Garrison lets out a tense breath, his keys jangling like he’s about to start up the ignition. He stops short. “What can I do to help?”
I open my mouth to speak, but I have no clue what to say.
“Will holding you make you feel worse or better?”
I shake my head again. Unsure. “I don’t know.” Tears threaten to rise, overwhelmed by everything: what happened, this moment, how nice he’s being to me.
“You know I’m here for you,” he tells me.
I nod and instinctively try to push up my glasses—which do not exist right now. “Thanks.” We make a game plan to fetch my spare glasses at my place in Philly, and then we’ll head to his house. I assure him that I’m not too shaken and that I still want to hang out.
He acts like his birthday means nothing to him, but he once mentioned that all his birthdays were spent with lots of friends. I imagine the crowds resembled the ones at Nathan’s party—the one I crashed on my search for Lo.
Now Garrison is down to just one friend. Me. He has no extravagant party. No adoring crowds. He just has Willow Moore from Maine, and I hoped this would be a birthday he wishes to remember, not one he craves to forget.
I can’t really replace his old friends, and I worry, in time, he’ll only yearn for them more.
18
willow moore
“So this is my room.” Garrison swings open his door. His house is abnormally large. Mansion-sized. A dream home. I’d get lost finding a bathroom if there weren’t seven of them.
“Whoa.” My eyes widen behind my spare glasses, vision impeccably clear. His bedroom quadruples my tiny dorm room.
With a curious gaze, I quickly sweep the area: king-sized bed, plain black comforter, a huge entertainment system against one wall (stereo speakers, multiple game consoles, flat-screen television), plush carpet, framed vintage Nintendo posters, and shelves and shelves of horror movies.
One thing is excruciatingly apparent: he is neat. And clean.
So clean, in fact, that I wonder if I should take off my shoes. Instead of asking, I notice that he keeps on his Converses, so I decide to leave on my sneakers.
Walking further inside, my head swerves left and right. Laptop propped on his sleek metal desk, the screen is black. No turtle, but I remember he said that Abracadabra first belonged to his brother Mitchell. Maybe the turtle’s tank stays in Mitchell’s room.
Garrison tosses a couple expensive black beanbags to the floor.
When he takes a seat, I plop down next to him and keep gazing at every wall and shelf.
He flips the remote in his hand and then glances at me. “What’ve you noticed?”
You have no pictures of your family. “You’re not messy at all.” No ashtray with cigarette butts. No scattered, half-opened DVD cases. No Fizz or Lightning Bolt! cans.
“That’s because a maid cleans once a week,” he explains.
I remember his spotless car, and I doubt the maid cleans his Mustang too. “Did she just come?”
Garrison contemplates this for a second. “No…I think she comes tomorrow.”
If his room looks this picked-up after a whole week, then it proves he’s neat. After two days, a pile of dirty clothes usually compounds on my desk chair.
At first I wonder if he’s scared to be called neat, but after a while, I realize that maybe no one has ever pointed this out until now. Maybe he’s never noticed his own trait.
Garrison switches on a DVD player for Supernatural. The title screen with Sam and Dean Winchester appears. I’m deeply aware that I’m currently in a boy’s bedroom.
Alone. About to watch a television show.
We’re just friends, I remind myself, still trying to relax and not sit so stiffly. Or else my stomach will start cramping.
More nervous than giddy, I interlace my fingers and unlace them. Unsure of where to put my hands. I try not to be suggestive.
After Garrison presses play on the episode I left off, he glances at me and shifts his arm close but then tenses. Pauses.
He ends up clutching his knee.
Someone knocks on the door—we both jump.
“Shit.” Garrison hops to his feet, and he looks back at me with a you alright? expression. I nod, and he focuses on the incomer and opens the door.
For some reason, I expect his brothers, but the moment a stunning brunette woman appears, I remember they’re away at college.
Standing on the other side of the doorway, his mom wears a pink dress that molds her hourglass figure. Diamonds cascade off her ears and neck, and her makeup, all pink shades, gives her a benevolent glow. Her straight hair is slightly curled on the ends, the kind of perfection I’ve only seen on Real Housewives shows. (Maybe she has a personal hairstylist.)
She’s unquestionably beautiful, and if she wasn’t a former model or beauty queen in her younger years, I bet people told her that she could easily be both.