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My phone buzzes, and I check the text.
Willow: Birthday plans tomorrow are lowkey, just dessert at Barnaby’s with Tess & Sheetal. Wanna Skype later? Let me know a good time for u
She doesn’t know I’m coming. But I’ll be there. Even if I have to crawl my way to London, I’ll be there.
Sheetal and Tess, I actually do like. They care about Willow, and they’ve given me a second chance to make a better first impression. Knowing how much I mean to Willow.
Salvatore is still a dick.
I stare at my phone, fingers hovering over the letters. I have to give her a little bit of a white lie, since it’s still a surprise that I’m flying there.
So I send a few Gilmore Girls birthday gifs that I made for her, all with Jess and Rory. And I text back: Definitely wanna talk on this big day. Skype me after dessert when u have time *birthday cake emoji*
I cough.
Bad idea. My stomach cramps like someone is wedging a knife into my gut. Fuck, what did I eat? I cringe as another text comes through.
Willow: not that big, only turning 22
I smile through the pain and text her: yeah and we’ll be the same age again. Big bold 22.
She texts back a bunch of hearts, and then the front door swings open. My duffel bag is already packed near the stairs, and honestly, I’m ready to go. I could be half-dead on the way to the airport, and I’d still find a way on the plane.
“He do okay?” Lo whispers as he drops keys in a bowl. Eyes pinpoint to his four-year-old.
Maximoff is out. Asleep with granola on his chest.
“He’s perfect. Like always,” I say. “Hey, I’m gonna head out.” I walk past him to grab my duffel.
He frowns. “You’re forgetting a shirt.” Before I can reply, he adds, “Christ, you look like shit. Garrison—”
“I’m fine,” I say, cutting him off and unzipping my bag. I dig through and find a T-shirt. “It’s just hot in here.” I pull it over my head and stand.
“No, it’s not.” Lo walks forward, about to reach for my forehead to take my temp. But he stops himself quickly. Quicker than I can flinch. “Please take your temperature. For me. Because I’m betting you’re at a hundred-and-one, at least, and it just hurts to look at you.” Awesome.
“I’m totally fine, man,” I say. “I think the turkey in my sandwich this afternoon might have been bad or something.” Pain starts jackhammering my stomach, and I suck in a tight breath. “It’ll pass.”
Lo grimaces. “You’d fly commercial with food poisoning just to see my sister? You’re about to spend eight-hours shitting on a cramped airplane shitter.”
I don’t fucking care. “I’m going.” I try to pass, but he steps in front of me. “Lo—”
“Take my jet.” He makes a surprised face at himself. “Christ, I sound like Connor.”
“Rich and pretentious.”
Lo lets out a laugh, a real one. No sarcasm. “Yeah.”
“Why’s that funny?” I ask.
“Because I’ve always been rich.” Lo can tell that I don’t fully get it, and he’s not wasting time catching me up to speed. He just says, “If you’re going to shit yourself, do it in the comforts of a private plane.”
I actually laugh now, and the act hurts, pain radiating to my lower back. Fuuuck. I suck it down. “Sounds like a plan. See ya.”
He walks ahead of me and grabs car keys out of the bowl.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice softer.
“Playing Jenga,” he says, sarcasm on his lips. “I’m driving you to the goddamn airport. Unless you think you can make it there on your own.”
Right now, I feel like I can barely make it to the door. I’ll take this handout. As long as it gets me closer to Willow, I’ll take whatever I can get.
We drop Maximoff off at Ryke and Daisy’s, and then Lo exits the neighborhood. Paparazzi immediately tail us. The sun has set, and darkness clings to the sky. A cameraman hangs out of a Hyundai’s window and starts snapping pictures at an excessive rate.
Click click click.
Flash flash flash.
The bright light is blinding in the dark. It’s dangerous as fuck. Lo barely blinks, too used to it all, and he keeps both hands tight on the wheel. He’d probably be cursing them out if his kids were in the car.
“Pretty sure there has to be a law against that,” I mutter under my breath. I really don’t know if there is, but I’m just glad when his bodyguard’s security vehicle rides up and blocks the paparazzi van. We ride side-by-side with the Escalade.
Our car bumps over a pothole, and I grimace and try my best not to vomit all over Loren’s leather seats.
Fuck.
I have a high pain tolerance, built up over the years, but this is different. A part of me just wants to crawl into the fetal position and cry. Maybe then the pain will stop.
