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One after the other.
Step. Cut. Step. Cut.
Step…
I’m bleeding out.
But I touch her. Hand to hers.
She’s a mess of tears. She’s my mess. “Willow.” My voice cracks.
Her chin quakes. “I don’t want to go. I change my mind—”
I bring her into my chest, tucking her close, hand on the back of her head. Tears stream down my jaw, but I face the plane, not her family.
I swallow the pain.
Swallow it down.
Down.
I pull back to look her in the eyes. It’s somehow easier to speak. Maybe because she’s right here. Like my brain knows she’s not gone yet. “We’re going to make this work,” I tell her, trying to sound confident. “I’m going to text and Skype.” I cup her wet cheeks between both my hands. “We’re going to make this work, Willow. Because you’re my girl, and that’s not going to change.”
Please…don’t let that change.
She cries into my shirt, soaking the fabric. We stay like that until she has to board the plane. Until I have to watch her physically leave me.
I’m cut open on the ground.
Nothing without her.
part two
“Broken souls are mended every day
by mended souls that were once broken.”
Connor Cobalt
40
willow hale
Yesterday I was a virgin.
Today, I’m not.
And I know I’m not “supposed” to put this great big importance on my first time and virginity and all of that, but I didn’t lose it until I was twenty. Having anyone touch me is a big deal. Having someone inside of me…is monumental. Like Thor crashing down during the climax of Avengers: Infinity War.
It was that big of a deal. To me. To him.
And now the guy who took my virginity is thousands of miles away in Philadelphia.
“Over here is the campus bookstore, which I checked does not carry comic books so it’s already a complete fail,” I say to my cell, video recording.
My head pounds from jetlag. It feels like I just stepped off the plane, and I’ve only thrown my bags in my dorm. I wanted to check out the campus before it got dark. As the sun begins to set, students meander into dining halls for dinner.
I focus my cell’s camera on the campus bookstore sign.
Documenting my college experience at Wakefield University is my first order of business, while Garrison keeps me updated on his life back in Philly.
Long distance is not ideal. It’s not my first choice. Or second. But until someone invents teleportation or I’m struck down by lightning and develop super-human speed like The Flash, we’re stuck to modern technology.
“And over here…” I rotate my cell to rows of booths. “Are all the potential clubs that I’m probably not going to join—”
“HEADS UP!”
I turn. No no no. A frisbee is flying straight towards my face.
Ducking quickly, the frisbee sails over my head and across the quad to another guy’s hands. My heart beats wildly, and my jaw slowly drops. Dumbfounded. Did I just outmaneuver a flying frisbee? Okay, my reflexes have definitely improved. I am certified-clumsy. Definitely not by choice. Maybe London is a good luck charm for me.
My lips lift into a bigger smile, and I turn to head back down the cobbled path—oh shit, my hip and elbow suddenly collide with a girl and her box, both coming out of nowhere.
She stumbles and manages not to faceplant from my elbow-knock. But the brown cardboard crashes to the ground, flaps opening, and I watch as condoms spill onto the cobblestone.
Shit.
“I’m so sorry.” I quickly squat and start scooping up the condoms.
“No worries. We’re both in one piece.” Her English accent is noticeable. It hits me again—I am not in America anymore. Add in the fact that this is my new home. That I’m living here for four years instead of the usual three for UK undergrads because my degree requires blood, sweat, tears, and an extra year apparently.
It’s all hardly sunk in.
I’m half expecting someone to pop out of the bushes with a big Gotcha sign.
I just…I hope moving here was the right decision.
The twenty-something girl in front of me blows a red curl off her lips and bends down to help with the condom spill. She’s white, curvy and wears a Wakefield T-shirt—the letters WFU in a circular dark green and gold emblem.
I toss a huge handful of condoms into her box while I perspire everywhere. I am hot. Baking under embarrassment, and I’m aware that this is the most condoms I’ve ever touched.
When they lower me into a grave, my funeral eulogy will definitely be: There was that young, innocent Willow Hale who ran head-first into a giant box of condoms and never revived.
I must be staring too hard at the condoms because the girl says, “You can take some. That’s what they’re there for.”
“Oh no, I’m a vir—” I stop myself. Because…
Willow, duh, you are a virgin no more.
The redhead narrows her eyes. “If you’re a virgin, you could still use these.” She’s tossing a couple foiled packets in my direction. “You’re in uni. It’s better to be safe.”
