“Alright, Mr. Hale—”
“In the seventeen years that she was with you—did you even talk to her?” my dad asks. “Did you know she’s charismatic when you discuss things that interest her? Maybe you should’ve seen a goddamn movie with her—”
“Mr. Hale—”
“—instead of sitting around on your ass, you scum of this planet.” He fixes his suit, as though a fistfight just ended with Robert Moore bloodied on the ground.
“Mr. Hale,” the judge snaps, banging her gavel forcefully.
“I’m done,” my dad says.
And I can breathe again.
Robert has taken five steps back like he’s been physically pushed, and his beet-red face is coated in a sheen of sweat.
I think about something my dad said. How Robert should’ve seen a movie with me. In the first few weeks of even talking to each other, Jonathan Hale asked to watch a film of my choice. I picked Doctor Strange. And even though he hated the storyline and characters in the first five minutes, he still finished watching it with me.
“Let’s continue,” the judge declares. “Robert Moore, do you wish to give up your parental rights as Willow’s father to Jonathan Hale?”
Without hesitation, he says, “Yes.”
“Then the court recognizes Jonathan Hale as Willow’s legal and biological father. Thank you all for coming today, and congratulations Willow.” The judge’s eyes flit heatedly to Robert before she leaves the courtroom.
I almost can’t believe it. I’m…a Hale.
“Ca-Caw!” Daisy calls out to me, making the bird noise.
I laugh a tearful laugh as I turn around, and everyone in the room starts clapping. My heart has grown outside my body. Too big to fit inside me. Love. It’s all just pure, unadulterated love.
Daisy squeezes out of the row, aimed for me. Robert passes her, leaving in a hurry and probably sensing my brothers’ glares on his back. I make sure to watch this time.
I want this to be my final image of him.
Shuffling out of the courtroom with the realization that the daughter—the one he didn’t really ever want—is loved. And I never needed him.
Daisy lands beside me at the first row and passes me an envelope. “This is for you, and I’m totally kicking myself because it would’ve been awesome if you had it before…all of that.” She waves towards the judge’s bench like it’s already old news.
I carefully open the envelope. A simple silver pinky ring inside.
I immediately recognize the black square carved in the center. I gave her an identical pinky ring a long time ago when her ex-friends were harassing her.
I told Daisy, “My favorite superhero wears this ring. It protects Tilly Stayzor from anyone outside of the Fourth Degree, basically her personal enemies. This ring is just a reminder that there are people who have your back. And we all need protection at some point. I want you to have mine.”
She’s still wearing that ring on her pinky, which means…she bought me a matching one. We’re both crying. Tears flowing down my cheeks and hers.
We smile together as I fit the ring on my finger.
“We all need a little protection sometimes,” she says, so she must remember what I told her. That crashes through me and I push back more raw sentiments. She adds, “And there are a lot of people who love you here.”
I have to take my glasses off to wipe them. “This means…so much to me. Thank you.” I fit my glasses on again.
“There’s more,” she says with a bigger smile.
More?
With a trembling hand, I inspect the envelope and take out a photograph. On the picture, a tiny little willow tree is freshly planted next to a cabin. The sign hung over the door says, Green Willow.
I immediately know what this is, and my eyes flood once again.
“You’re now officially a girl’s cabin at Camp Calloway,” she tells me. “You didn’t think I missed you, did you?” When Daisy started building her camp, she named cabins after her sisters. Pink Lily. Yellow Rose. Red Poppy.
I just never thought about myself in the equation.
Never would have assumed I’d be included.
I knew I was going to have monumental moments today, but I didn’t expect for this to be one. Feeling Daisy’s friendship and love and sisterhood wrap around me so tightly and protectively—I’ll never forget it.
She holds out her palm for our friendship handshake, but I wrap my arms around her shoulder, light as can be since she’s pregnant.
Daisy hugs me back.
