Maybe I don’t know her well enough to judge.
“I’ll take off work some days this week too,” Loren tells me.
I remember what Ryke said again, about Loren wanting to see me, to build a relationship too. He’s willing to forgo work, just for me. It’s validation that this isn’t a mistake. Not yet at least.
I inhale a stronger breath. “Okay then…where do we start?”
“How about lunch?”
Ryke and Lily chime in about how hungry they both are, but my glasses fog, my eyes burning with tears once more.
My chin trembles a little, and beneath my breath, I say, “Thank you.”
He smiles, one that escalates with sincerity. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
8 PRESENT DAY – September
London, England
WILLOW HALE
Age 20
“Keep your door open,” Lo suggested. “It’ll be easier to make friends.”
That was my brother’s advice before I left Philly. Three weeks into the semester and I still haven’t taken it. Laughter grows outside my closed door as students walk down the hallway. The air always buzzes on Friday afternoons, classes ending for the week. Plans for parties springing up.
Not that I’ve been invited to any.
Pencil midair and textbook layered with scribbles and notes, I almost stand from my desk chair and open the door. Almost.
But the laughter grows even louder. What if I disturb the conversation outside? I could ruin someone’s joke, and then I’ll be known as the girl in room 301 who’s quiet and awkward and ruins fun. I’d be a literal buzzkill.
And what if they’re all friends anyway? My experience is that tight-knit friend groups rarely allow interlopers. And if they do, the interloper has to bulldoze their way in.
I am not a bulldozer.
I am more like a slow-moving turtle. The only friend groups that will allow me are the ones with clear vacancies.
Before I can settle on a decision—door open or closed—a bright green flyer zips underneath it and slides across my floor. Curiosity spikes and I abandon my textbook to grab the flyer.
Fall Into Film Bash
BYOB. Rooftop of Bishop Hall. There will be snacks and a screening of The Goonies.
Friday, 10PM
Okay…so I’ve officially been invited to a party.
But the party is tonight. I’d need a good week to work myself up to it, or at least have Garrison to go with. There are a lot of reasons I probably shouldn’t go. More reasons why I should. Maybe I just need a pep talk from my best friend. I check the clock and do the mental math to convert time zones. It’s not too early in Philly, so I dial her number.
Daisy answers on the second ring. “Hey, I was just about to text you. The last pic you sent looked beyond delicious. It literally made my stomach grumble. So either it was fantastic or your photo-taking skills have become extraordinary. Or both. Probably both, right?” I can hear the smile through her words.
My lips already lift. “Bangers and mash is really good.” Before moving here, I heard not-great things about the food in England, but so far I’m loving it.
I think it helps that Daisy and I made an agreement that I’d send pictures of each new meal, accompanied by a star-rating and review. Bangers and mash was a solid five-stars. Yummy yummy yummy was my official review. So it’s a good thing I’m a business student and not a professional food critic.
“Hey wait, let’s FaceTime.” She hangs up quickly and calls back just as fast. When I click into it, her bright green eyes hit mine. Blonde hair splayed across her shoulders and a wide grin. It looks like she’s sitting in her tree house, and her eight-month-old baby is curled up on her lap. Sullivan Meadows sleeps peacefully in a unicorn onesie, the hood complete with a glittery horn and all.
There’s something about babies that makes me melt. Maybe it was because I grew up with a sister who was eleven years younger than me. I have fond memories of Ellie, and the fondest were definitely when she was young enough to not completely hate me.
Our relationship has been fractured ever since I left Maine, and the more I try to sew it back together, the more it just rips at the seams.
It’s been months the last time my own sister even spoke to me, and her words were, you chose your famous family. Go be with them.
She won’t let me have a relationship with her without severing ties with Loren, and it’s unfair. I never felt like moving to Philadelphia was choosing Loren, my famous brother, over my little sister. I would have been gone in a year for college anyway. Moving to Philly, for me, was always about choosing to discover a part of my world that my mom kept secret from me.
