“One-hundred-and-fifty years old,” I say.

“Look at that.” He grins. “I’m already a hundred. I’m in my prime.”

“You’re too pretty to be anyone other than you,” I murmur.

But the dark circles weren’t a trick of the screen. And his hoodie looks baggier on his body. Has he even been eating? Worry infiltrates, but neither of us stops touching.

My hands are still hooked around his neck. His still on my waist. Like if we completely break apart, some magical force may rip us away again.

Garrison takes a deep breath. “You’re prettier than me,” he says. “But also…” His eyes sweep my body. “Have you been eating Willow?”

I almost laugh, we’re both worried about each other. I think it’s been that way since I left. “I could say the same about you.”

“I asked you first.”

“I’ve just been busy and stressed with school.” And being away. But I don’t add that part.

He opens his mouth to reply but a man with a professional-quality Canon camera skirts over to us. “Willow!” he yells. “Where are your brothers?!”

Garrison slides his hand into mine, and he exchanges a look with me like yeah, nothing has changed. “Welcome back to Philly.” Sarcasm drips from his voice.

Can’t say I missed this part.

Garrison reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a balled up baseball cap. He passes it to me along with the bundle of orchids. I gratefully put the cap on and shield my eyes.

“Willow!” Paparazzi approaches as we start walking towards carousel six. “Look here!”

There’s only one person I want to look at.

One person I can’t take my eyes off of.

Garrison glances back at me, and then he squeezes my hand. I feel it. Palm against palm. That simple pressure lights up my world. It’s strange—how something so simple can mean so much.

His hand in mine.

I will never take that for granted again.

22 PRESENT DAY – December

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

GARRISON ABBEY

Age 21

After a long car ride, Willow and I are dropped off at my apartment. Alone again. Tomorrow we’ll be back surrounded by her family.

We’re spending the holidays at their lake house in the mountains, which will be filled with a lot of screaming babies and crazy antics. But I’m honest-to-God looking forward to it. Because Willow is here.

I’m not going to be the seventh-fucking-wheel in the core six anymore, and I won’t have to video-record anything. We can whisper to each other. We can laugh together.

Willow wheels her suitcase into my apartment as I flick on the lights. She never saw it in person. I moved in after she left, so she’s soaking up the surroundings.

“It’s strange,” she says. “I feel like I’ve been here before, even though…I haven’t. Obviously.”

I get it. I’ve never been to her dorm in London. But I can picture every piece of furniture there. Mostly because I watched the videos she sent me about a million times.