Whatever It Takes (Bad Reputation Duet)

1 PRESENT DAY - AUGUST

LONDON, ENGLAND

WILLOW HALE

Age 20

Yesterday I was a virgin.

Today, I’m not.

And I know I’m not “supposed” to put this great big importance on my first time and virginity and all of that, but I didn’t lose it until I was twenty. Having anyone touch me is a big deal. Having someone inside of me…is monumental. Like Thor crashing down during the climax of Avengers: Infinity War.

It was that big of a deal. To me. To him.

And now the guy who took my virginity is thousands of miles away in Philadelphia.

“Over here is the campus bookstore, which I checked does not carry comic books so it’s already a complete fail,” I say to my cell, video recording.

My head pounds from jetlag. It feels like I just stepped off the plane, and I’ve only thrown my bags in my dorm. I wanted to check out the campus before it got dark. As the sun begins to set, students meander into dining halls for dinner.

I focus my cell’s camera on the campus bookstore sign.

Documenting my college experience at Wakefield University is my first order of business, while Garrison keeps me updated on his life back in Philly.

Long distance is not ideal. It’s not my first choice. Or second. But until someone invents teleportation or I’m struck down by lightning and develop super-human speed like The Flash, we’re stuck to modern technology.

“And over here…” I rotate my cell to rows of booths. “Are all the potential clubs that I’m probably not going to join—”

“HEADS UP!”

I turn. No no no. A frisbee is flying straight towards my face.

Ducking quickly, the frisbee sails over my head and across the quad to another guy’s hands. My heart beats wildly, and my jaw slowly drops. Dumbfounded. Did I just outmaneuver a flying frisbee? Okay, my reflexes have definitely improved. I am certified-clumsy. Definitely not by choice. Maybe London is a good luck charm for me.

My lips lift into a bigger smile, and I turn to head back down the cobbled path—oh shit, my hip and elbow suddenly collide with a girl and her box, both coming out of nowhere.

She stumbles and manages not to faceplant from my elbow-knock. But the brown cardboard crashes to the ground, flaps opening, and I watch as condoms spill onto the cobblestone.

Shit.

“I’m so sorry.” I quickly squat and start scooping up the condoms.

“No worries. We’re both in one piece.” Her English accent is noticeable. It hits me again—I am not in America anymore. Add in the fact that this is my new home. That I’m living here for four years instead of the usual three for UK undergrads because my degree requires blood, sweat, tears, and an extra year apparently.

It’s all hardly sunk in.

I’m half expecting someone to pop out of the bushes with a big Gotcha sign.

I just…I hope moving here was the right decision.

The twenty-something girl in front of me blows a red curl off her lips and bends down to help with the condom spill. She’s white, curvy and wears a Wakefield T-shirt—the letters WFU in a circular dark green and gold emblem.

I toss a huge handful of condoms into her box while I perspire everywhere. I am hot. Baking under embarrassment, and I’m aware that this is the most condoms I’ve ever touched.

When they lower me into a grave, my funeral eulogy will definitely be: There was that young, innocent Willow Hale who ran head-first into a giant box of condoms and never revived.

I must be staring too hard at the condoms because the girl says, “You can take some. That’s what they’re there for.”

“Oh no, I’m a vir—” I stop myself. Because…

Willow, duh, you are a virgin no more.

The redhead narrows her eyes. “If you’re a virgin, you could still use these.” She’s tossing a couple foiled packets in my direction. “You’re in uni. It’s better to be safe.”

Except the only person I’d want to have sex with isn’t here. But I don’t have the energy or the time to explain my complicated relationship. Not that she’d even want to hear about it.

Box now full, we both stand, and I pocket three condoms in my faded jeans. She balances the box in one arm and holds out a free hand. “I’m Karla. The student warden…or I guess, what you’d know as an RA—over at Bishop Hall.”

Bishop Hall. That’s the name of my dorm building. I’m about to tell her that we live in the same place, thankful for such a serendipitous run-in, but Karla tilts her head and eyes my face more incredulously.

“You look familiar,” she muses.

I pale and push up my glasses that slide down the bridge of my nose. Moving thousands of miles away was strategic in multiple ways. I thought, maybe, I could return to the shadows. Just for a bit.

No paparazzi.

Less people recognizing me.

I’m on the periphery of fame, and I’m settled with drifting out of it.

“I get that a lot,” I say. “Um…I have to go.” I jab a thumb towards nowhere. Technically, it’s pointed to the middle of the quad. But without making any further eye contact, I actually just walk off in the opposite direction towards the bookstore.

It’s a level 10 awkward departure.

My armpits sweat, and pressure slowly builds on my chest. What happens if I run into her again? It’s likely, right? She lives in my hall. And now she thinks I’m probably such a loser with zero social skills, and really I have no choice but to actively avoid her.

Less than an hour into my first day in London and I already have added someone on my Person to Avoid Because of an Awkward First Impression list. It’s unfortunately a long list back in Philly.

I rehash my awkward departure on a loop like rewinding a car crash scene in a movie. What could I have done differently?

About a million things. A gazillion. Trillion.

My stomach sinks.

Shake it off, Willow. I find an empty bench behind the bookstore and sling my backpack on the wooden slates. After I take a seat, I turn to my phone, which has never stopped recording. Shit. I end the video and a notification from Garrison pops up. New message!

