And I don’t know why he keeps saying that—your cousin. He knows who Loren is. Maybe he doesn’t like bringing up his name, not after the break-in.

“I didn’t want to impose on him,” I explain. “He has a baby.”

“Yeah, I saw Maximoff’s first baby picture along with the rest of the world.” His voice is dry, not at all impressed with their celebrity status.

“You don’t like Princesses of Philly, I take it.” The reality show didn’t make them famous or last long for a huge impact, not beyond some cool gifs, but it’s easier mentioning PoPhilly than Lily’s sex addiction.

He fixes the air vents, keeping the really cold air off me. Am I shaking?

“I’ve watched it, but it’s not the show that bugs me.” Garrison stops at a red light. “Every time I leave my neighborhood, paparazzi start shouting at my car like I might have a Calloway sister in my backseat. And the questions they ask are fucked up.” He taps the steering wheel and then sets his aqua-blue eyes on me, a mixture of blue and light green—one of the most unique colors I’ve ever seen. “If you need a ride on Monday, let me know.” He must note the surprise on my face because he adds, “I wake up early.”

“It’s out of your way,” I remind him, though going to a new school with someone sounds a lot less anxiety-ridden than going alone.

But Garrison?

What if it’s some joke? What if this is like Never Been Kissed and it’ll end with him driving by and chucking eggs at me?

He says he’s not popular, but he has all the makings of a popular high schooler: toned biceps that indicate his athleticism (i.e. he plays a sport), a face that’d be the lead in any CW show—or at least the little brother to the star (i.e. like Jeremy from The Vampire Diaries), and messy brown hair that sometimes touches his eyelashes—hair that says I could be in a boy band, but I’m too cool for that shit.

Not to mention his tattoo.

And his confident yet dark scowl…

I suddenly draw this conclusion: I don’t know Garrison Abbey. Not enough to say whether or not he’d chuck eggs at me.

If I really believed he’d do that though, I would’ve never climbed in his car.

“I know it’s out of the way,” he says as the light turns green. “I also don’t care. I usually try to waste three hours in the morning anyway.”

Three hours? “You wake up at five a.m.?”

“Doesn’t everyone,” he says dryly, his fingers twitching a little. The car smells like citrus, not cigarettes, and there aren’t any bottles of alcohol or beer anywhere, but I’ve seen him smoke and drink before. He switches topics. “Are you a junior?”

“No.”

He frowns. “Sophomore?”

“Senior,” I reply.

“You look younger.”

“It’s the braid,” I mutter, shifting in my seat a little.

He glances at me once before focusing on the road. “The braid is cute.”