Tess and Sheetal laugh lightly.
“I couldn’t tell,” Tess admits, “but now we know.”
Sheetal hands the cell back and smiles. “You and your lad look like a knockout together, of absolute cuteness.”
“Thanks,” I mumble and pocket it.
Salvatore looks me over in a slow appraisal like he’s trying to figure me out. “How is he bad, exactly?”
“He’s not,” I counter. “He’s a good guy. When he visits next semester, you all can meet him and see for yourselves.”
“Looking forward to it.” Salvatore takes a sip of whiskey. “He’ll love me. I have the best first impressions.”
Tess snorts. “Yeah, it’s your second and third impressions you need to work on.”
Salvatore smiles but nudges my shoulder when he sees I’m not doing the same. He grabs a couple of the pork scratchings and places them on a napkin in front of me. “Give us your Pennsylvania-Maine opinion.”
“Whoa! YEAH!” A drunk college student starts screaming at the bar. “Chug! Chug!”
Bodies begin shifting and three people knock into our table. I’m not fast enough this time. The pitcher collapses sideways, and I jump up before beer soaks me.
These assholes don’t apologize. Instead they face the bar, their bodies still close enough to ram into the table again.
“Hey! Watch where your arses are bumpin’ into.” Sheetal snaps at the rowdy guys.
They turn on her in an instant, and I just barely make out one of them say, “Daft twit.”
“Hey.” Salvatore walks in front of them. “Back off.”
Tess tosses napkins on the spill, and I walk around the table to stand beside Salvatore. “Just give us some space,” I tell the guys. I’m pretty nice about it, so I don’t really expect their response.
“Just give us some space.” The taller one with blond curly hair mimics my American accent, only he over-emphasizes it like I’m an airhead.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Salvatore says.
“Wankers!” Sheetal yells at them.
Salvatore sighs heavily, but he’s smiling up at the ceiling.
Tess laughs.
I’m trying my best not to grin. Lips pressed tightly together. Curly Blond pins his glare on me, as though my effort to suppress laughter is the serious crime.
Salvatore slides closer to me, and then puts an arm around my shoulder. It’s sudden and all for show, but it still causes me to solidify to utter stone.
“I said back off,” Salvatore tells him.
Sheetal eagle-eyes the Curly Blond and mumbles into her beer. “What a divvy.”
He’s about to reply when a server walks over. “We got a problem here, mates?” He looks between our group and the asshole, but unlike the four of us, all of the asshole’s friends have left him and migrated back to the bar.
Curly Blond grinds on his teeth. “No. I was just leaving.” He steps back.
The server sees the empty pitcher, plus the sopping wet napkins, and he gives us an apologetic look. “I’ll grab some towels and bring you lads another round on the house.”
He leaves and we all look between each other, seconds away from breaking into laughter.
Barnaby’s is our spot. Officially.
And then it hits me. It was a silly, normal argument. That guy didn’t recognize me. Didn’t start a fight because he hated my brother. Didn’t call me names because of my relation to the Calloway sisters. London and Wakefield are bringing me this overwhelming sense of normalcy, and I don’t want to let it go.
But I don’t want to let go of what’s back home either.
Garrison.
My family.
I love them more than anyone here can understand.
11 BACK THEN – September
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 17
With a Grouplove song blasting through my headphones, I splice together roughly thirty-four clips on Final Cut, my Mac propped on my legs. I cut and duplicate four-seconds from Princesses of Philly.
Right now, I’m looking at Ryke Meadows on pause. He’s staring at a mangled motorcycle on the sidewalk. I press play. “What the f**k? Mother ****ing, piece of sh*t **** **** ******* kidding me.” I pause, trimming one-eighth of a second.
The clip is funnier if it’s duplicated and overlayed with a song, so I add music on top of his bleeped out cursing and then add a two-second clip from an interview. “What the f**k kind of question is that?” He throws a pillow at the camera.
Nathan suddenly chucks a rubber gargoyle mask at me, hitting my laptop closed.
