I. Am. A. Loser.
It might as well be tattooed on my fucking forehead.
But Willow is hands-down the most amazing person I’ve ever met—compassionate, brave, unique, shy—and she doesn’t mind spending time with a loser like me, so that’s something, I guess.
There’s more to tell. More to get off my chest.
“I burned the letter that Faust sent my parents before they got it—the one that said I flunked. And you know…” My voice cracks, choked. “I’ve never been a good person. I don’t even know what some of you see in me…because I’m shit.”
“You’re not shit,” Lo tells me, forceful like that’s already written in stone. Carved into marble. I don’t know how he sees it so clearly. He adds, “You want this glass out of your foot?”
Lo is looking at me like I’m already a good guy. I don’t get it. But I want to believe it. Someday. Somehow.
“Yeah,” I release a deeper breath. “Yeah, I want it out.”
30
garrison abbey
Pulled out of Dalton.
Flunked out of Faust.
It’s starting to feel like the worst kind of pattern, but I do have a third chance. “Your last chance, Garrison” as my mom so kindly put it. Confronting my parents about Faust was about as enjoyable as I thought it’d be. Spoiler Alert: it sucked.
My dad gave me the stern, I’m disappointed in you lecture. While my mom shared her disappointment by reminding me how my brothers were never this difficult. “You have so much potential, Garrison,” she said. “You just don’t try.”
Right. It’s all about trying.
My third chance comes in the form of yet another private school. Maybelwood preparatory.
I start in the fall. Maybe this will be it. Third time’s the charm, right? I mean the school even has Maybe in its name. Maybe Maybelwood.
Luckily, I don’t have to think about any of that right now.
It’s still May.
School hasn’t completely ended yet, even if this semester is over for me.
Walking down the neighborhood street, I step into a small pothole in the cracked cement. Fuck me. I don’t fall. But my Italian black leather dress shoes are significantly scuffed. They cost about three grand.
This day is already going to shit.
But hey, I didn’t drop the flowers. A bouquet of brightly-colored spring flowers is tight in my grip. Black slacks and white button-down complete my look for tonight’s prom.
I check my watch.
Yeah, I feel like I’m running late even though it’s still kinda early. But it’s not like she knows I’m showing up to take her to prom. She probably needs time to get ready. Fuck, what if she rejects me? This?
What even is this?
Friends. We’re friends.
I like her as more than a friend. I know that—but what if she doesn’t like me in the same way? I mean, she was supposed to go to prom with the starship trooper nerd. I wasn’t ever in the picture.
I force myself to just stop thinking, and I pick up my pace—but as I continue down the street and near the Hale’s house, I see Connor Cobalt incoming like a fucking torpedo. He appears angled and aimed for the house across the street, not for me, but for some reason, I slow down anyway. I don’t pass him.
With a quick glance, he takes in my clothes. The flowers. It’s gotta be obvious what I’m doing, right?
“Where are you going?” he asks in a way that makes me even more certain he knows exactly where I’m going. Maybe this is like some Cobalt 4D chess. Hell, I just want someone to tell me I’m making the right decision here. That I shouldn’t turn my ass around and hightail it back home.
I run a hand through my hair. Probably messing it up. Whatever.
“Some douchebag bailed on Willow, so I decided I’d ask her out…” I trail off, waiting for him to call me dumb.
His expression is blank. Typical.
The sun starts to set, casting warm glows around the street. “You have a couple hours before prom starts.”
What does that mean?! Should I still ask her out? I wish he could drop his Connor Cobalt annoyingly accurate wisdom and just give me a fucking answer. Yes or No?
I point to him with the bouquet of flowers. “You know…people still talk about you at Faust. The upperclassmen said you had an answer for everything—that you were some kind of prodigy.”
Please just tell me what to do.
Maybe he sees the desperation in my eyes. Because he says, “Here’s my answer for you. Ask your friend to prom for no selfish reasons, no vain motives, nothing less than because you admire her and because you’d rather spend two minutes sitting beside her at a dance than five hours in the company of anyone else.”
Friend.
I’m stuck on that word.
So he doesn’t think I should ask her out as a date?
But he’s not telling me to run away and ditch the plan altogether. That has to account for something. Okay. I can do this. She is my friend, regardless of the other feelings I feel for her. She’s my friend.