“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.
46
willow hale
I haven’t spoken to Garrison in weeks.
Days turned into nights. Nights turned into mornings. And time seems to seep like water between my fingers. Losing it all.
Our videos to each other have grown more infrequent and shorter. The ones I send, I’m rushed, frazzled running between classes.
His are more concerning. Heavy-lidded eyes and mumbled words before he dozes off.
I lie in bed, wide-awake. My eyes pin to the ceiling, little glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to the cement.
Call him again, my thoughts pull me. I snatch my phone and dial, but it rings to voicemail. Not surprising really. It’s only 9 p.m. in Philly, and Garrison works until midnight. He’s the type of person that zones completely into his work, loses time and sense of everything around him.
It’s why he’s so good at what he does, and I can’t blame him for not answering. Not when there were plenty of calls I missed because I was in the library or dining hall or…Barnaby’s.
I toss my phone aside.
A tree branch scrapes my window as the wind picks up outside. Rain pelts the glass and tries its best to soothe me to sleep.
But I’m too wired. Too longing.
Too much of a lot of things.
My fingers brush my lips. It’s been so long since we’ve even kissed. Since he’s held me. Touched me. Since I’ve run my fingers through his hair. Since he’s wrapped his arms around me like I’m the only person he wants to embrace. To protect. To love.
I lean over and turn off my lamp, plunging my dorm room into darkness. Alone, with the sound of the rain shower, images of Garrison pop into my head. His hair that curls a little by his ears and his aquamarine eyes that always stare through me. Like he knows.
He knows.
What it’s like to have people who are supposed to love you unconditionally but they don’t. Who are supposed to protect you. But don’t.
He’d touch my cheek and say, “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re not seventeen. We don’t need them. We always have each other.”
I’d stand on my tip-toes and press my lips to his. Warmth underneath his palms as he slid them underneath my shirt. He’s the only guy that ever touched me like that. Kissing. Hugging.
Anything.
Everything.
My body hums, pulsing and clenching harder between my legs. Wanting him. Wanting more.
Ever since I moved to London, I dream up this one single memory when I want to get off alone. This one visual is enough to make me wet and come easily. So right now, I start to think about it again.
I think about the night I lost my virginity.