Whatever It Takes (Bad Reputation Duet #1)(67)

I still have a difficult time accepting the perks of being a Hale. Garrison says it’s because I only learned that Jonathan Hale is my birth father two years ago—when I was eighteen.

It means that Lo is my full sibling. Same mom and same dad. And Ryke is my half-brother.

But my relationship with Jonathan Hale is new. Fresh. And it comes with a load of baggage.

Ryke hates Jonathan.

Lo loves Jonathan.

I’m caught in the middle. Not knowing how I should feel about a man who was rumored to have molested Loren. A rumor that was false and caused Lo to relapse years ago. What I do know: Jonathan isn’t all good, even if that rumor was wrong.

But Jonathan is kind to me. He makes an effort to get to know me and my interests. We talk on the phone sometimes about comics, and he asks how my school is going. Rob Moore, the man I grew up thinking was my birth father, never even pretended to care about me. And he was right all along—I was never his daughter.

Not really.

So maybe he had a right to hate my existence.

It’d be so easy just to put all my hate into Rob, while putting all my love and trust into Jonathan. But Ryke says our dad is manipulative.

He says to not trust him.

To not fully love him.

I don’t know what to think.

I’m paying for my first semester of college on my own, but I’m also taking some of Jonathan’s money for the rest of the tuition. That’s all I want to take.

So I don’t fly private. I budget. I’m not going to pretend that I’m wealthy because it’s not my money, and I don’t want to be so far indebted to him that I can’t find my way out.

“Thank you for flying with us,” a flight attendant tells me as I exit the plane. I shake off all thoughts of my dad, each step towards baggage claim reminding me of the man on the other side.

Garrison.

Do I even remember what he smells like? I wonder if he changed shampoos while I’ve been gone. If he will look more tired and gaunt in person, or if that was just the trick of the cellphone screen.

Maybe the circles under his eyes aren’t as dark. Maybe he’s better…I hope so.

I follow the signs and descend two different escalators. My palms sweat and my heartbeat thumps wildly with each passing second. But then the baggage carousels come into view.

Whipping my head around, I try to find him in the crowds.

And then I freeze.

People move around me, passing to the nearest carousel, but my eyes are on him.

Garrison stands near carousel four, his gaze already pinned to me, a bundle of pink orchids in his hand. But he’s just as frozen and rooted to place. Unmoving.

We just stare at one another like we’re processing the fact that we’re here.

In the same room.

Almost in breathing distance.

“Hi,” I say, but he’s too far away to hear me. But he sees me.

He sees.

Hi, he mouths back. I read his lips.

Tears prick my eyes, and I walk.

I jog.

I run.

My backpack almost slips off my shoulder, but I catch it at my elbow. He meets me halfway. We practically collide into one another, but it’s like reuniting a missing puzzle piece. Arms fitting around bodies. Heads leaning to the correct side on instinct. His chest against my body, warmth blazes through me—a hug so powerful that I tremble from his touch.

Our lips meet like they can’t stand to be away for a second longer. And I forget where I am. In public. In an airport. The only thing that matters is him.

My fingers slide up the back of his neck, threading his soft hair. His hand cups my cheek strongly, protectively. My head is lighter than air. Urges pulse through me, hungry for so much more. Touch. Talking. I want everything all at once.

I break from his lips first, lightheaded.

“Garrison,” I say in slight disbelief.

He’s here. I’m here. We’re together.

He hugs me again, tighter this time. My forehead presses into his chest. His shirt smells like fresh laundry detergent and orchids. Different but the same.

Our chests are flush together. His heartbeat thumps and thumps, the embrace like a comforting return home.

But he feels thinner than I remember, yet still bigger than me.

“Willow,” Garrison says quietly and tenderly as if we’re the only people in the airport. We break apart a little, his eyes flitting around me like he doesn’t want to stop staring. “You still look twenty.” He tilts his head, longer pieces of his hair falling over his brows. He pushes it back. “I could have sworn that fifty years passed since you left.”

I laugh and brush tears from my eyes. “You don’t look twenty anymore,” I say.

He’s twenty-one now, and I wasn’t here for his November birthday. Guilt tries to crash against me.

He shrugs. “How does twenty-one look on me? Gray hair. Wrinkles. I’m practically Gandalf, right?” I missed hearing his dry wit out loud. In person.

My cheeks hurt from smiling. “Gandalf is two-thousand years old. Maybe dock some years on that one.”

He smiles. “Okay, yeah. Dumbledore, then.”

“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.