We did very well on our marketing project. It was a strange coincidence that we chose an umbrella for our marketing project, and then a month later Netflix dropped the trailer to their new show The Umbrella Academy. I’d already read the comics that the show’s based on, and it seemed like a great opportunity to capitalize on the timing.
So we tied in some of our marketing around the show—and put in a budget of what it would cost to cross-promote with the studio and the actors. Of course, it was all a theoretical scenario. But I was able to put my old teenage skills in editing fan videos to good use, splicing the trailer into an ad. It was fun.
And it worked. The professor was impressed that we thought about our demographic: the superhero-obsessed generation.
Garrison and I already celebrated over Christmas. We read the comics together side-by-side while drinking champagne straight from the bottle.
Cold slices my exposed cheeks, and I zip my jacket higher, trying to block the wind. I shake my head. “I am excited about school,” I tell Sheetal. “I’m just worried about my boyfriend.”
Tess wraps an arm around Sheetal and explains, “Garrison is coming in tonight.”
“Tonight?” Sheetal’s brows rise.
I shrug. “It was a spontaneous thing.”
“I’ll say.” Sheetal smiles, her excitement just as palpable as her girlfriend’s. “We’re finally meeting the boyfriend.”
Tess nods. “That’s what I said.”
“Great minds—” Sheetal can’t get the rest of the words out because Tess kisses her again.
My phone pings with a text. My stomach has butterflies, drunk on concern. Flapping around in my belly with an intoxicated, sluggish rhythm.
Garrison: Just got in the cab. Be there in twenty.
I just need him to be okay. Please be okay.
That’s all I can hope.
52
garrison abbey
An excruciating delay, an eight-hour flight, and twenty-minute cab ride later, I’ve finally arrived at Wakefield. The snow-blanketed quad in front of Bishop Hall is filled with inflatable jumping houses that little kids have for birthday parties. Music thumps the cobblestone path.
Willow warned me that since this is the one and only party on the quad it’s a bit extravagant, but it feels more like some strange carnival. People dressed in all white, some have angel wings on their backs.
College is weird, man.
I tip back a small travel bottle of vodka to my mouth. The liquor slides easy down my throat. In first class, they were handing me these almost every fucking hour.
Okay, I asked for them.
It’s been a shitty day. A shitty year.
A shitty life.
Each step towards the brick building is heavy. A couple of people shoot me weird looks, eyeing my clothes. Red T-shirt. Black hoodie jacket. Dark pants. If I came here to blend, I’m failing at critical levels.
My small duffel is slung on my shoulder. Cold wind bites my face, and I press my phone to my ear. No gloves. Forgot those on my hurried course to the airport. My fingers sear from the chill.
Willow picks up on the first ring. “Are you here?” she asks, urgency to her words.
“Yeah, present.” I spin around, trying to find her. But everything suddenly blurs. My head tilts. Sickness rises in my throat. Shit.
“I’m waiting in front of the building,” she says. “You can’t miss me. I’m in green.”
She didn’t dress up for this party. She’s been waiting for me. I don’t know why that makes me feel like worse shit.
I rub my eyes. An angel passes me, laughing shrilly with her friends. I blink hard. Jesus. Where am I? I down the rest of the vodka and toss the little bottle off to the side. It lands in a deeper patch of snow.
“Garrison,” Willow says, still on the other line. “I think I see you. Turn to your left.”
I turn in a circle again.
“Your left,” Willow repeats.
I stop, close my eyes, take a breath. Open them, but as I follow her instructions, she says, “I’m coming to you. Don’t move.”
Finally, I see her. Green puffy winter jacket. Glasses perched on her nose. Hair blowing in the wind. She’s pocketing her cell so she can walk faster.
People wave to her like they know her. And I realize…she’s popular here. Has a bunch of friends. Is loved and wanted. She brushes them off with a perfunctory smile, her course on me.
What the fuck am I doing here?
What the fuck am I doing to her?
My chest blazes in pain. I stumble back, almost falling onto my ass, but someone catches me by the arm.
I jolt, the touch pushing me to panic, and I shove at the person on instinct.
“Whoa!” The guy steps back, eyes confused and angry. “Just trying to help, man.”
His voice. His accent is so familiar. And then I really look at him. Windswept hair and wide jaw. White sports coat, white pants and angel wings on his back. You’ve got to be shitting me.