He reads it quickly. “I’ve seen that side of him already. I’m not scared.”
“You’re on good footing with him though and that took a while.” I don’t want to ruin his relationship with Lo either.
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t lie to your cousin about where you’ve been. Not because of me. I don’t have to walk with you, but just don’t lie to him.”
“Are you sure?” I ask before I leave. He wants me to be honest with Loren Hale. “If I tell Lo the truth about where I’ve been…” He may hate you.
“I’m sure.”
13 BACK THEN – October
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW MOORE
Age 17
On my walk towards Lo’s house, I text him and Maya, apologizing profusely and reassuring that I’m one-hundred percent okay. I also mention that I’m almost to his house, and as soon as my feet hit the front porch steps, the door bursts open.
Lo wears nothing but drawstring pants, the night air chilly, but maybe his anger heats him. His cheekbones cut sharp, and he has his cellphone cupped to his ear.
“She’s here,” he says to the person on the other line. “I don’t know why yet. Just get your ass back home, bro.” Must be Ryke Meadows. “I’ll tell her. Okay, okay. Bye.” He hangs up, and I stand uneasily on the porch—only an arm’s length away from my half-brother.
Lo clutches his cell tight. “Ryke and Daisy have been driving around looking for you.” He lets out a tense breath. “My brother said to tell you that he’s ‘fucking glad you’re okay’ and ‘Daisy loves you.’”
My lips upturn at Daisy’s comment to me. When I’m with all of them—Lo and Lily, Rose and Connor, Ryke and Daisy—I thought for sure, I’d gravitate towards someone like Lily. Comic book geek, resident introvert, and a lover of pop culture.
But when we’re all together, Daisy keeps me the most company. She metaphorically opened her arms to me, and I walked straight into them. Life is unpredictable that way. Because I would’ve never predicted befriending Daisy Calloway of all the Calloway sisters.
We’re the closest in age, but it’s more than that. She never pressures me to fill the silence, and when I do talk, she always listens. Even if it’s about superheroes and comic books that she’s never heard of before.
Just three days ago, Daisy invited me to pick apples with her at an orchard.
She climbed an apple tree in the spur of the moment, and she gave me a tug and boost to the lowest tree limb. Something I never thought I’d do. She’s adventurous and spontaneous, but she likes the quiet more than most people would even believe.
We sat up there and just listened to the wind.
I love spending time with Daisy, and to hear that she loves me back floods me with warmth.
But at the sight of Lo’s sharp exterior, my small smile fades quickly.
“It’s cold out here,” he says. “Come inside.” His voice is like knives.
I follow Lo through the foyer. Soft voices emanate from the living room, reminding me that Lo lives with five other people and two infants. Everyone tries to stay hushed at night because of the two sleeping babies: Jane Cobalt and Maximoff Hale.
Lo veers into the living room, a typical set-up: long couch, loveseat, and a Queen Anne chair placed towards the television and fireplace. I’ve hung out here enough that I’m less and less uncomfortable every time I enter.
Tonight, however, I hug onto my backpack strap and hesitate on whether to sit or stand. We’re also not alone.
Rose Calloway, Lily’s older and fashionable sister, looms strictly by the window, her nightgown hidden with a silky black robe. And her brown hair is pulled in a tight pony. She looks simultaneously concerned and high-strung.
To add to the sheer intimidation, Connor Cobalt, her six-foot-four, dapper husband towers beside her. His confidence radiates like the rarest, most intoxicating cologne. Just like Lo, he wears drawstring pants—and his chiseled abs…holy crap. I can’t believe those are real.
Maggie would faint on the spot if she saw Connor Cobalt in his nightly glory.
I suddenly think, can he tell I’m staring at his abs? Paling, I whip my head towards Lo. What if Rose saw me ogling her husband?
This is so embarrassing.
That Willow Moore should’ve never been unleashed into the world. I hate that eulogy, but it’s staying for the moment.
Lo glances at me as he walks towards the kitchen door. I’m about to follow until he says, “Stay here for a second.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I need a minute.” He searches the room for only one person: a gangly girl in a muscle shirt (his muscle shirt) that covers her thighs.