Ellie never understood that. She still doesn’t. And even though Loren is related to her too—he’s her half-brother—I think there’s too much resentment there for it to matter to her. I know I’ll keep trying to rebuild what I broke, but I’m not sure if there’s even a foundation left.
My dad doesn’t speak to me. My mom will answer my texts weeks later, and my phone calls are always cut short on her end. I always think about the day I left Maine and the what ifs. What if I stayed? I would have never met Lo. Never would have had a relationship with my brother. But I would have kept one with my mom and little sister.
It’s a horrible trade-off. One I can’t dwell on because I’ve already chosen a path. This isn’t like a comic book. I can’t turn back time and see what the other universe has in store for me.
I stop thinking about Ellie and my mom just to focus on Daisy’s baby again. My lips lift, joy replacing hurt because little Sulli is nothing short of a miracle.
My best friend went through hurdles and roadblocks and mountains just to have her baby girl, and so seeing Sulli is like a dream come to life.
“How is she doing?” I ask.
“Amazing,” Daisy says, eyes lighting up. “She’s a certified mermaid. It’s officially official, she loves the water. I’ve never seen anything like it. She gets so excited when we take her to swim lessons. The trouble is pulling her away from the pool.” Daisy crinkles her nose at the thought. “It’s like destroying her favorite teddy bear.”
I smile, loving these stories. Daisy and I are close in age. I’m twenty. She’s just twenty-two, but we’re on different trajectories. I’m starting college, and she’s starting a family. Still, we make an effort to stay close and catch up. This is a friendship I don’t want to lose, no matter how far away I am.
I’ve already lost one that I thought would never end. Maggie—my only friend from Maine—was supposed to be my forever-friend. But she stopped texting me. Stopped answering my calls. All because I refused to give her information about the Calloways and Loren.
You’re related to him, she’d tell me. Why can’t you talk about him to your best friend?
Because it never felt right. Because the closer I got to them, the more I didn’t trust her to not spread it all over the internet.
So maybe I am to blame for that friendship ending. I couldn’t give her trust. And she couldn’t accept the fact that our friendship wouldn’t include discussing Loren and the Calloway sisters.
“How’s Ryke handling it?” I ask Daisy. The last time I saw him, he was having a nervous breakdown trying to get Sulli to stop crying. I’ve never seen someone so concerned over a baby’s tears. Like he thought he might have broken her. All she needed was a good burp.
Daisy laughs. “I think he’d let her prune into a wrinkly baby just to avoid making her cry,” she says. “Which is fine. I’m willing to play the not-so-nice cop role for my peanut butter cupcake.” She kisses Sulli’s forehead. The baby barely stirs. “But enough about me, Willow. How’s Wakefield? How are your classes?”
I take a breath. “That’s why I called.”
I explain my dilemma and this party.
Daisy nods slowly. “Do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
“That’d be staying in my dorm for the rest of eternity.”
“Then go. Have fun. Don’t ov
erthink it.”
“What if I sit by myself all night and no one talks to me? There’s a good chance I don’t gain the courage to approach anyone.” I can imagine it now. I’m the girl in the corner, eating popcorn and trying to dissolve into the chair.
“Then you’ll have a stupendous, amazing time by yourself,” Daisy cuts into my morbid thought. “You’re an awesome person. All you need to do is believe it, Willow Hale.” She wags her brows.
I touch my ring: a plain silver band with a black square in the middle. It’s a friendship ring from one of my favorite superheroes in The Fourth Degree, Tilly Stazyor, and Daisy has an identical one.
My phone buzzes and a text pops up on top of the FaceTime screen.
Tess: SOS. Did you guys see the professor’s email? We have to choose our product and email it to him by tonight.
Oh no.
Tess is a part of my group for that Intro to Marketing course. Last class, I briefly met my partners and we made plans to meet up next week to start our project. We have to create a print and online advertising strategy for a product, and it’s worth half our grade.