Afterward, I search the courtroom for Garrison, and when our eyes meet, a bittersweet realization passes sadly between us.
London.
Philadelphia.
We’re going to split apart. Not yet. We have some months left together before I leave for college, and I hang onto those like a lifeline.
40 PRESENT DAY – June
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
GARRISON ABBEY
Age 24
“Oh no, I’m dying, I need health—I need health,” Willow says in panic, punching buttons on a Sega controller with skill.
“Knock over the steel drum—fuuuck.” I rock back as my health meter depletes to zero. “I just died.”
Willow laughs, and then Blaze, her Streets of Rage character, kicks ass for another five minutes, gaining health, and not long after that, Blaze perishes too.
We take a food break, and I flip open the pizza box on the floor—where we’ve thrown down plush blankets, bed pillows, and set up our TV with a few game consoles. Move-in boxes surround us in the large, open space. Sharpie scrawled over the cardboard sides, most labeled Abbeys – living room and Abbeys – kitchen.
Willow was happy to sell all her textbooks. Not needing to pack any since she officially graduated college with a shiny business degree. She’ll open up the London branch of Superheroes & Scones soon.
And eventually, Lily wants to hire Willow as the Chief Brand Officer. Which is big.
I’m really proud of everything she’s accomplished.
Earlier, we dug into a few boxes to find the N64, so Styrofoam popcorn packaging litters the ground too.
I lost at Diddy Kong Racing like fifteen times in a row.
“You’re killing it tonight,” I say while tearing into a slice of pepperoni.
Willow smiles, brown hair wet in a messy braid after a shower. “Must be the new place,” she says softly, just wearing blue cotton pajamas. “Maybe I’m lucky here.”
My lips rise.
Yeah, I like that idea. Our new home together is a place of good fortune for Willow, and me too. It feels that way, at least, and tonight is only our first night here.
She scoops up a cheesy piece of pizza, and I smile at the bathing suit tan lines on her shoulders, visible outside the spaghetti straps of her PJs.
“What?” She nudges up her glasses, seeing me staring.
I lick my lips, feeling my smile expanding. I shake my head at first, but then words come easy. “It just dawned on me that when I look at you, it means that I’m looking at my wife.”
She has trouble chewing pizza, her smile uncontrollable. “Stop…I can’t…” She laughs.
I laugh.
Willow chokes on the food.
Shit. “You okay?” I place a hand on her back and pass her a water bottle.
She nods repeatedly, then swallows. “Thanks.” She sips the water.
I keep my arm around her waist.
We spent our honeymoon in Hawaii. Seven beautiful days under the sun. Hence, our recent tans.
My chest swells. Remembering it all.
Feeling.
Because before that, I married Willow Hale in a small garden wedding, mostly just family attending. Right here in Philadelphia.
The quiet, intimate ceremony on May 31st was perfect, but I think we both loved the honeymoon more. Just us. No crowds, no one to greet or try to please.
Being back home, we’ve mostly been dealing with the new move. We w
anted a place of our own, just not in Philly suburbs.
An industrial factory in Philly was converted into premium lofts about a year ago. Seriously premium. A doorman is posted at the entrance, and so far, Barry seems cool.
But living in the city comes with privacy issues.
We asked for help testing the “tint” of the massive window in our open living room and kitchen. On the fifteenth floor, we have a pricey view of a cool park and eclectic shops.
Worth the money. I’d rather not stare at a brick wall.
Lo, Connor, and the Calloway sisters came over earlier to determine whether paparazzi could see into our loft from the street.
The verdict: a little bit.
A little bit is too much, so we’ll need to increase the tint level. Until then, Willow and I hung curtains that are drawn shut.
Willow notices me staring at the shrouded window. “You think if we were Lily and Lo, paparazzi would’ve taken pics of us by now?”
“For sure.” I swallow the crust of my pizza. “Give it a couple days though, and I bet we’ll see headlines like: Newlyweds Move into Coolest Loft Ever. The article will call me a high school dropout with connections, and you’ll be Loren and Ryke’s awesome little sister, of course.”