Lily hovers by the staircase, her eyes big with questions and worry. For him, I realize. They both wear this soul-bearing empathy for one another that’s almost hard to stare at straight-on.
“Lily,” he calls out, his voice still sharp but urgent.
Without hesitation, she bounds towards him, entangling her arms around his waist, and together, they disappear into the kitchen. Leaving me alone with Connor and Rose, two people I rarely, if ever, talk to alone.
Sure, in group settings, they exist and persist—but I still don’t know them personally the way that I’ve come to know Daisy, Lo, and Lily. Even though they live here too, they’re constantly on the go—and with the little free time they do have, they make room for Lo, Lily, Ryke, and Daisy. Not really me. (I don’t blame them. I’m not that chatty or the greatest of company.)
So most of my information about Connor and Rose derive from Princesses of Philly and tabloids and eavesdropping (I try not to overhear but it happens).
I’ve read their bios on Wikipedia handfuls of times and deduced that they’re two intellectually superior human beings. I mean, they both graduated valedictorian of their prep schools and they competed in academic competitions all throughout college.
At this point in my life, I can barely pass Calculus.
I eye the closed kitchen door, worried about Lo. I strain my ears, but their voices aren’t audible at all. I upset him. This is my fault.
It’s all I can think now.
“Let me handle this, Richard,” Rose says under her breath, but her voice escalates with each syllable. “You can take a backseat.”
“Are you ill?” He touches her forehead, and she swats his hand away.
Rose glares a boiling glare and perches her hands on her hips. “That is the dumbest question you’ve asked me this week. I am standing right in front of you, perfectly healthy and coherent.”
“Then why else have you forgotten that your husband, me—”
“I know you’re my husband,” she growls.
“—never takes the metaphorical backseat in your metaphorical vehicle,” he finishes without pause. Without flinching either.
My eyes grow wide, stunned that I’m witnessing their rapid-fire back-and-forths up close and not on Princesses of Philly. I can’t remember where Lily first dubbed these moments “nerd star” flirt-fighting. Maybe in the reality show or on social media.
I can’t stop watching.
I’m hooked.
Maggie would love this. I almost retrieve my phone, but I know better than to film them and send the video to my friend. I keep my cell hidden in my backpack. Where it needs to stay.
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Rose spouts, heated whereas he’s calm and cool. “I just put you in the backseat, Richard. Stay. There.”
I forget that his middle name is actually Connor, and Richard is his real first name. Only Rose seems to constantly use it. Mostly as ammunition.
Connor grins. “The fact that you still believe you can order me around like a child is partially inane and partially amusing.”
“You’re fully aggravating—and stop grinning that way.” Rose covers his mouth with her hand and growls into an annoyed groan.
It looks like he’s grinning more, even beneath her palm.
She drops her hand. “Why can’t you just let me drive the vehi
cle?”
“I will, but I’m not going to be relegated to the backseat. I’m sitting next to you in every metaphorical scenario, darling.” He cups her cheek, and she lets him. Softly, he says a string of melodic-sounding French that I can’t even begin to translate.
Rose raises her chin, treaties in her yellow-green eyes, and she whispers French in reply. She touches his hand on her cheek, and Connor brings them down, lacing their fingers together.
Then they spin towards me.
“Uh…” I gulp, not prepared to be the center of attention when it comes to the nerd stars.
“You should sit,” Rose says coldly.
She’s not really ever sweet-natured. I can tell she’s not intending to be harsh when she approaches the Queen Anne chair and pats the cushion.
Rose is letting me sit in her chair? Lo and Ryke often tease her about that chair, but their words never dissuade her from taking a seat with crossed ankles.
Walking around furniture, I lower stiffly onto the regal chair, and then, nearly in unison, Rose and Connor sit on the adjacent couch. Rose looks a bit peeved by the synchronization, but she makes no mention of it.
Connor is staring through me. With his genius-level intellect, I question whether he can interpret my body language.
