13. BACK THEN – October
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW MOORE
O n my walk towards Lo’s house, I text him and Maya, apologizing profusely and reassuring that I’m one-hundred percent okay. I also mention that I’m almost to his house, and as soon as my feet hit the front porch steps, the door bursts open.
Lo wears nothing but drawstring pants, the night air chilly, but maybe his anger heats him. His cheekbones cut sharp, and he has his cellphone cupped to his ear.
“She’s here,” he says to the person on the other line. “I don’t know why yet. Just get your ass back home, bro.” Must be Ryke Meadows. “I’ll tell her. Okay, okay . Bye.” He hangs up, and I stand uneasily on the porch—only an arm’s length away from my half-brother.
Lo clutches his cell tight. “Ryke and Daisy have been driving around looking for you.” He lets out a tense breath. “My brother said to tell you that he’s ‘fucking glad you’re okay’ and ‘Daisy loves you.’”
My lips upturn at Daisy’s comment to me. When I’m with all of them—Lo and Lily, Rose and Connor, Ryke and Daisy—I thought for sure, I’d gravitate towards someone like Lily. Comic book geek, resident introvert, and a lover of pop culture.
But when we’re all together, Daisy keeps me the most company. She metaphorically opened her arms to me, and I walked straight into them. Life is unpredictable that way. Because I would’ve never predicted befriending Daisy Calloway of all the Calloway sisters.
We’re the closest in age, but it’s more than that. She never pressures me to fill the silence, and when I do talk, she always listens. Even if it’s about superheroes and comic books that she’s never heard of before.
Just three days ago, Daisy invited me to pick apples with her at an orchard.
She climbed an apple tree in the spur of the moment, and she gave me a tug and boost to the lowest tree limb. Something I never thought I’d do. She’s adventurous and spontaneous, but she likes the quiet more than most people would even believe.
We sat up there and just listened to the wind.
I love spending time with Daisy, and to hear that she loves me back floods me with warmth.
But at the sight of Lo’s sharp exterior, my small smile fades quickly.
“It’s cold out here,” he says. “Come inside.” His voice is like knives.
I follow Lo through the foyer. Soft voices emanate from the living room, reminding me that Lo lives with five other people and two infants. Everyone tries to stay hushed at night because of the two sleeping babies: Jane Cobalt and Maximoff Hale.
Lo veers into the living room, a typical set-up: long couch, loveseat, and a Queen Anne chair placed towards the television and fireplace. I’ve hung out here enough that I’m less and less uncomfortable every time I enter.
Tonight, however, I hug onto my backpack strap and hesitate on whether to sit or stand. We’re also not alone.
Rose Calloway, Lily’s older and fashionable sister, looms strictly by the window, her nightgown hidden with a silky black robe. And her brown hair is pulled in a tight pony. She looks simultaneously concerned and high-strung.
To add to the sheer intimidation, Connor Cobalt, her six-foot-four, dapper husband towers beside her. His confidence radiates like the rarest, most intoxicating cologne. Just like Lo, he wears drawstring pants—and his chiseled abs…holy crap. I can’t believe those are real.
Maggie would faint on the spot if she saw Connor Cobalt in his nightly glory.
I suddenly think, can he tell I’m staring at his abs? Paling, I whip my head towards Lo. What if Rose saw me ogling her husband?
This is so embarrassing.
That Willow Moore should’ve never been unleashed into the world. I hate that eulogy, but it’s staying for the moment.
Lo glances at me as he walks towards the kitchen door. I’m about to follow until he says, “Stay here for a second.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I need a minute.” He searches the room for only one person: a gangly girl in a muscle shirt ( his muscle shirt) that covers her thighs.
Lily hovers by the staircase, her eyes big with questions and worry. For him, I realize. They both wear this soul-bearing empathy for one another that’s almost hard to stare at straight-on.
“Lily,” he calls out, his voice still sharp but urgent.
Without hesitation, she bounds towards him, entangling her arms around his waist, and together, they disappear into the kitchen. Leaving me alone with Connor and Rose, two people I rarely, if ever, talk to alone.
Sure, in group settings, they exist and persist—but I still don’t know them personally the way that I’ve come to know Daisy, Lo, and Lily.
Even though they live here too, they’re constantly on the go—and with the little free time they do have, they make room for Lo, Lily, Ryke, and Daisy.
Not really me. (I don’t blame them. I’m not that chatty or the greatest of company.)
So most of my information about Connor and Rose derive from Princesses of Philly and tabloids and eavesdropping (I try not to overhear but it happens).