“What’s wrong?” Daisy asks, seeing the haunted look on my face. Another text pops up.
Salvatore: Emergency meeting. Where can I find you guys?
“I think I have to meet with my group tonight,” I say. So there goes the party. “But maybe…maybe I’ll invite them over here?”
Daisy nods and bites on the end of a Twizzler. “Yes, I like this idea.”
Courage emblazons my bones. I am a Gryffindor for a reason, right? Like Neville Longbottom, I can put myself in situations that seem daunting and out-of-my-element. And I will succeed—if I can try to believe it.
So I text the group: My hall is pretty quiet. You all can meet at my dorm. 301. Bishop Hall.
Tess: Sweet. See you soon.
Sheetal: Brilliant!
Salvatore: I’ll be there in twenty
Did I just invite people over? I did. Pride overcomes me, followed by an intense wave of worry. Shit, I don’t even have snacks or sodas. How am I supposed to host people here? And my room—oh God. Two bras are on the floor and my hamper overflows. This is about the time I’d love to have some woodland creatures come help me. Yeah, if only my life were a Disney movie.
* * *
I carry a stack of Fizz Life cans and redial his number. Garrison just sent me a video and he looked different. He mumbled out words and had dark circles under his eyes.
I heard all about his pizza disaster and how his roommate has been acting oddly friendly. As a result, Garrison has been spending longer hours in the office just to avoid his apartment.
I worry he’s not sleeping.
And we’re both shitty at confronting insecurities head-on, I realize.
Running away and ignoring them is easier.
But I’m not going to ignore him. “Pick up…” I tell my phone. I only have a five-minute window before my groupmates start arriving. I make it back to my dorm when the call goes to voicemail. Shit. Struggling, I pocket my phone and fumble with my key. I lose balance and an aluminum soda can falls off the four-can stack. It rolls down the hall, and before I can chase after it, a guy places his shoe on top of the can, stopping it.
I take a quick note of the person who saved the soda. Dusty brown hair, squared jaw. Deep brown eyes and tanned, olive skin. He wears this navy tweed sports coat on top of a plain burgundy T-shirt, and it shouldn’t match. But it does.
I also know this guy.
Salvatore Amadio. AKA one-fourth of my Intro to Marketing group. We only briefly met in class, but he’s now five-feet in front of me. Bending down to snatch the Fizz Life off the floor.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
He appraises the stack of cans in my arms. “Getting drinks?” His Italian accent is thick on the words.
He’s from Naples but came to Wakefield for university. International students make up eighty-percent of the school, one of the main reasons I chose it over other colleges. Most people here are far away from their homes like me.
“Yep, can’t have a group meeting without Fizz—crap.” I drop the key and bend too quickly to pick it up. Another can falls off my tower and rolls down to Salvatore.
Okay, this is not going well.
“Sorry,” I say.
He laughs. “Don’t worry about it.” He picks up the second can. “Here.” He walks over and holds out his hand for the key. Am I that pathetic that I can’t even open my own door? This is a new low. I must be frozen because Salvatore motions for the key again. “We’ll switch. You take these.” We somehow swap items. I’m carrying all four cans again.
He has my room key.
In seconds, the door is unlocked. I avoid his eyes as I go to my desk, setting down all the soda cans.
From an earlier assessment, I know that Salvatore is very good looking. The kind that would anoint him Prom King—even if he didn’t go to that school—and I wouldn’t be surprised if hundreds of girls slide into his DMs a day. While I can acknowledge his outward beauty, he is not my guy.
My guy is back in Philadelphia currently either passed out asleep or ignoring my calls. Both options concern me. But I can’t worry about that right now—I’m hosting people in my dorm room. For the first time ever.
And right now I am alone with a boy in my room.
Who is not Garrison.
Before I become uncomfortable by the thought, a voice comes from my door.