My breath quickens. Longing swells inside me, and then other unwanted sentiments start to infiltrate their way in. Regret. Guilt.

I wish he were here, but I have to settle with the 2D version of Garrison Abbey, which is better than nothing. The thought of him being completely gone from my life only brings a wave of panic and misery.

I click into his video message. A small pot of water is on screen, long noodles sticking halfway out, not fitting. “My noodles are defective, Willow.”

I smile and my eyes water a little.

“And I know what you’re going to say.” He turns the camera to face himself. “Break the noodles. But there has to be some Chef Boyardee rule against that.” He sighs deeply. His aquamarine eyes carrying a heaviness to them like he hasn’t slept much. “So basically, I’m a mess without you.”

“You’re not a mess,” I whisper to my phone. But he can’t hear me.

He runs a hand through his thick, disheveled hair. The tattoos at his collarbone peek out of his plain black T-shirt. Small stars, shaped into a constellation. He has more tattoos, scattered around his body, while I have none. On paper, maybe it looks like we shouldn’t be together.

He grew up in a mansion three times the size of my childhood home in Maine.

He was kicked out of two prep schools.

He was almost arrested for vandalizing, for drugs and for underage drinking, and if it weren’t for the top shot lawyer his rich parents hired, he might have faced serious consequences at some time in his life.

Garrison Abbey is the kind of guy that wears a D.A.R.E. shirt ironically and hacks assholes’ computers for fun. People flock to him because he’s cool in this mysterious way. Like Jess from Gilmore Girls.

In Maine, most of the student body didn’t even know my name. If it weren’t for my connections to the Calloway sisters, I’d be considered painfully normal.

I still can’t believe we ended up here. Together.

Okay, not together in the physical sense since he is thousands of miles away. But together as in we’re boyfriend-girlfriend. It took a lot of cosmic happenings for that to come to fruition.

The video of Garrison attempting to cook spaghetti ends abruptly after he switches the stove off, giving up on it. I glance over my shoulder towards Bishop Hall. I don’t think I can venture back to my dorm. I might run into Karla again, and I’m not sure I can take another awkward interaction.

As a last-minute distraction, I click into Tumblr on my cell.

My stomach lurches when I see a new post.

Oh no…

Garrison filled out a questionnaire that I didn’t tag him in, and that rarely happens. He doesn’t love questionnaires, but he does them because he knows I’m kind of obsessed. So it’s odd that he did this, right? I don’t know what it means.

I hold my breath like I can stop an impending impact and slowly read the post.

Name: Garrison

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Average Hours of Sleep: idk used to be about 7-8? It’s less, so whatever.

Last Google Search: what time is it in London?

Relationship Status: </3

I…can’t…breathe.

He put a broken heart as his relationship status. Broken. As in, I broke his heart? Or is it just fractured while I’m in London and he’s in Philly?

My glasses suddenly fog and the emotion I’ve been burying suddenly rises tenfold. Guilt.

He took my virginity yesterday.

And I’m the one who left. Boarded a flight at 5 a.m. his time. Flew to a different continent and landed this evening. Put an ocean between us. Literally.

A sudden realization overcomes me…oh no. It was goodbye sex.

I had goodbye sex my first time.

Removing my glasses, I wipe them on my cotton shirt. My belly twists uncomfortably. New eulogy: Here lies Willow Hale, the girl who fucked for the first time and then left.

Maybe it wasn’t even fucking. It was more like…love making. Sweet. Kind. And loving. It was perfect—except for the leaving part.

And I know Garrison doesn’t blame me for leaving. Not like I blame myself. He held me after we slept together and told me that he still wanted me to go. Wanted me to pursue my dreams and take the hard path—the challenge.

Since I have such a big safety net in Philadelphia, I don’t know if I can really thrive there until I learn to thrive on my own first. London is the challenge.

But it’s also likely I will fail spectacularly, like a mega belly flop into a crowded pool.

I look back at the broken heart on Tumblr.

His words ring in my head. The ones he said to me before I boarded the plane. “We’re going to make this work. I’m going to text and Skype.” He cupped my cheeks and both of us were crying. “We’re going to make this work, Willow. Because you’re my girl, and that’s not going to change.”

We’re going to make this work.

Broken hearts and all.

I try to believe it. Placing my tortoise-shell glasses back on, I keep reading his post.

Siblings: three older brothers. Be happy they’re not yours.

Love or Lust: lust doesn’t hurt.

He sounds sad, but not his usual sad. I reach for my phone to send him a silly gif from his favorite TV show—Supernatural. Just as my fingers slide over the screen, I notice the last question and answer.

Met a Celebrity: I think I might be becoming one…

It chills me for a second. How much my life has changed his.

Three years ago, I was no one. I was living in a sleepy town of Caribou, Maine, and my parents were getting divorced. My little sister Ellie was my only sibling, and I only had one friend.

Then I woke up one morning, and little did I know, but everything just…changed.

I found out that Ellie wasn’t my only sibling.

I had a brother miles and miles away.

A famous brother.

Loren Hale has the kind of fame where he shows up on magazines and tabloids every week. The kind of fame where I had idolized him long before I even knew we were related. Imagine if someone like Chris Evans—Captain America himself—had a long-lost little sister. That sister being me. It was that impactful and unbelievable and really…

Three years later, it’s still surreal.

Loren Hale changed everything.

For me and Garrison.