I hug my backpack on my lap and risk a glance at the kitchen door. No sound, no movement—nothing.
“Do you need anything?” Rose asks, making this less like an interrogation. “Coffee or a blanket?”
“No…thanks,” I say, still a little uneasy.
Rose nods, her posture like a wooden board. “I can’t sugarcoat anything, so if you can’t handle bluntness, then I advise you to cover your ears or wait for Connor to spell out everything in his nauseatingly smooth voice.”
“She means pleasantly,” Connor says with a growing grin.
Rose drills a glare between his blue eyes. “I hate your voice.”
“You love my voice,” he rephrases.
I hope they continue to digress so I can leave this conversation without saying another word.
Rose unknowingly scoots closer to him, their eyes locked together in battle. “Is your name Rose Calloway—no, it’s not. Therefore, you shouldn’t translate my already intelligible words.”
“I’m reading the subtext of your statements.”
Rose snorts.
He continues, “Yes, you hate my voice, but you also love my voice. Tell me otherwise, and I’ll stop.”
“You’ll stop chiming in?” She’s disbelieving.
Connor arches a brow. “Only if I’m wrong, which I know I’m not.”
Rose rolls her eyes and sighs. “How can I both love and hate your voice?” She doesn’t deny the fact that she does.
“Because,” he says, “you’re a beautiful paradox.”
Rose nearly smiles, but she seems to remember me, her game-face returning. Straightening up, she says, “Where was I?”
I shake my head. I’m just as lost.
“You want to be blunt with her,” Connor reminds Rose. He’s firmly on his wife’s side, not about to come to my defense, if I even need one.
“Willow,” Rose begins, “we all feel a semblance of responsibility for you, and while that may seem absurd since you’re seventeen and clearly a young adult, we’re still the people that’ll take care of you if something were to go horribly awry in Philly.”
I nod, hardly breathing.
Rose is about to swing a figurative axe. I see the power simmer through her. “Therefore,” she says, “you have to think about us when you’re out late at night. Alone. With too many fucking perverts that know your name when you have no idea who they are. Not to mention, the rabid, foaming-at-the-repulsive-mouth paparazzi.” Rose lets out a single breath, on a hot streak. “We’re all you have here, and we’d break our backs for you. Leave your phone on. Text. Call—whatever it takes.”
The last three words ring in my head like a cliffhanger to a story about family and friendship and love. She’s asking me to embrace them entirely, even when I don’t fully know her beyond the media and the encouragements she’s given me in the past—but I’m not here to be a burden or a nuisance.
I’ve already screwed that up. Yet, I still feel myself retracting. Wanting to distance myself so I’ll never ever bother them again.
In the most tranquil voice, Connor says, “We also recognize your reluctance to integrate with the six of us.”
They have?
“When we go out,” he continues, “you decline our invites because you’re afraid to be a hassle, and you refuse to move in because you’re afraid to alter Lo’s life.”
I ruined that tonight. Before, I was a peaceful shadow. Now I’ve become trouble. Someone Lo probably wishes he could return.
I’m sorry, Lo.
Connor edges forward on the couch, as though reaching towards me with his calming eyes alone. “You have affected Loren Hale.” It crushes me, tears welling, and before I apologize, he says, “You have brought your brother love, and with love comes an unbearable amount of worry that I used to believe made people weak.”
Rose is watching her husband, eyes cast proudly and affectionately on him, and I’m caught in Connor’s vortex of wisdom and reverence.
“Lo isn’t weak,” Connor tells me. “He’s just trying to figure out how to love a sister and protect a sister at the same time, all without hurting you with his imaginative vocabulary.”
Rose nods in agreement. “If someone knows how to slaughter with words, it’s Loren Hale.”
“And he’s afraid to slaughter you,” Connor finishes.
My lips part, and they wait for me to speak. “Maybe…maybe I should stay away.”
Rose gapes. “No. That’s not what we’re trying to say. We want you here. With us.” She nearly rises out of passion, but Connor tugs her down, seeing that I’m uncomfortable. Rose continues on in a fiery rant, “You are family. We are family, and family fucks up and can be the biggest pains in the asses—but we’re also the very best when we’re together. Not apart.”
