Page 23 of Wherever You Are

I try to make this exchange as easy as possible. “Me? Nah. My dad says I need a haircut, and my eyes can’t decide what color they want to be.”

Her shoulders relax, and she peers close at my eyes. “I always just thought they were blue-green, which is aquamarine?”

“Maybe. I’ve never looked it up, which kinda shows the lack of interest I have in myself.” I nod at her plate. “You really done?” I pick up my own plate. The food spread is intense. The tower of orange-frosted cupcakes alone could feed my entire lacrosse team.

“I don’t have a big appetite when I’m nervous.” She shrugs but stares off at the growing party, more and more teenagers, kids and parents arriving. Apples drift along the pool, water glowing orange from the lights. Torches illuminate the backyard as the sun descends.

I don’t ask what she’s nervous about when I’m positive it’s justthis. The party in general. The people. Themingling.I don’t like it much either, but it doesn’t bring me anxiety like her. I remember how her Tumblr questionnaire said she doesn’t like large crowds.

She meant it.

I load my plate with the only thing that looks good to me. Cookies. Sugar, oatmeal—not a big fan of chocolate fudge—but I find the peanut butter ones, my favorite, and stack them high.

“I’m not really sure where to go,” Willow mumbles, kind of to herself.

I stick a cookie in my mouth and point at an unoccupied haybale near the fence. “This way.”

She walks beside me, passing the apple bobbing thing and a couple other games, and when we make it to the haybale she lets out a deep breath likeI made it.

I’m not going to lie.

I want to hug her right now.

Instead though, I just sit next to Willow and chew my peanut butter cookie. I set a couple sugar cookies on her plate. “In case you’re not as nervous later.”

“Thanks.” She starts to smile.

My lips rise too. I set a foot on the haybale and my arm on my knee. “If you could be doing anything in the world, what’d you be doing?” I ask her.

“Like a career?”

“No, just on any day, any time.”

She nudges her popcorn around her plate. “I’d hang out in my room. Maybe watch a movie, read some comics, and surf the internet, nothing crazy. I know it sounds boring, but it’s fun to me.”

“It doesn’t sound boring. Just laidback.” I wonder how many people gave her shit for it—because my brothers give me shit for playing “girly” games likeMario Party.Which, honestly, is as much for girls as it is for boys. It’s Nintendo.

“So I finished the fifth season ofSupernaturallast night…” she trails off as a blonde woman approaches us, a five-year-old clinging to her side. She’s not really “in costume” like her Buzz Lightyear son. She just wears dangling ghost earrings and a tacky sweater.

“Shit,” I mutter, too late to angle my body out of sight. I can’t even force a fake smile.

Mrs. Nash greets me first. “Hi, Garrison.”

Her daughter was my friend and part of the “you should’ve been the bigger man and stoodup to your friends and forced them to stop harassing people”group. I agree, I should’ve done that. I should’ve done a lot of things that I never did, and I can’t take it back.

I can’t rewind time, and guess who has to live withallof this for the rest of their life?

Me.

It’s my shit to bear.

And no matter which way people paint me, I’m still the lesser man. For ratting out my friends. Or for not convincing them to do the right thing.

“Hey,” I say back, dropping my hood. I hang my head though, and my hair brushes my eyelashes.

“It was really nice of Loren to let you at his house.”

“Yep,” I agree. I would’ve never forgiven myself for what I’d done like he forgave me, but I’m not going to tellherthat.