Page 89 of Whatever It Takes
I falter.
And I think. How much of Garrison Abbey do I really know? Not much.
Not yet.
I lick my dried lips and stare at the tiled floor. “You’re better than your friends, you know?”
He says under his breath, “What an accomplishment.” His pretty eyes land on me. “You don’t have to cheer me up. It’s a lost cause, honestly.” He expels a deep breath and rubs his tired eyes with the heel of his palm. “You should go to class, Willow.”
“Are you going?” I wonder.
“No.” He pulls a carton of cigarettes out of his slacks. He undoes his navy tie and pops some of the buttons at the collar. Like the uniform has been slowly but surely choking him.
I unbutton some of mine at the collar and untuck my blouse. Feeling better. I don’t brave a glance at him, but I do climb awkwardly onto the sink counter, right next to Garrison.
My legs are much shorter, and I push my glasses up before splaying my hands flat on my thighs.
“Do you smoke?” he asks me, staring down at my features. Our arms skim, and a thunderous sensation pounds inside of me, grasping tight of my lungs, reaching and stretching for my heart.
“Not a smoker,” I tell him.
He doesn’t offer me a cigarette, and I’m glad there’s no pressure to join him. When he lights another one, he blows the smoke away from me.
We’re utterly silent, but it’s the kind that begins to slow my heartbeat. Silence and calmness, void of that aching loneliness.
After maybe five minutes or possibly ten or twenty, the door swings open, and in walks a five-foot-something student with short brown hair, expensive loafers and shock at the sight of me, a girl.
Garrison smiles in his next drag. He motions from the guy to me. “Barry, this is my girl, Willow.”
My girl.
I begin to smile.
In context, it sounds just as Garrison described—somewhere between good friends and boyfriend-girlfriend.
Barry nods in recognition, at my name or the title Garrison has attached to it, I’m not sure. “Ohh…” He draws out the word, then he points at the cigarette. “Coach says you need to cut back for conditioning.”
Garrison looks at me. “The lacrosse coach has this delusion that I can run a mile faster than my older brother. God forbid I fall behind Hunter Reagan Abbey.” He spins the cigarette between his fingers. “Birthplace: Mt. Olympus. Age: Unidentifiable. Handsomest fucker there is.” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or just bitter.
Maybe both.
Before I can say something, Barry adds, “Cutting out cigarettes would help though.”
Garrison gives him an irritated look. “Or I could just cut out lacrosse. How about that?”
Barry rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk like that. You know we need you for state this year.”
Garrison just takes another drag of his cigarette, more agitated. I remember his questionnaire answer about lacrosse being his favorite sport but hating it the most of his brothers. I wonder how deep that hate runs.
Barry briefly glances at me before disappearing into the stall.
Then Garrison hops off the counter and douses the cigarette in the faucet. “Calculus in ten.”
Ten minutes? I check my watch, realizing it’s almost time to go. I tuck in my blouse and button it higher while he fixes his tie.
I catch him glancing at me.
He catches me glancing at him.
