I’m surprised when she shakes her head. Rejected, Abbey. Willow sets down her cookie. “I like seeing you on the internet. I mean we’re not actually seeing each other.”
“You mean my ones and zeroes aren’t making contact with your ones and zeros? I thought they were dancing around each other. My ones know how to waltz but the zeros are just shit dancers. They like to step on other people’s computer code.”
Willow has this giddy smile that’s a little infectious. “If my ones and zeroes could dance, they’d probably still choose to sit down.”
I’d sit down with you. I don’t say it because I’m literally sitting down with her. “What about bobbing for apples?” I ask. “No pressure, honestly.”
“You say that a lot.”
“What part?”
“Honestly.”
I hadn’t noticed. Maybe I’m just scared people won’t know what’s sarcasm and what’s sincere. “Hey, I wanted to mention something…don’t take this the wrong way.” Why am I broaching this now? Don’t scare her or make her feel bad. I almost pause, but I let it out anyway—because I’m that guy. “That comic book character, the one we were talking about earlier, I looked him up again.”
“Elixir?”
“No, the other one.”
“Wither?”
“Yeah, him.” I pause. “He kind of looks like me. For a cartoon.”
“Comic,” she corrects while color drains from her face. “…I like Wither, but I never said you were Wither.”
“Yeah, I know. I just thought it was interesting.” I feel like a dumbass, mostly because she can’t meet my eyes. I’m about to change subjects completely and ask about her favorite part of Supernatural season five, but she points to the apple-bobbing tub.
“It’s free. Do you still want to?”
I wonder if she was just waiting for the crowds to clear out around it.
“Yeah, definitely.”
15
willow moore
Things I never thought I’d be doing in Philadelphia: apple-bobbing at Loren Hale’s neighborhood Halloween party.
Beads of water still roll down my cheeks, and Garrison, only a couple inches away, tenderly brushes the wet strands of hair off my forehead. Everything is blurry, and he must sense my unease, so he gently fits my glasses back on.
“Thanks.” I concentrate on his blue-green eyes that dance across my features. He plucks a hair stuck to my cheek and tucks it behind my ear.
My everyday nerves try to subside, and giddiness flutters inside me like confetti falling from the sky. When his other hand skims my hip, I let out a small, nervous laugh. I prefer the giddiness over anxiety, but I can’t really control which comes out first. I’m just not used to touching. Everything is so new.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I push up my glasses, hoping I can reassure him that I like this so far. “Yeah.” I nod more than once.
“Can I hold you?” Quickly, he adds, “Like put my arm around you?”
I waver between a bursting smile and apprehension. I want to be on the bursting smile side of things, and I trust Garrison more and more every day. “Yes.”
Garrison’s arm curves around my waist—
“Hey! You two!”
I instantly jolt and become a stiff board, my head swinging towards the exclamation, but I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
Lo, my brother Lo. The one dressed like a Slytherin. The one sitting on a cluster of haybales across the pool. The Lo that everyone thinks is my cousin. That Loren Hale—yeah, he sends a seething glare at Garrison, one that could set the universe on fire.
I hear the warning: don’t touch my little sister.
We both immediately tear apart, an invisible wedge shoved between us until about ten-feet separates his body from mine. Garrison rakes a hand through the side of his hair before he lifts his hoodie back up.
Lily and Ryke are next to my brother, but I can only see their lips move. My hearing hasn’t reached Superman levels. Nor my lip-reading skills because I have zero clue what they’re saying.
Garrison rotates, his back turned to me, and his cellphone out. I (poorly) sewed a pocket in my Vega costume, and my phone vibrates once.
“Ca-Caw!” I look up as I take out my phone. Daisy Calloway sits on the rooftop with an antler headband. She calls down to her boyfriend who’s currently dressed in plaid. “Ca-Caw!”
When Ryke sees her up on the roof, she smiles and says, “Hunt me.”
I don’t watch them for long.
I check my Twitter message notification.
From @garrisonwither
Going to the bathroom. I’ll be back soon. If you’re back on our haybale, save me a seat?
I reply with a will do. As I look up, he’s already disappeared. So I head towards the haybale—but I stop dead in my tracks. It’s occupied. I swing my head to the left and right, my eyes swerving like a frantic driver behind the wheel. Where do I sit? Most haybales are taken.
I’m not good at parties.
I just don’t know what to do or how to fill the time. There’s a hidden memo that says: stay off your cell. My phone actually takes away the nerves, but then I worry about being rude. And the anxiety returns. It’s not a fun cycle.