Page 118 of Whatever It Takes

“It’s nothing,” he repeats, but he pauses and adds, “They play rough, but it’s just brother stuff. Football. Wrestling. They don’t mean it.”

“What if your ribs are broken?”

“They aren’t.” I don’t ask if he went to a doctor, and I can tell he wants to drop the subject. Especially as he turns his back to me. To show me the tattoo on his right shoulder blade.

It’s another gothic skull, only its jaw is wide open, screaming. It’s also inside the mouth of a wolf’s head, which looks violent, saliva dripping off its teeth as it roars too.

You can’t hear ink, and something about a silent scream guts me.

Everything about the tattoo is haunting. Everything about Garrison Abbey feels just the same. Like a boy you’d find lying on a tombstone, smoking a cigarette, a bundle of flowers on his chest. It makes no sense, but something deeper, something hidden, wants to crawl out. So I keep staring. I keep looking.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to find. I’m not sure if I’ll ever trulyseewhat he’s expressing, but I don’t leave. Maybe later, I’ll know. The pieces will add up and I’ll see what he wants me to see.

Some things can’t be forced out of people. I wouldn’t want him to force things out of me.

Without even spinning back around, he picks up his shirt and tugs it on. He doesn’t want me to see the welt again. When he plops down on the chair, he shrugs on his hoodie, and then our eyes meet.

“Have you ever been hugged by a guy?” he asks me, so suddenly.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Will you stand up for a second?” He adds, “If you want to.”

I slowly rise, dressed in pants and a white blouse for my Vega costume. Then he stands from the chair, pushing it back into the dresser, away from us. He takes a step closer to me, until his chest is an inch from mine.

He mostly smells like citrus, spearmint and his pine car freshener. I once asked why he keeps his Mustang so clean. He never smokes inside, and the interior is always spotless, like a brand new car.

I don’t like the smell of smoke lingering around all the time, he told me.And I can’t think straight if my car is dirty.

Garrison, more than just a few inches taller than me, stares down at my features. I look up, my pulse quickening.

And he asks, “Can I hug you, Willow?”

I breathe deeply, pushing up my glasses. “I’m not that good at hugging.”

“You don’t have to be good at hugging. I’d still want to hug you.”

“Why?” I whisper.

His aquamarine eyes skim my cheek, my neck, descending. “…because I think you may be the best friend I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot and spent a shit ton more days and months and years with them than the short time I’ve spent with you.” His hand wavers by my hip, but he doesn’t touch me. “I’ve never wanted to bolt out of your door. I’ve never wanted to leave you. This—it’s a first for me.” He nods to himself a couple times. “So you’re the best—and I want to hug you, if you’ll let me.”

My lips part, speechless. Inside, I’m blown over.

Outside, I’m frozen in place.

When my brain functions again, I rewind and all I can wonder is whether thisfeelingof not wanting to leave my room—of not wanting to leave me—surprised him after he revealed his tattoo. After he was vulnerable in front of me.

Yes,my brain says.Most likely.

Can I drop my guard just the same? Can I express more emotion than I usually do? I don’t think he’s testing me, but maybe I need to test myself.

He watches me, waiting for a vocal response.

I open my mouth to sayyou can hug mebut my tongue is dry and my throat closes.

His brows scrunch. “You nervous?”

I nod. “This would be a first…for me.”He knows that, Willow.I cringe a little but try to wipe it away with a weak smile. “I’m not touchy-feely or anything like that.”