sons, so she’s okay with it happening.
If she had a daughter, maybe she’d be more protective. Maybe it’d be different.
Garrison shuts and locks the door.
I return to the beanbag, and not long after, he joins me and grabs the remote. He waits to press play . The air is heavy and weighted.
I stare at my hands when he says, “I’m cursed. I’m fucking cursed , and if I spend Thanksgiving with you, I’ll ruin your time with your mom and your sister—or your relationship with Loren Hale. I can’t do that to you.”
It’s better than you staying here, I think but struggle to say. I rewind to the beginning. “Your mom knows.” It nearly steals my breath again. She knows that his brothers have physically hurt him before.
He’s so quiet that I turn my head. He hangs his forearms on his knees, and his solemn gaze sinks into mine.
“Hunter would bloody my nose. I’d tell my parents, and they’d just say why didn’t you fight back?
To them, I’m the youngest, so being picked on is just expected.
My dad said that my brothers were trying to make me tough, but…
” Garrison trails off and cements his gaze on the floor. “You remember the first questionnaire?”
“Yeah.” It’s impossible to forget.