Page 51 of Wherever You Are
Something less complicated. But I want one. I’ve already lost one father. I’ve lost a lot of family like Garrison, and I’m not ready to put another name on that list.
“Thank you,” I tell Garrison.
“You’re my girl,” he says. “I’ve got your back. Always.” He kisses my forehead, cementing this fact, and when we part to get dressed, I scan the dresser and go cold again.
“I…I swear I had photos here.” I sweep my hand over the dresser, only the Funko Pop! collectibles remain.
Garrison comes closer. “You sure?”
“I’mpositive.” Anxious heat cakes my body, and I gape at the door. “The party…” Strangers were here.
“Shit,” he curses, blinking long and hard. Our eyes meet in sad realization.
They’re gone.
My family photos are gone. Stolen. I don’t even need to confirm. “People probably came into my room when we were in the shower.”
“I’m sorry.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I should’ve thought about how you can’t lock your bedroom on the outside.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. I’ll print more.” I frown though. “I guess we need to be more mindful of our fame.” I look up at him. “I had photos of us too, and they’re gone.” Whoever stole the pictures—they were also interested in me and Garrison. Not just the famous Calloway sisters and their men.
His chest rises in a big breath. “Yeah. I forget sometimes that we’ve made it onto fan sites.”
“Me too.” Our fame has been a slow crawl, from small notoriety to something bigger, and I’m only afraid of it mushrooming out of control. Where there’s no breathing room or escape.
12BACK THEN – November
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW MOORE
Age 17
“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 isneat.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.”
