“Going back to them?” Leaving me.

Would it be that easy for him? My heart sinks more, a pit in my stomach. This is why I never asked.

I can feel him watching me, and I turn towards my mirror, about to take off my glasses. His voice stops me. “It’s different now. I’m different.”

I can’t imagine the person who he’s described to me. The one who’d drink alcohol at playgrounds and destroy public property, just because he could. Who’d graffiti houses and knock over mailboxes with baseball bats.

He’s said that he’s always liked Sega, Pokémon, the Sims—and part of me believes that he was always this person on this desk chair, right in front of me. He just felt too much pressure to be a different guy in front of other people. He was too scared to be himself. With his friends gone, he has nothing to lose by being the real Garrison Abbey.

So he’s let him free.

All I ask is, “What kind of name is Frankie?”

He almost smiles, glad that I’m not mad at him. “Nickname for Francesca.”

“Of course, she has a cool nickname,” I mumble. I don’t know if he hears or not because I ask speedily, “What about your tattoo?”

He pulls off his hoodie, splaying it on the chair. Now just in a black tee. He stretches out his arm, about to show me the tattoo on his forearm, but I’ve seen that one before. It’s a skull with lyrics to an Interpol song. I had to Google it.

“The one on your shoulder blade, I mean.”

He goes a little rigid and then his arms fall to his sides. “That one is kind of an intense tattoo.” He pauses. “My mom hasn’t even seen it.”

“Not even when you go swimming?”

“Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I went swimming in my pool.”

More silence spreads in a long moment. Neither of us moves or speaks.

We look at each other. We wonder. His brown eyelashes flit up, each time he peeks at me. Strands of his hair fall over his forehead, and he rests his forearms on his thighs, thinking.

I wait, just as calmly. Inspecting my mascara brush. Glancing at him.

He’s never pushed me, and I won’t push him to do anything or reveal more.

He licks his pink lips and then nods to himself once or twice. “How about”—he retrieves his phone from his pocket and then flips the cell in his hand a couple of times—“we make a trade. I don’t know your Twitter username yet. You give me yours, I’ll show you my tattoo.”

As he processes his own declaration, his eyes flit to the wall, the ground and the window, more than a few times—almost nervously. His joints even stiffen more than usual.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

He raises his gaze and nods. “Yeah.” He adds, “I want to see what Willow Hale tweets about.”

Willow Hale.

He still has no idea that I’m not Lo’s cousin. I’m his half-sister. Willow Moore. And I have no idea when I’ll be able to trust Garrison enough to tell him the truth. It’s not just my secret to keep. It involves everyone.