I drift backwards as Mrs. Abbey tells us to “have fun”—not even worried that we’ll hook up. No mention of “keep the door open” or “behave responsibly”—just, have fun. I wonder if it’s because I don’t look like anyone Garrison would ever hook up with. Or if she’d categorize hooking up as a teenage expectation for her sons, so she’s okay with it happening.
If she had a daughter, maybe she’d be more protective. Maybe it’d be different.
Garrison shuts and locks the door.
I return to the beanbag, and not long after, he joins me and grabs the remote. He waits to press play. The air is heavy and weighted.
I stare at my hands when he says, “I’m cursed. I’m fucking cursed, and if I spend Thanksgiving with you, I’ll ruin your time with your mom and your sister—or your relationship with Loren Hale. I can’t do that to you.”
It’s better than you staying here, I think but struggle to say. I rewind to the beginning. “Your mom knows.” It nearly steals my breath again. She knows that his brothers have physically hurt him before.
He’s so quiet that I turn my head. He hangs his forearms on his knees, and his solemn gaze sinks into mine. “Hunter would bloody my nose. I’d tell my parents, and they’d just say why didn’t you fight back? To them, I’m the youngest, so being picked on is just expected. My dad said that my brothers were trying to make me tough, but…” Garrison trails off and cements his gaze on the floor. “You remember the first questionnaire?”
“Yeah.” It’s impossible to forget.
“Remember my answer to any surgeries?” he asks, unable to meet my eyes.
“I think so. You said something about breaking your wrist and leg and needing pins.”
Garrison nods. “I was seven and nine. First one, my dad actually saw. Hunter was pretending to be some wrestler in the driveway, and he kept trying moves on me. I was screaming for him to stop, but he body-slammed me into concrete. My wrist broke, and the bone tore clean through the skin.”
I remove my glasses, the lenses misting. “And your dad just shrugged it off?”
“Boys will be boys,” Garrison says flatly.
“And your leg?”
“I was nine, and Davis thought it’d be funny to duct tape my mouth, legs, and hands and toss me in the pool. I sunk and struggled to reach the surface. I ended up blacking out at the bottom, and I was told that his friend dove in, pulled me out, and basically punched my stomach until I coughed up water.”
I don’t understand…how did he break his leg? And how could anyone do that to another person?
Garrison rubs his forehead like the memory hurts. “I stood up shaking, and Davis said, ‘Why are you being such a wuss?’. He laughed and then struck my leg with a lacrosse stick. Bone fractured.”
Horrified, I shake my head over and over.
“To him and his friends, it was all a joke. They were older. I was younger. I told my mom what happened, and she thanked the boy for saving me more than she scolded Davis for nearly drowning me.”
I fit on my glasses, my pulse speeding at the thought of Garrison spending Thanksgiving with his brothers. Brothers that would do all of that and parents that would never acknowledge the harm.
Garrison looks over at me. “It’s in the past.”
Is it? I’m so scared for him. “I’d rather you…I…will you…” Why are words so difficult for me right now? I wipe beneath my eyes. “Maine is pretty, and my mom won’t mind extra company. Ellie will probably like you more than she likes me.”
He shakes his head like it’s not possible. “I’ll be fine here.”
“What if you tell Lo? He might help—”
“No. Please don’t tell him,” he says, panicked. “It’s not that bad anymore, Willow. Ever since they went to college, it’s been easier. Hell, ever since I could drive it’s been better.” Before I speak, he adds, “Why don’t you tell Loren about what happened today?”
“What do you mean?”
“The guys who broke your glasses,” he snaps, not at me but rather at their invisible presences.
For a moment, I’d forgotten all about that. “I can’t…” Lo will freak out. “I can’t make his life harder. He has so much to deal with already.”
Garrison twists his leather bracelet. “I’m scared for you,” he says exactly what I feel for him. “If those guys find out where you live, I’ll…” He pushes his hair out of his face. “You can spend the night here if you ever need to, you know.”
I’m speechless.
He recovers by explaining, “This is a gated neighborhood. No one can get in that shouldn’t be in here, and where you live, that apartment or dorm or whatever, it’s not like it has a lot of security.”
“I’ll be okay,” I say quietly, but the offer starts expelling the heavy tension. We acknowledge that we’re on each other’s side when other people aren’t or can’t be. I relax more than I did, and he leans against his own beanbag too.