She stares at me for a long beat, waiting for a decision. Don’t ruin this for her.
“We can still dance,” I tell her.
“You sure?” She seems excited about it.
“Yeah, definitely.” Staying on the dancefloor, I carefully and gently place my hands on her waist. Her eyes flit up to me. She’s nervous.
I can tell she’s as nervous as me.
My hands are at a respectable height a couple inches underneath her armpits, okay. Nowhere near the small of her back. Yet, I feel like I’m full-on hugging her even though I’m not. Lo would probably still murder me if he caught me touching his sister. Not that I’m scared of death by Loren Hale.
It’s just that I don’t want to push Willow.
Don’t want to mess this up.
She eases a little as we sway to the song. I ease more too. We share soft smiles every other second. Even though it’s May, the student council voted on a winter wonderland theme, so winter decorations sparkle from the ceiling. Glittery snowflakes and glistening silver tinsel. With the dozen life-sized ice sculptures and snow machine, it’s obvious that Dalton Academy is well-funded. It’s kind of magical.
It’s prom.
In this gentle, wonderous moment, we sway and lock eyes, drifting into each other’s gazes, and I’m swept into another reality. A reality where I deserve someone like her.
I think about tracking my hands down her ribs and then sliding them to the small of her back. I think about drawing her to my chest, my one hand slipping against the softness of her cheek. I think about her eyes closing as she leans in.
As I lean in.
I think about parting her lips with mine. Her soft exhale against my mouth. Her body sinking into me.
I think about all those things.
I act on none of them.
We dance. We drink punch. We talk. We laugh. We wedge a truth too deep.
Friends.
We’re just friends.
And maybe that’s all we’ll ever be. Maybe.
august
31
willow moore
Dalton Academy is officially in my past. While all the seniors were ripping open their acceptance letters to Ivy Leagues and fancy private universities, they turned to me and asked where I was accepted.
With a weak, dying smile, I told them I never applied.
The shock and horror on their faces is forever engrained in my brain. But I’m happy with my decision to work at Superheroes & Scones for a while.
I’ll save up money, so that when I’m ready for college, I can afford it myself. Lo offered to pay my tuition, but he’s already financed my last year of high school and given me a place to stay. Coming to Philly wasn’t about reconnecting with my brother for his wealth, and I have to be self-sufficient in order to prove that.
“Lily tried to slip me extra money in my paycheck,” I whisper to Garrison in the storage room of Superheroes & Scones. I don’t know why I’m whispering. It’s after-hours, and we’re the only ones here.
I’m supposed to be closing up, but Garrison stayed back to help me unpack the new Spider-Man/Deadpool issues that’ve been flying off the rack.
Garrison holds onto a plastic-wrapped comic, and his brows furrow. “Jesus. She wants you to go to college that badly?”
I shake my head. “She knows I want to go, and I think she feels guilty that I don’t have the money for it yet. Anyway, I told her I wouldn’t accept any bonus that the other employees aren’t given.”
Garrison smiles. “Knowing Lily, we may all have a ‘surprise’ holiday bonus next week.” He makes air quotes with one hand.
“It’s August,” I say.
“Exactly.” He places the comic on a stack, sorting the issues from oldest to newest. He’s quiet for a second, unusually so, and I think maybe I said the wrong thing.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I shouldn’t have brought up college…or lack thereof. For us both, I mean.” I’m roasting.
He eyes me silently.
“It’s just,” I continue. “I know that it’s a sensitive topic because of Maybelwood.” When we returned from the lake house, Garrison finally approached his parents and confessed to flunking out of Faust.
They were angry, but they’re also type-A’s (as he put it), so they just went into immediate action and enrolled him in another school.
Maybelwood Preparatory. Also the same high school Ryke attended.
Garrison rarely talks about repeating his senior year, but I know his pride has been bruised. And I was the fool that just brought up college.
“Hey, Willow.” Garrison leans over the edge of the box, two hands on the edge. We’re a little closer now. I can smell his shampoo, a pine needle scent.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“No topics are too sensitive to talk about between us,” he tells me. “Can we agree on that?”
I look him over, wondering if he likes discussing the tough parts with me—because there are so many untouchable, sensitive subjects in his life that we’ve been crossing together. “Yeah, definitely,” I say, feeling relieved.