“Motherfucker,” I swear, yanking my headphones to my neck.
“Dude,” Hunter says—and no, this isn’t my brother. It’s one of my friends who pales in comparison to my brother’s greatness and effervescent beauty.
“What?” I glare, lifting my computer screen back up. I set the mask beside me on the desk, the rolling chair squeaking as I shift.
Nathan’s den is unusually quiet. No music playing out loud. No poker tournament or multiple conversations happening at once.
It’s just a handful of my friends, with rubber masks, black clothes on, and a plan inside their heads. A plan that’s put a feverish, crazed look on their faces. The adrenaline high of doing something illegal has already set in.
And I feel sick.
Maybe because Loren has talked to us, not just threatened us, but actually talked and it’s hard—it’s a lot fucking harder to see him as this impenetrable celebrity when he’s humanized himself in more ways than one.
My neck heats, and I sweat underneath my hoodie. I can’t stop picturing him and his kid, his baby.
And the plan tonight: we break into Loren’s house. We scare the fuck out of everyone who lives there, and then we run away.
Infants are there. And I know one of the girls…one of the girls is messed up with PTSD or something. When Loren caught me with a paintball gun in hand, I remember one of them—either him or his brother—they said that to me. My girlfriend has PTSD. I think it’s Ryke’s girlfriend, and I’m not sure what this is going to do to her—but it can’t be good.
I could voice this to my friends, but I hear their response: it’s only a prank. Grow some fucking balls, Garrison. You pussy.
My skin crawls, and I’m about to put my headphones back on. The only thing keeping me from puking is this stupid fucking video. Ryke Meadows and his “Fucks” – Part 2. The first one I uploaded has over sixteen million views, so I figured a second one is due.
Someone else throws another gargoyle mask at me.
I block it with my arm. “What the fuck?”
“Dude,” Hunter emphasizes. “We’re leaving in a second, and you’re playing Sims.”
Nathan laughs after taking a shot of whiskey. “Did your virtual girlfriend cheat on you with the virtual pool boy?”
I flip them both off. They saw me playing The Sims one time, and they’ve never dropped it. I actually like that game—but if I even tried to admit it, they’d bring it up every minute of the day. And I’m avoiding that headache.
“Let’s go.” Kyle stands and puts his mask on. He thumps at his chest with his fists.
“You’re a gargoyle, not a gorilla,” Nathan tells him before sliding his own mask on his face.
“Same family.” Kyle’s muffled voice comes through. Not long after, everyone begins heading out. I stuff my laptop and headphones into my backpack but leave it and just carry the mask.
Each step I take, I feel worse, and excuses start blazing in my head. To get out of this, to leave. I’m going to throw up.
I wipe my forehead with my arm, the mask heavy in my hand. I close Nathan’s front door behind me, and they laugh, practically skipping down his driveway to the road.
I’m the only one unmasked at this point.
As soon as my feet hit the asphalt, I just tighten up. I freeze in place. They’re about five paces ahead of me when Nathan notices I’m
missing. He turns around and gestures for me to follow. “Come on.”
I shake my head tensely. “I can’t,” is the only excuse I can purge.
Nathan lifts his mask halfway up his head, tufts of red hair exposed. His eyes narrow at me, and he comes closer, our friends following. If I bail, there’s a chance others may bail too—and this was Nathan’s plan.
“Why are you being a little baby?” Nathan says loudly, so our friends hear.
“Just go without me,” I tell them—the words spilling before I can take them back.
Nathan steps even closer to me. He’s shorter and thinner than me, but still, my muscles flex and strain, my pulse accelerating and breath deepening.
“If you ditch us,” Nathan sneers, “that’s it—you know that, right?”
I glare. “Come on—”
“No, we’re in this together. That was the fucking plan.” Nathan gets in my face.
I shove him back, enough to give me space, and he’s about to put his hands on me—I lose it and shift out of his path. “Seriously, don’t fucking touch me!” I chuck the fucking mask at him.
