She’s lounging on her bed in a baggie Superheroes & Scones T-shirt that has to be at least three years old—I recognize the design from a line of shirts when we first started working at S&S.
X-Men posters are taped to the walls above her head. She rubs at her eyes, her glasses already off for the night. Watching her makes me miss her more, but maybe I’m some sort of masochist because I can’t stop. And I just want more.
“So my classes aren’t that bad so far,” she tells me. “Except for Intro to Marketing. Ugh…” She buries her face in a pillow. “They’re making us do a group project.” Her words are muffled, and she pops back up after a second. “I thought I had abandoned those at Dalton Academy. But no, they’re in college too, and they are the literal worst.”
“Agreed,” I say to the video.
She brushes hair off her cheeks and her hazel eyes drift to the screen. She holds back tears. “Garrison.” She says my name like she’s mourning it. “Could you…could you call me when you get off work? Even if it’s super early my time. It’s nothing important. I just want to hear your voice.”
My chest hurts like someone dropped a fifty-pound dumbbell on it.
I didn’t call her. It was midnight by the time I left the office, and that’s 5 a.m. her time. She’s got a “hellishly” difficult morning class, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t fuck with her studies. College isn’t easy, and I’d hate myself if I distracted her.
My plan: call her during her break between classes tomorrow afternoon.
The oven beeps, my pizza done, and just as I rise off the couch, my phone lights up. Vibrates loudly. Her name is big across the screen. WILLOW.
I catch myself smiling. Selfishly, the first thing I feel is happiness. Like a tidal wave, it surges through me.
My lips downturn fast. And then worry follows close behind. I stand and click speakerphone. “Hey, Willow, isn’t it early there?”
“It’s six,” she says into a yawn. “Did you watch my video?”
I could lie. But that’s not something I ever want to do with her. “Yeah,” I admit. “I was planning on calling during lunch, so you could sleep in.”
She yawns again. “You’re too nice, and also I’d rather talk to you than sleep.”
Too nice is not something most people say about me. And the fact that she’s willing to go without sleep for me is what I didn’t want.
I lean against my kitchen counter, eyes transfixed on the screen, even though I can’t see her. “Everything okay?”
“I just miss hearing your voice. In real time. Not like through a video clip. How was work?”
I tell her all about my failed drug test, and how Connor didn’t even care that I smoked weed. When I end the story, Willow says, “He’s right, you know. You’re going to figure out what you want to create faster than you think.”
Her confidence in me is like a drug. I close my eyes and grip the edge of the counter. It hurts to be away from someone you love so much. God, it fucking hurts.
“Garrison,” Willow breathes. “Are you still there?”
I swallow a lump in my throat. “Yeah.”
A beat passes before she says, “You remember the night we had sex.”
I stop breathing. It’s impossible to forget that night. Everything about it was incredible. And I’ve spent most nights remembering what it felt like to be inside of her. Afterwards, I always try not to think about when it’ll happen again. Because likely—it’s not going to be anytime soon.
We agreed I wouldn’t fly out to visit until her second semester because if I’m up there with her, there’s a chance the media will start hovering around Wakefield. Give it some months. Let her settle in.
I still believe that.
But the hornier part of me—that thinks with the wrong head—isn’t fucking thrilled about it. Of course I want to touch her. I want to physically be with her.
I think about her words right now: you remember the night we had sex.
“I remember,” I tell her. “It was a good night. The best night.”
“So you’re not upset about it?” she asks, worry in her voice. “You don’t think it’s goodbye sex, right?”
Jesus. “No, Willow. It wasn’t goodbye sex.” My pulse races. “If it were, we would have broken up. We’re still together.” Fuck. “Aren’t we?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Willow says, and I imagine her frowning.
We’re on separate pages. Separate books. Shit, we’re literally on different continents. I don’t know how to jump back. “Willow, you’re my girl.”
“What about the broken heart?” she asks.
I rack my brain for a second, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. “What…broken—” Oh shit. I pinch the bridge of my nose, remembering. “The questionnaire.”
I can barely even explain what overcame me to want to fill one out. I was on Tumblr and scrolled past it, and it just reminded me of her. It was enough to quickly fill in the questions. But why did I have to answer with a broken heart?