Page 31 of Wherever You Are
Love or Lust:only ever known lust.
Text or Call:text most of the time.
Nerds or Geeks:geeks, definitely.
Done. Not tagging anyone else, I slip my phone in my jeans pocket and then loosen my leather bracelet that digs into my wrist bone. A pack of cigarettes sits heavy in my leather jacket, but I can’t really smoke inside the mall. Not to mention, I’m trying to curb the habit.
I retie my black Converse shoes for something to do, and when I look up, I see her.
Down the stretch of mall hallway, Willow spots me too, and she waves sheepishly—and her awkward smile causes my lips to curve higher than before. I skim her head-to-toe. Like I didn’t just hang out with her yesterday at Superheroes & Scones.
She wears a mustard yellow shirt beneath saggy, faded overalls. Not especially trendy or something people would “like” on Instagram. Just…geeky. No makeup, but she rarely ever wears much more than eyeliner. Her light brown hair is twisted in a sloppy braid. Flyaway pieces escape, and baby hairs stick up by her forehead.
It’s nice to be around someone comfortable with who they are—and who they want to be—without bowing to peer pressure. In class last week, Rachel showed Willow a YouTube video of how to braid hair after critiquing all of her loose strands.
Willow thanked Rachel for the suggestions, but she never bothered with the “proper” technique.
Closer, Willow grabs tight of the strap to her JanSport backpack, always slightly tucked into herself. Overly aware of the strollers, the bumbling people, the sheer amount of bodies, and the many hands clutching Styrofoam coffee cups.
I see her mouth a few apologies for brushing arms with people, and she glances cautiously left and right. The crowds don’t cause her to fall back. She pushes through anxiety to reach me and the arcade.
I’m appreciative…more than I can even express.
“Am I late?” She nudges up black-rimmed glasses and checks her phone.
I knot my laces and rise. “Nah. I’m just early.” I gesture with my head to the arcade. “I had nothing better to do.”
“Oh.” Willow tries hard to stifle a smile. “Yeah…me too. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” I hold the door open.
As she slips inside the nearly empty arcade, she says, “I got distracted this morning.”
Ace Davenport. I frown and catch up to her side. “With what?”That douchebag Marvel encyclopedia.
“Lily let me feed Moffy dry cereal for the first time…I mean, he’s allowed to eat solid foods, but it’s the first time that I fed him. It’s kind of cool that she trusts me with her baby.”
And it’s kind of fucking cool that Willow trusts me with anything related to Lily and Loren Hale, especially Maximoff Hale. Their son is like media fodder.Celebrity Crusheats up any and all information about their baby, who can’t be older than five or six months now.
After Halloween, I already swore up and down to Willow that I’dneversell a single word to the tabloids. If I ever break this promise, she has full permission to spill any of my secrets to the world, my parents—whoever she wants. When I said that, we both paused in silence, remembering when I showed her my tattoos…and bruises.
In the end, I think she trusts me because I have no reason to speak toCelebrity Crusheditors and reporters. I don’t need the money. I’m not looking for fame or notoriety. I literally want to be left alone.
I’m also no longer surprised when Willow acts like she sits on the outskirts of the Hales when she’s Loren’s cousin. She mentioned her mom being estranged from everyone, and therefore, she was too.
“Would you babysit if they asked?” I wonder.
Willow nods with a growing smile. “I’m used to babies since Ellie is so much younger than me. I helped my mom a lot.” She stares off for a second. “I can’t even believe this is my life. I can hold Maximoff Hale—do you know how many people just want to touch his pinky?”
“About forty-five thousand.”
She skids to a stop in the middle of the arcade. Retro machines line star-patterned carpet, and glow-in-the-dark moons and planets are glued to the ceiling. “You saw the poll?” she asks, color draining from her cheeks.
“The one on Twitter asking ayesornoquestion about Maximoff’s pinky finger? No, never seen it,” I tease.
Willow presses her lips together, hiding another giddy smile. Something flutters in my stomach—which is lame. But whatever. I don’t care. I’ll be lame with this girl.
We drift subconsciously towards theStreets of Ragemachine.
