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I do a quick Google search and learn that Salvatore Amadio is the son of two famous Italian actors. He was even in a movie as a baby, but he retired from child acting by the age of four.
Sheetal makes a dejected noise. “Well now I’m proper devoed, like. Me parents are in finance. An absolute snore. I have no famous family or long-lost siblings.”
“You have meeee,” Tess sing-songs and hugs her tight. Sheetal tries hard not to smile, but it’s a lost cause when Tess kisses her playfully on the nose.
Salvatore pockets his phone. “It’s not all great,” he says to Sheetal but doesn’t elaborate.
My cell suddenly vibrates in my palm, Garrison’s name on the screen. Finally.
“I have to take this,” I say quickly and then leave for the hall. It’s empty, but I can hear muffled music coming from some of the dorm rooms.
When I click into the call, my worries just tumble forth. “Garrison, are you okay? Your last video looked like you hadn’t slept in days. And I’m just now realizing that if you were sleeping I probably woke you up and you needed that sleep. I’m so sorry—”
“Willow,” he cuts me off before I spiral. “I’m glad you called and texted and practically shot off a rocket flare.”
Tears prick my eyes. “You are?”
“Yeah. And I’m in one piece. Like you said, I just haven’t been getting sleep. I’m going to make sure I don’t stay in the office past midnight.”
“Promise?” I ask.
“Promise. What are you doing?”
“There’s this group project thing.”
“Right now?” Worry and concern breaches his voice. I know he’s been worried about distracting me, but I’m making time for him in my life. That’s what you’re supposed to do for the people you love.
“Yeah, but I’m taking a break—hold on.” My door suddenly opens, Salvatore, Sheetal and Tess slipping out of it.
Salvatore catches my gaze. “Hey, we chose the umbrella. We figured we’d just decide and call it an early night.”
“I’m going to email the professor,” Tess tells me, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.
“See ya, Willow,” Sheetal adds before she leaves with Tess.
Salvatore stays for a second. Hands stuffed in his jacket. “We think we can advertise to the university students. Cool designs. Small and portable for class.”
It’s simple, but maybe that’s the beauty of it. “I like it.”
“Great.” He walks backwards, eyes still on me. “See you in class, Willow Hale.” He spins on his heels and heads toward the stairwell.
I don’t understand flirting, but I know rom-coms and that definitely was straight out of the movies. Only it does the opposite of causing butterflies to flap in my belly. More like moths dying a slow and unnatural death.
I put my cell back to my ear. “Garrison, are you still there?”
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garrison abbey
It was unmistakable. The guy’s voice on the other end of the phone. But there were other voices too, and I’m not about to jump to conclusions like some jealous, paranoid boyfriend. I trust Willow, and she’s allowed to have guy friends.
“Garrison, are you still there?” she asks me.
I lie on my bed in a black hoodie and jeans, staring up at the ugly, stained ceiling. “Yeah, still here.”
“That was just my group for that project I was talking about.”
Intro to Marketing. I remember. All the pieces clicking into place. “You can call me back when you’re done.”
“We just finished.” I hear her shut the door. “I’m going to Skype you.” She must be really worried about me, more than I even thought. Fuck.
I run my hand through my messy hair that touches my eyelashes. I don’t want to scare her. And really, I’m coherent. Fine. I’m just burying myself in work, and that isn’t that bad, all things considered.
Skype alerts me on my opened laptop, and I sit up, placing my computer on my lap, and click into her call.
I see my girlfriend, and I exhale. Willow is sitting on her bed, dorm room dimly lit, X-Men poster hung up behind her.
Her eyes flit around me quickly. “You’re right, you are in one piece.”
“It was touch and go there for a minute,” I joke. A bad one.
She shakes her head, and so softly, she whispers, “Don’t.”
“Okay,” I say. “You look good.” Her olive-green shirt accentuates her warm brown, hazel-ish eyes that practically look like melting chocolate. Willow wore that same shirt on her last day in Philly.
I only remember because I went to the airport with her, and that image of Willow leaving is kind of engrained in my head.
“You’re home,” she realizes. “Isn’t it only—”
“One p.m.” I answer for her. “Connor sent me home.” I don’t mention that I fell asleep at my desk. “He thought the same thing as you. That I looked tired.”
“He’s looking out for you,” Willow says.
I snort. “He’s looking out for his company. I’m not his friend, Willow. I’m his employee.”
