“What if I take years to even come up with an idea?” I ask. I can’t believe he’d ignore his bottom line just for me. He’s a business guy. They tend to give a shit about money, and I’m currently on an eighty-thousand dollar salary with benefits.

“Then you take years,” Connor says like it doesn’t bother him. “But I don’t think you will. And I’m always right.”

He’s always right.

A part of me wants to prove him wrong. And I don’t know what that says about me.

Later tonight in my studio apartment, I toss a frozen pizza in the oven, sink onto my couch and scroll through Willow’s videos she sent me. Re-watching them for the third time.

She’s lounging on her bed in a baggie Superheroes & Scones T-shirt that has to be at least three years old—I recognize the design from a line of shirts when we first started working at S&S.

X-Men posters are taped to the walls above her head. She rubs at her eyes, her glasses already off for the night. Watching her makes me miss her more, but maybe I’m some sort of masochist because I can’t stop. And I just want more.

“So my classes aren’t that bad so far,” she tells me. “Except for Intro to Marketing. Ugh…” She buries her face in a pillow. “They’re making us do a group project.” Her words are muffled, and she pops back up after a second. “I thought I had abandoned those at Dalton Academy. But no, they’re in college too, and they are the literal worst.”

“Agreed,” I say to the video.

She brushes hair off her cheeks and her hazel eyes drift to the screen. She holds back tears. “Garrison.” She says my name like she’s mourning it. “Could you…could you call me when you get off work? Even if it’s super early my time. It’s nothing important. I just want to hear your voice.”

My chest hurts like someone dropped a fifty-pound dumbbell on it.

I didn’t call her. It was midnight by the time I left the office, and that’s 5 a.m. her time. She’s got a “hellishly” difficult morning class, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t fuck with her studies. College isn’t easy, and I’d hate myself if I distracted her.

My plan: call her during her break between classes tomorrow afternoon.

The oven beeps, my pizza done, and just as I rise off the couch, my phone lights up. Vibrates loudly. Her name is big across the screen. WILLOW.

I catch myself smiling. Selfishly, the first thing I feel is happiness. Like a tidal wave, it surges through me.

My lips downturn fast. And then worry follows close behind. I stand and click speakerphone. “Hey, Willow, isn’t it early there?”

“It’s six,” she says into a yawn. “Did you watch my video?”

I could lie. But that’s not something I ever want to do with her. “Yeah,” I admit. “I was planning on calling during lunch, so you could sleep in.”