“Of course.” She smiles into a sip of water and then stares faraway in thought.
“Are you still worried about it?” I gesture to the window. “The media finding us?”
Willow shrugs. “I know it’s unavoidable…I guess I’m just scared of what we talked about before.” She turns to face me. “Chaotic Evil.”
Yeah, we’ve discussed the probability of our fame piquing to monstrous, catastrophic levels. “We’re still at Chaotic Good,” I tell my wife—still love that. “Media isn’t printing any cheating rumors or making up fake scandals. They’re just obsessively relishing in our wedding and honeymoon. Next, it’ll be our new place.”
Willow looks around the loft, all metal and concrete. I can see us living here for a long time.
She agrees, “We haven’t been cannibalized. Not yet, but when we have a baby…what if they say that I’m a bad mom or butt into our parenting style?” She’s seen the Calloway sisters deal with public criticism raising kids.
Pretty sure they could breathe and the media would say they’re not inhaling long enough.
My muscles tighten, just picturing Willow going through that bullshit.
I place a hand on her bare ankle. “Is there more?” I wonder since she intakes a tense breath. “Willow?” My chest hurts.
“I just—I want to not care what happens, if the worst comes, but I’ve seen so many shippers and fans turn on Lily, Rose, and Daisy at a single headline. They go from love to hate with the snap of a finger. It feels like they’re Thanos—”
“They’re not,” I refute, knowing the Avengers reference. “They can’t ‘dust’ your universe.”
But I won’t be the one attacked. I’m a dude. Media and so-called fans harass the girls twenty times more.
So, it’s a misogynistic Thanos snap.
Her eyes downcast.
I edge closer, my hand ascending to her calf, and all I’m thinking is that I need to protect my wife from Chaotic Evil. Since we were seventeen, making Willow feel safe and at ease in any given situation meant everything to me.
It still does.
Maybe even more now, if that’s humanly possible.
“It’s just a fear, I guess,” she says quietly.
“Hey, your fear is my fear, Willow.” My hand travels to her kneecap, and our eyes meet as I tell her, “Fans either don’t care about us or they somewhat like us. We’re like the underrated gems. I know that could change if we’re too overexposed, and maybe we’ve gotta figure out ways to stay under the radar so no one burns us down.”
Fandoms almost always self-implode.
Very few things are loved forever. And we’ve been sitting inside a beloved thing that’s detonated multiple times. Calloway sisters going from adorned to scorned, back to adorned, then scored and the cycle starts all over again.
Truth: Willow and I haven’t even been on Tumblr in months, maybe a solid year. If I make gifs, I just send them to her through text.
We’ll always love the internet, but our relationship with it has shifted. It had to for our health.
I don’t want to stumble on hate posts about Lily or Daisy or Rose. People we love. It sucks the wind out of our sails. Punches a fist through our guts.
Fuck that pain.
We deal with enough already offline.
Willow suggests, “Maybe we shouldn’t do interviews on We Are Calloway anymore.” The critically acclaimed docuseries won an Emmy last year for the fourth season, and we don’t make large appearances like the core six, but we’ve done interviews for the show.
We exchange a deeper look. Because I know why she’d propose tossing this out.
I’ve been quoted everywhere after episode twelve aired where I said, “I married someone much braver than me.”
It’s true, but Christ, I didn’t expect to become gif sets and video compilations. And yeah, the irony isn’t lost on me.
I did the same shit to Ryke for his f-bombs.
Years ago.
Years ago. Time carries my thoughts in a drift.
Knowing what I know now, I wonder if I still would’ve made the videos. I’m not sure if age has changed me more or just the events and circumstances of my life.
Maybe I’ll never really have the answer.
“That’s probably the best idea,” I nod. “Do you still want to appear on the docuseries, even if we’re not doing interviews?” We’re often spotted in the background.