“You’re the one who hit me! God, what the hell is wrong with you, Abbey?”
I run a hand through my hair, the strands out of my eyes now. I’m shaking, and I can’t say anything. I just walk back to his house, up his driveway, so I can grab my backpack and go home.
“Garrison!” Nathan shouts.
“Forget about him,” Hunter says. “He’s probably pissed he can’t spend time with his fake friends on Tumblr.”
I put a cigarette to my lips, shaking way too much to light it. My eyes burn, and I check over my shoulder once. Nathan is glaring at me, as though to say, if you want to be my friend again, you’re going to have a lot of making up to do. He shakes his head, puts the mask over his face, and turns around, heading down the street with the rest of my friends.
I want to scream.
At myself. At them. At this stupid goddamn place.
But all I do is go inside, grab my backpack, and walk in the opposite direction of them, rounding the street corner to Cider Creek Pass.
12 BACK THEN – September
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW MOORE
Age 17
“For fuck’s sake,” Ryke swears after laying on the horn. I’m clutching my backpack strap and double-checking my seatbelt, secured in the backseat.
Loren glances at me from the passenger seat for the twentieth time, and I nod at him like I’m okay.
I’ve been in the car with them while paparazzi cars and vans tail us, but never this badly. Cameramen caught an “unnamed girl” climbing into the backseat of Ryke’s silver Infinity, and the internet has been going crazy with shadowy pictures of me.
I have Tumblr, Twitter, and Celebrity Crush’s feed popped up on my cellphone, and it’s all everyone’s talking about.
The number one speculation: Ryke Meadows is cheating on Daisy Calloway.
I’ve seen them together. In person. (I still can’t believe it.) I helped Daisy make enchiladas for the house, and Ryke entered the kitchen to help too. I caught him stealing glimpses of his girlfriend, as though just wanting one more mental image of her—and his lips would always begin to rise in a smile.
Sure, I’ve always been a Raisy shipper, even if I can’t relate much to their adventurous spirits, but these small, hidden moments solidify what I’ve always thought to be true.
Ryke Meadows loves Daisy Calloway.
So no, he’d never cheat on her. I don’t believe it for a second, and I can only hope the world does too. I don’t want to interrupt or ruin their lives by moving to Philly.
At a red light, Ryke angrily rolls down the driver’s window and sticks his head out. “Don’t cut me off!” he shouts at the nearest SUV, a camera pointing straight at him.
“What kind of precious cargo is in the backseat, Ryke?” the cameraman asks.
“I’m fucking serious. Don’t pull out in front of me again like we’re playing bumper fucking cars.”
Loren cocks his head to Ryke. “Want me to drive?”
Ryke says nothing as he rolls the window back up.
“At least I don’t have road rage.”
“I’m a better driver than you—and don’t fucking say it.”
“You wrecked my car,” Loren teases with a half-smile. “I’ve never been in an accident, so I’m a goddamn great driver.”
Ryke rolls his eyes but stays quiet and taps the steering wheel, impatient for the light to change.
Loren glances at me again. “You doing okay?”
I tense more. “So is it usually this bad?”
“They’re just out for blood today,” Loren says. I notice his leg jostling a little, more edged than he’s letting on. His phone is also in his hand, so I wonder if he’s seen the speculations too. Then I spot the Celebrity Crush tabloid site on his screen.
I shift uncomfortably on the leather seat. “Maybe if Ryke kind of…keeps his distance from me, or acts like he doesn’t care…” I trail off because Loren is almost near laughter. He has to rub his lips to keep it down.
“You’re a fucking ass,” Ryke tells Loren, though there seems to be affection in his voice, not hate.
I look cautiously between them. “What is it?”
Loren playfully puts a hand on the back of Ryke’s headrest. “Telling Ryke to not care is beyond his superhuman capabilities. He’s physically and mentally hardwired to overly care about people close to him.”