I want that.
I do.
It sounds beautiful, but I can’t fuck Lo up. He has a baby and a wife, and he’s a recovering addict. So is Lily.
I wipe my wet eyes beneath my glasses, and then I hear the front door swing open. I go very still. Rose cranes her neck over her shoulder as Ryke Meadows storms into the house. Not acknowledging us, he sets his focused eyes on the kitchen door, his features hard, jaw scruffy and dark brown hair messy. Somehow he knows that his brother lies behind the kitchen door.
He heads straight for him.
Ryke vanishes inside, the better sibling to Loren Hale between the two of us.
I slump in my seat, and then Daisy enters the living room. “Hey, guys,” she greets with a bright smile that eviscerates the lingering tension.
I breathe easier.
Supermodel tall with brown hair, Daisy rounds the furniture to head towards me. I’m used to seeing Daisy with blonde hair on the reality show, and at one point afterwards, she dyed her hair an array of colors.
She told me that this is her natural color. The brown hue makes her seem younger in a way. Then again, in fashion ads, she looks Rose’s age, all made-up with dark lipstick, smoky eyes, and sultry clothes. I’m not sure about the true facts or timeline, but Daisy quit modeling after she was thrown into the Paris riot a couple years ago (the one that started from an overly passionate rugby championship game).
Fans on Tumblr believe she quit modeling because of the thick scar that runs down her cheek to her jaw. I can’t be sure what’s fabricated and what’s real, but she did once mention that modeling wasn’t fun for her. It’d been her mom’s idea to approach agencies.
Dressed in a pair of Ryke’s track pants and a long-sleeved shirt that says wilder than the wind, Daisy sits on the armrest of the Queen Anne.
She mock gasps at me. “You’re in one piece. It’s a miracle.” I smile at her theatrics while she looks to the ceiling and s
ays, “Thank you, God.”
Connor arches another brow. “No.” That’s all he says. No.
Daisy wags her brows at his brow. “Thank you, Connor, my savior. My one true love.”
“Don’t inflate his overinflated ego by comparing him to God,” Rose says, tightening her ponytail.
“I’m hardly moved,” Connor tells Rose. “She speaks falsehoods and lies. Her one true love is a barking dog.”
Daisy only smiles, knowing Connor is referring to Ryke Meadows.
Just now, the kitchen door swings open, and silence blankets the living room.
Lo is the first one out, more assuredness in his step, but I cower, unable to make eye contact. I stare at my backpack and listen to the two other footsteps that belong to Lily and Ryke.
Out of my peripheral, I notice how Connor and Rose stand up with the others. Only Daisy remains seated next to me on the armrest. I can practically feel every pair of eyes boring into me, and I’m too timid to meet a single one.
“It’s not like anyone died,” Lo says, attempting to make a joke. His tone is too razor-sharp for one. No one speaks. No one even breathes. It’s like the Grim Reaper plopped on the couch to watch us all, and we’re all overly aware of its presence.
The quiet tension is killer.
“Jesus Christ,” Lo says, “everyone, just calm down—and I shouldn’t be the one saying that. Stop role-reversaling me.”
“Reversaling isn’t a word,” Connor says, “and I’m always calm, darling.”
Ryke Meadows rolls his eyes and mumbles under his breath while Lily bites her nails, catches herself, and stops.
“I’m sorry,” I suddenly and softly apologize to everyone while we’re all gathered. I stare at my feet but try hard to lift my gaze. “I fell asleep, Lo. I didn’t see how late it was…I’m really sorry. I’ll text where I am next time. I promise.”
Everyone is looking at me. My cheeks heat, and I only look up when Lo says, “It’s not okay, what happened, but it will be.” He very briefly glances at his brother, and Ryke glances back with a nod like you’re doing fucking great, little brother—and I wonder how much of what he said belonged to Ryke Meadows first.
Wherever You Are (Bad Reputation Duet Book 2) Page 12