“Hey, girl! Thanks for letting us use your place.” Tess leans into the doorway with a beaming smile. She has tight black curls, dark brown skin, and wears camo cargo pants with a cute beige crop top.
What I’ve learned after one introduction to my group: I am the plain one. Tess, Salvatore, and Sheetal have trendy styles, where I look like I shop at Old Navy (because I do) in my faded jeans and worn T-shirt. It’s not even a graphic tee because I don’t love people reading my chest or abdomen or wherever the words would fall. It’s literally just green. I’m okay with that though.
“Yeah, thanks, Willow,” Salvatore says as he pops a can of Fizz Life.
Tess tosses her backpack on the floor beside my bed. “Not going to lie, when I saw Professor Flynn’s email, I almost had a small panic attack. We’re so far behind.” Her American accent, I recognized when we first met, but I still asked where she’s from. Atlanta. Born and raised.
Salvatore sits at my desk chair. “Where’s Sheetal?”
“Took me ages to get a proper spot in the car park. Gutted, let me tell you.” A tall Indian girl saunters into the room, tote on the crook of her arm. She’s dressed in Calloway Couture’s latest line: black trousers that just barely hover over the floor and an emerald-green silk top.
Tess grins. “I love how you say proper and gutted.” She glides over and kisses Sheetal on the lips in greeting.
I’ve already gathered that they’re a couple, but I don’t know much more. On our first meeting, we just exchanged names and numbers and brief “where are you froms.”
Salvatore is obviously curious because he asks, “When did you two start dating anyway?” He casually sets the open Fizz Life on my desk. My phone lets out a warning beep. Shit. It’s dying. I walk around the bed to find my charger.
“Over the summer.” Tess hooks an arm around her girlfriend.
“We met at orientation,” Sheetal adds, her English accent thick.
“And you said you’re from Liverpool.” Salvatore notes like he’s trying to remember our introductions from earlier this week.
“Is right.” Sheetal smiles.
Salvatore looks to Tess. “You’re from Georgia, the state not the country. And you…” He’s definitely looking at me—or at least trying to—but I’m on my knees, the bed blocking me as I plug in my phone. “…I can’t remember what you said.”
I’m not surprised. I am unmemorable, and I never told any of them my last name. I don’t think they’ve recognized me, so they could just not be into tabloids or celebrity go
ssip. It’s a checkmark in the yay I can still be just Willow category. A major plus.
I pop up from the floor. “I’m from the States. Specifically, Pennsylvania. But I grew up in Maine.”
Salvatore meets my eyes. “Yeah, that’s right.” He says it like he’s suddenly remembered, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. On one hand, I’d like to drift into the sea of forgotten people, but on the other hand, I do want friends in London. Or at least acquaintances. Really, I only need one acquaintance. I’m not picky.
Sheetal shuts the door. “Now that your memory is sufficiently jogged, Salvatore. Let’s get to work.”
We start brainstorming different products that we could advertise for the project. Everything from shampoo to laptops. An hour later, we’ve made a snack run and have narrowed it down to three options. Whatever we choose will determine exactly how we’re going to market it and what demographic we’ll be marketing to, so it’s the most important step.
Though, what’s concerning me has nothing to do with this project—Garrison still hasn’t texted or called me back. Not that I’ve been checking. Okay, I have checked. Once or twice. Maybe five times.
I send him another quick text: Call me when you get this. I’m worried about you.
Footsteps from students running down the hall cut into our silence, all of us flipping through various magazines to grab more inspiration.
Tess stares longingly at the door. “I can’t believe I’m doing this on a Friday night.” She sighs. “Please wake me up.”
Sheetal pinches her.
“Ouch…but thank you, babe,” Tess says.
Sheetal smiles and tosses a pretzel in her mouth. “A third-year fella said that this project is legendary for business students. Mostly ‘cause whichever student has the worst marketing plan ends up being a total whopper of the Fall semester.”
Whatever It Takes Page 8