I’ve read their bios on Wikipedia handfuls of times and deduced that they’re two intellectually superior human beings. I mean, they both graduated valedictorian of their prep schools and they competed in academic competitions all throughout college.
At this point in my life, I can barely pass Calculus.
I eye the closed kitchen door, worried about Lo. I strain my ears, but their voices aren’t audible at all. I upset him. This is my fault.
It’s all I can think now.
“Let me handle this, Richard,” Rose says under her breath, but her voice escalates with each syllable. “You can take a backseat.”
“Are you ill?” He touches her forehead, and she swats his hand away.
Rose glares a boiling glare and perches her hands on her hips. “That is the dumbest question you’ve asked me this week. I am standing right in front of you, perfectly healthy and coherent.”
“Then why else have you forgotten that your husband, me—”
“I know you’re my husband,” she growls.
“—never takes the metaphorical backseat in your metaphorical vehicle,” he finishes without pause. Without flinching either.
My eyes grow wide, stunned that I’m witnessing their rapid-fire back-and-forths up close and not on Princesses of Philly. I can’t remember where Lily first dubbed these moments “nerd star” flirt-fighting. Maybe in the reality show or on social media.
I can’t stop watching.
I’m hooked.
Maggie would love this. I almost retrieve my phone, but I know better than to film them and send the video to my friend. I keep my cell hidden in my backpack. Where it needs to stay.
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Rose spouts, heated whereas he’s calm and cool. “I just put you in the backseat, Richard. Stay. There.”
I forget that his middle name is actually Connor, and Richard is his real first name. Only Rose seems to constantly use it. Mostly as ammunition.
Connor grins. “The fact that you still believe you can order me around like a child is partially inane and partially amusing.”
“You’re fully aggravating—and stop grinning that way.” Rose covers his mouth with her hand and growls into an annoyed groan.
It looks like he’s grinning more, even beneath her palm.
She drops her hand. “Why can’t you just let me drive the vehicle?”
“I will, but I’m not going to be relegated to the backseat. I’m sitting next to you in every metaphorical scenario, darling.” He cups her cheek, and she lets him. Softly, he says a string of melodic-sounding French that I can’t even begin to translate.
Rose raises her chin, treaties in her yellow-green eyes, and she whispers French in reply. She touches his hand on her cheek, and Connor brings them down, lacing their fingers together.
Then they spin towards me.
“Uh…” I gulp, not prepared to be the center of attention when it comes to the nerd stars.
“You should sit,” Rose says coldly.
She’s not really ever sweet-natured. I can tell she’s not intending to be harsh when she approaches the Queen Anne chair and pats the cushion.
Rose is letting me sit in her chair? Lo and Ryke often tease her about that chair, but their words never dissuade her from taking a seat with crossed ankles.
Walking around furniture, I lower stiffly onto the regal chair, and then, nearly in unison, Rose and Connor sit on the adjacent couch. Rose looks a bit peeved by the synchronization, but she makes no mention of it.
Connor is staring through me. With his genius-level intellect, I question whether he can interpret my body language.
I hug my backpack on my lap and risk a glance at the kitchen door. No sound, no movement— nothing .
“Do you need anything?” Rose asks, making this less like an interrogation. “Coffee or a blanket?”
“No…thanks,” I say, still a little uneasy.
Rose nods, her posture like a wooden board. “I can’t sugarcoat anything, so if you can’t handle bluntness, then I advise you to cover your ears or wait for Connor to spell out everything in his nauseatingly smooth voice.”
“She means pleasantly ,” Connor says with a growing grin.
Rose drills a glare between his blue eyes. “I hate your voice.”
“You love my voice,” he rephrases.
I hope they continue to digress so I can leave this conversation without saying another word.
Rose unknowingly scoots closer to him, their eyes locked together in battle. “Is your name Rose Calloway— no , it’s not. Therefore, you shouldn’t translate my already intelligible words.”
“I’m reading the subtext of your statements.”
Rose snorts.
He continues, “Yes, you hate my voice, but you also love my voice. Tell me otherwise, and I’ll stop.”
“You’ll stop chiming in?” She’s disbelieving.
Connor arches a brow. “Only if I’m wrong, which I know I’m not.”
Rose rolls her eyes and sighs. “How can I both love and hate your voice?” She doesn’t deny the fact that she does.
“Because,” he says, “you’re a beautiful paradox.”
Rose nearly smiles, but she seems to remember me, her game-face returning. Straightening up, she says, “Where was I?”
I shake my head. I’m just as lost.