I digest this and loosen my grip on my backpack. I’m slowly inching into their world, and I knew there’d be bad parts, like the constant gaze of cameras—but I don’t think I ever calculated these parts: the loyalty from people who’ve just met me.
“Funny,” Ryke says, hitting the gas pedal as the light turns green. “I don’t remember ever being a fucking superhero.”
Loren’s smile fades, and he stares at his older brother for a long moment, like he wants to say something more. He ends up dropping his hand and swiveling towards me. “Stay close to me when we get out. They’ll try to get in your face, and it’ll be easier to walk inside the apartment complex if you’re near me.”
“They’re going to ask who I am, right?” I nervously wipe my palms on my jeans.
“I’m going to lie, so you don’t have to,” Loren tells me. “Okay?”
I notice Ryke going rigid in the driver’s seat, his eyes hardening through the rearview mirror. I don’t know him well enough to understand why he’s pissed. Maybe he’s protective of Loren. Maybe he hates lies. Maybe it’s the paparazzi in general.
All I know is that I’m about to make my debut in this media-crazed universe. And Loren Hale, my brother, is helping guide me.
“Okay,” I nod.
“How many boxes are in the trunk?” Ryke asks.
“Just two. She only shipped my clothes and bedding.” I said she instead of Mom to bypass the awkward tension of releasing her name into the atmosphere. I saw her not long ago. Our conversation at a local restaurant, Lucky’s Diner, went something like this:
Mom: If you stay here, you’re on your own. I can’t help you in Philadelphia.
Me: I know.
Mom: *looks over her shoulder, expecting Loren Hale to jump out and frighten her by his presence*
Me: He’s not here. (He knew you didn’t want to see him, ever.)
Mom: *silence*
Me: Can I still talk to Ellie?
Mom: When you call, I’ll make sure to hand the phone to Ellie. *checks watch*
Me: …do you want me to come home?
Mom: …you would’ve been out of my house in a year’s time anyway for college. Maybe this change now is for the best.
Then she gave me the faintest of smiles, like a goodbye, like she’d already begun severing me from her mind and she was waiting for me to do the same. She’s used to leaving children behind, I realized. Maybe she thought this was the natural course—that she should leave me behind too, in t
ime.
Sometimes I wonder if it was all a ruse, if she just appeared detached so she could let me go more easily. If she spent the night crying on the plane. If she hopes my life will be better here than it was there.
I’d like to believe all of this because it makes me love her a little more and resent her a little less.
Leaving Ellie has turned out to be the hardest part of all. Without constant communication, I can’t know how she’ll fair. If I fool myself long enough, I can imagine that my absence won’t have any real impact on her, but I know it will.
Ryke parks in front of a brick apartment complex, the lot nearly full with cars. I feel out of my element. Not only because four different vehicles park near us, doors opening and cameramen jumping out—but because I’m only seventeen and entering territory that college students step on.
Lo isn’t happy about it.
I can see that now as he scans the twenty-something, backpack-clad students, strolling in the apartment complex. His brows pinch, and his eyes darken.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him, having to raise my voice as paparazzi gather outside the car doors.
He shakes his head a couple times. “You should really be staying with us.”
Six people live in his house: three Calloway sisters and their three significant others, all in their twenties. Along with two newborn babies, one is Loren’s son.
There may be extra room in their mansion-sized house, but I don’t feel like I’d fit in. In fact, I see myself always in the way.
I haven’t even met Rose Calloway’s husband, Connor Cobalt, yet. He could very well hate me. On the reality show, he came off as a conceited human being. I even made a gif set of him saying (with a straight face), “Most people never reach the pinnacle of perfection. But I’m not most people, so think of it as an honor to meet me.”
He’s a genius. A billionaire. And living in a bedroom down the hall from him sounds like a fantasyland not created for me.
“I don’t want to complicate your life,” I tell him honestly.
His brows rise at me, and he motions to a bearded cameraman by my window. “And I’m not complicating yours?”
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