“Yeah.” She doesn’t waver or hesitate. “If we leave Philly where paparazzi is or if we try to avoid cameras, then I feel like we’re also avoiding my brothers and Daisy and Lily…Rose.” She takes a deep breath. “I never want to subvert the spotlight so much that we draw away from our extended family.”
Our extended family.
My eyes burn, but I push back emotion for a second. “Same.”
We make a pack to never avoid the media at the cost of our relationships with the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts.
She smiles more. “You think one day we’ll reach Chaotic Neutral? Where we’re like flies on the wall to all the madness?”
I stand up. “Let me ask the all-knowing one.”
Willow grabs her half-eaten cheesy slice. “You’re calling Connor?”
“Uh, no. He’s still the tall one.” We both laugh, and I wash my hands in the sink, then rummage in the game box near the TV.
There it is.
I shake a Magic 8-Ball to Willow. “You ask the question.”
She rises to her feet, biting into crust. “Will we be a fly on the wall to all the madness?”
I shake the ball and then steady it, the triangle floating up in the dark-blue dye. I read, “You may rely on it.”
Willow is closer, only a foot away from me, and my eyes roam her soft features and the curve of her waist, affection and desire heating my blood. Her eyes travel just as yearningly along the ridges of my abs and the ink along my tanned skin.
I near my wife and she walks backwards to the kitchen, a bashful smile playing at her lips.
I shake the ball as we move. “Will we have a boy, eventually?” I’d rather raise a girl, but I’ll be happy no matter what gender.
Her back meets the island counter. “What does it say?”
I press my muscular body up against her soft frame. Her breath shallows, and I whisper, “Outlook good.”
Willow holds onto the counter behind her, breastbone rising and falling. “I’m going to ask it something.”
“Okay.” I run my free hand up her pajama top. Fingertips brushing the flesh along her hips, her ribs.
Love and want flood her brown eyes. “Will Garrison Abbey kiss me?”
I smile and rattle the 8-Ball. “Reply hazy, try again.”
She wets her lips, smiling an
overwhelmed smile. “Will Garrison kiss me?”
Shaking the ball, I dip my head closer to Willow, our eyes diving deep before I shift them to the results. “Concentrate and ask again.”
We laugh.
“Concentrate,” I coach.
“Okay, hold on.” She shuts her eyes, and in the heady beat, I just look at my girl and our home—and my bright smile conjures tears.
Happiness, it never felt in reach.
But I woke up today, and I love who I am. And I’m forever in love with the girl who fell asleep next to me.
Very softly, eyes still closed, Willow whispers, “Will my husband kiss me?”
I gently cup her cheek and bring my lips to hers. Our tender affection alive and quiet, like a firefly in the summer night.
41 PRESENT DAY – June
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
WILLOW ABBEY
Age 24
My lips sting beneath his, lit a billion ways, and I want more, so much so. But… “I need to wash my hands,” I whisper after I pull back.
He already wiped off the pizza grease, but I haven’t.
The thought keeps disturbing the moment: our new house, a flirty make-out. I’ve been pulsing between my legs, but the “hand washing request” could’ve just punctured the sweet and hot mood.
My face is on fire.
Garrison smiles and draws back. “Yeah, go ahead.”
I wash my hands in the sink, and I find my phone on the counter, near a liter of Fizz Life. Maybe music will help reset the tone.
I brave a glance back at him. He rests against the island, bare-chested with low-riding drawstring pants. Inked and cool, he waits for me patiently, in no rush. No hurry.
His lip upturns.
Garrison Abbey is my husband.
I realize my eulogy will now say “wife”—I’m someone’s wife. Here lies Willow Abbey, loving wife…
My pulse races, heart on a tilt-a-whirl, and I dry off my palms and scroll through Spotify for a specific song.
Wherever You Are (Bad Reputation Duet Book 2) Page 33