“I didn’t want to interrupt your movie for this long,” Lo exclaims. He turns to Willow who sits contemplatively on the bar stool, observing everything with respectful, shy glances. “You’re having a shit day.”
Willow pushes up her black-rimmed glasses. “Being dumped the day of prom isn’t as bad as breaking your hand.”
Lo’s cheekbones sharpen, gritting his teeth. “It all just depends.” For Lo, emotional hurt will always outweigh physical pain.
Rose passes me a new basket, and I quickly thumb through seasonal allergy medicine and decongestants, finding nothing stronger than Advil. Rose growls under her breath, and she glances back over her shoulder at Lo.
I do too.
“I’m driving him in twenty minutes,” she says beneath her breath.
I’d comment that I’d drive him in ten, but the way Lily has her hand on his waist, silently guiding him towards the garage door—I think it’ll be more like five minutes until he’s heading to the hospital.
Rose and I stand up together with nothing more than an Advil bottle. I dole out a few pills and pass them to him. Daisy is quick to retrieve a glass of water.
“Can you all seriously stop freaking out?”
“I haven’t said a word,” I mention.
“Exactly,” he retorts.
Ryke is busy making a turkey sandwich, putting lettuce on top of the meat, and I can’t believe for a second this is a selfish act to feed his own hunger.
Daisy hops up on the counter next to him, swinging her legs. “Have you all watched The Young Victoria before?” she asks Ryke, Lo, and me, an easy distraction to alleviate tension.
“That’s what you’re watching?” Lo asks with a cringe. He looks to Willow. “You let Rose talk you into a boring period film?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
“I don’t know…comics made me think of Declan, so Rose suggested something different. I like it so far.”
Lo’s face sharpens, all severe lines. “Don’t let him ruin comics for you, Willow. That’s shit on his part. Okay?”
Willow nods but stares solemnly at the counter, and I can’t ignore my phone any longer. I check the message.
You free? Come over in 5 min. Two of my friends from L.A. are here, and we’re going to hang out – Scott
I have to say yes.
I look up and life is still moving at the same pace. Ryke cuts half of his sandwich with a butter knife, and he walks across the kitchen to give it to Lo.
“Thanks, bro.” Lo accepts the food with his left hand.
As Ryke returns, he cuts half of the sandwich once more and passes a quarter to Daisy. He climbs on the counter beside her, eating what remains. They often share food, but this gesture today reminds me how close they’ve become and how similar they are.
“Your phone,” Rose tells me.
It buzzes again, and she sees the next text blink on the screen.
We’re going to start without you – Scott
I’m not sure what “start” implies, but I know I have to be there. I may own the sex tapes, but I’m missing a certain overwhelming victory that sends Scott out of our lives, ensuring that we’ll never have to see him again.
It’s a delicate process that I think may come to a head today of all days. If his friends from L.A. are here, he may be willing to do something illegal to entertain them, and of course I’m invited.
I’m his best friend.
“I have to go,” I whisper to her.
She nods, her shoulders pulled back and eyes flaming as though to combat Scott, who sits across the street, in a house so close to ours. I have to go, I think.
And I don’t want to detach from her. I’d rather stay here and be set ablaze, but based on facts—based on his friends’ arrival—I sense that this is it. The last time I have to stomach his presence.
“I’ll be here for you,” she says, telling me she’ll be in this house.
She’ll be so much closer than that. I have no doubt that she’ll be in my head, right there with me, even when it hurts. It’s what I need.
I walk through the foyer and then open the door. On my way down the street, I spot a familiar face hurrying this way. As he approaches, I notice the formal black slacks, the white button-down and a bouquet of spring flowers.
Garrison Abbey.
When we returned to Philadelphia after the lake house, we dropped Garrison off at his parent’s, so he had to confront flunking out of Faust. Willow said that he’s going to enroll in Maybelwood Preparatory next year, an hour from this neighborhood and ironically the same school Ryke attended.
We abruptly meet at the curb of Scott’s driveway, and he strangely lingers instead of passing me, as though waiting for me to tell him that he’s making the correct choice.
“Where are you going?” I ask Garrison, though I’m one-hundred percent sure of his destination and his plans. The flowers. The formal attire. The date. It all points to prom.
He combs his hand through his brown hair. “Some douchebag bailed on Willow, so I decided I’d ask her out…” he trails off, studying my blank face for a reaction.
I wear none. The sun is beginning to set. “You have a couple hours before prom starts.”
Garrison points at me with his flowers, his features contorting in confusion. “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.”
A prodigy. I almost laugh. I’m satisfied knowing that this immortal, godly version of me still floats around the dorm rooms and hallways of Faust. I’m even more satisfied knowing that the vulnerable man remains in the arms of Rose, my passionate, gorgeous wife.
“Here’s my answer for you,” I tell him. “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.”
His brows pinch in contemplation, as though it clicks. I like her a lot. I’m doing the right thing.
Garrison and Willow would seemingly never be friends. She’s sitting inside with faded overalls, a blue shirt with bat-prints, and glasses crooked on her nose. She’s introverted and bookish. He’s rebellious and outcast.
Their unique interests may not align, but something in the core of their hearts does—and that makes the difference.
I’m running out of time, so I begin to head up the steep driveway.
“Where are you going?” Garrison wonders.
I look over my shoulder once. “To set things straight.”
He nods to me. “Good luck.”
I smile. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t need luck.” I turn back around and walk unflinchingly to my destination.
Fuck luck. I’ve spent months preparing for this, to put myself in this position on the chessboard, and in one strike, I may finally knock down the most abhorrent opponent I’ve ever faced.
There is no luck in my final moves.
The credit belongs to me.
59
CONNOR COBALT
I take a beer from Scott and sit on the couch next to Trent. He’s a thirty-year-old trendy photographer from L.A., black suspenders and a handlebar mustache evidence enough. I only know him by Scott’s constant aggravating reminder that Trent had sex with Daisy after a photo shoot, years ago.
“Scott says you’re cool,” Trent tells me, chewing on the end of a toothpick.