Page 166 of Wherever You Are

The thought keeps disturbingthemoment: 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.

Our marriage reminds me of our wedding, and how we invited my mom and my little sister to the ceremony. Before that, they ended up changing their phone numbers and never gave me their new ones, so it’s been harder to stay in contact.

But when they didn’t RSVP at all, I knew they’d eradicated me from their lives with more permanence. I don’t blame them. My dad was invited to the wedding, and I’m sure my mom didn’t want to be anywhere near him.

In the end, Garrison and I both lost our families. He left his, and mine eventually left me. I grieve the loss at times. Like an ocean rising above me, it swells up in random moments. When I see a princess crown in the kid’s aisle of a store, reminding me of Ellie.

But I have a lot of love to pull me to the surface. Garrison and I gained another family. Not just with the Calloway sisters, but with each other.

I’ve never felt more loved than by him and with him. He’s my comfort and home.

My lungs are light, and I return to the island with my phone in clean hands.

Garrison clutches my hips and lifts me onto the counter.

I nearly drop the phone, breath caught in my throat, but he steadies my wrist. His other hand travels up my thigh. My legs are split around his waist, so he fits as close as possible against me.

We consume one another by sight alone. Not needing to say much to feel a lot. I click into a song, and as soon as the first few notes play, Garrison smiles more.

Interpol’s “Rest My Chemistry”

A few of these lyrics are tattooed on the crease of his forearm and bicep, along with a black skull.

I glance at the Magic 8-Ball beside me on the kitchen surface, then up at him.

“I have another question about our future.” I push up my slipping glasses.

He grabs the 8-Ball. “Ask it.” We’re almost eye-level, his lips skim mine with a light, longing touch.

I hang onto his waist. “Will we always be this happy?”

Our eyes well up. We’re finally together in the same city, same house, same room, same bed.

Sharing everything.

A life.

Love.

Garrison stops shaking the 8-Ball and sets the plastic sphere on the counter. “We don’t need that to know the answer.”

I smile with him. “Without a doubt,” I say our answer, my chest elevating with a big breath that we both take.