My stomach lurches when I see a new post.
Oh no…
Garrison filled out a questionnaire that I didn’t tag him in, and that rarely happens. He doesn’t love questionnaires, but he does them because he knows I’m kind of obsessed. So it’s odd that he did this, right? I don’t know what it means.
I hold my breath like I can stop an impending impact and slowly read the post.
Name: Garrison
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Average Hours of Sleep: idk used to be about 7-8? It’s less, so whatever.
Last Google Search: what time is it in London?
Relationship Status:
I…can’t…breathe.
He put a broken heart as his relationship status. Broken. As in, I broke his heart? Or is it just fractured while I’m in London and he’s in Philly?
My glasses suddenly fog and the emotion I’ve been burying suddenly rises tenfold. Guilt.
He took my virginity yesterday.
And I’m the one who left. Boarded a flight at 5 a.m. his time. Flew to a different continent and landed this evening. Put an ocean between us. Literally.
A sudden realization overcomes me…oh no. It was goodbye sex.
I had goodbye sex my first time.
Removing my glasses, I wipe them on my cotton shirt. My belly twists uncomfortably. New eulogy: Here lies Willow Hale, the girl who fucked for the first time and then left.
Maybe it wasn’t even fucking. It was more like…love making. Sweet. Kind. And loving. It was perfect—except for the leaving part.
And I know Garrison doesn’t blame me for leaving. Not like I blame myself. He held me after we slept together and told me that he still wanted me to go. Wanted me to pursue my dreams and take the hard path—the challenge.
Since I have such a big safety net in Philadelphia, I don’t know if I can really thrive there until I learn to thrive on my own first. London is the challenge.
But it’s also likely I will fail spectacularly, like a mega belly flop into a crowded pool.
I look back at the broken heart on Tumblr.
His words ring in my head. The ones he said to me before I boarded the plane. “We’re going to make this work. I’m going to text and Skype.” He cupped my cheeks and both of us were crying. “We’re going to make this work, Willow. Because you’re my girl, and that’s not going to change.”
We’re going to make this work.
Broken hearts and all.
I try to believe it. Placing my tortoise-shell glasses back on, I keep reading his post.
Siblings: three older brothers. Be happy they’re not yours.
Love or Lust: lust doesn’t hurt.
He sounds sad, but not his usual sad. I reach for my phone to send him a silly gif from his favorite TV show—Supernatural. Just as my fingers slide over the screen, I notice the last question and answer.
Met a Celebrity: I think I might be becoming one…
It chills me for a second. How much my life has changed his.
Three years ago, I was no one. I was living in a sleepy town of Caribou, Maine, and my parents were getting divorced. My little sister Ellie was my only sibling, and I only had one friend.
Then I woke up one morning, and little did I know, but everything just…changed.
I found out that Ellie wasn’t my only sibling.
I had a brother miles and miles away.
A famous brother.
Loren Hale has the kind of fame where he shows up on magazines and tabloids every week. The kind of fame where I had idolized him long before I even knew we were related. Imagine if someone like Chris Evans—Captain America himself—had a long-lost little sister. That sister being me. It was that impactful and unbelievable and really…
Three years later, it’s still surreal.
Loren Hale changed everything.
For me and Garrison.
41
garrison abbey
Seven days. Six hours. And three excruciating minutes. But it’s not like I’m counting how long it’s been since Willow and I put an ocean between us.
I like numbers.
I like to code.
It’s what I fucking do.
Even at two in the morning on a Friday night. My headphones are tossed aside on my mattress. Giving my ears a rest from wearing them in the office all day. Did I mention it was Friday?
Which means the asshole in the apartment next door is currently hosting some sort of first semester bash in his place. The walls thump from his shitty EDM music.
I can code with most music.
That’s not what’s really distracting me. It’s the laughter and the high-pitched squeals and the frat-bro cheering that pulls my mind away from work.
“JARED!” a girl shrieks. Someone knocks into a shared wall and my Silversun Pickups poster falls off the hook and hits the floor.
Yeah, that’s it.
I push away from my keyboard on my rolling chair and slide across the hardwood to my stereo setup. I crank it up. Full blast. And then I scroll through a playlist on my phone.
Fuck their EDM.