Zombie Lady
A while ago, @siobhanbooks had this very contagious plot bunny that is definitely consuming the both of us since I joined her. Without spoiling too much... Modern AU, they are in a band, everyone has different issues and dysfunctional families, Xaden is a hot mess, but not in this chapter because... it's not about Xaden. You'll find out all about his messy chaotic life and how it spreads to the others in the main fic (when we get to write it, lol). Until then... this is the Anthology, the place where we give you a glimpse backstage. And to celebrate Day one of Couple Week for @empyreanevents, we have Imrrick's Love Language! Ao3 link
Without further ado... enjoy!
“I hate surprises," I huff out as Garrick opens the door to his ancient truck for me to jump in like the absolute gentleman that he's certainly not, despite his mother's best attempts.
"You always say that, but I don't remember you ever complaining after finding out, Mims." He grins at me widely, his dimples showing, as he leans in to tie my safety belt for me.
"I could have done that myself," I say, counting on the darkness of the underground parking lot to hide the blush painting my cheeks at the gentle gesture. And what really catches me off guard is how easily he does it, like it's the most natural thing to do — it's not rehearsed or planned with ulterior motives in mind, he just does it, as simple as that.
Garrick tilts his head to the side, that infuriating smirk of his widening even more, lightning up his stupidly handsome face. "Just making sure you can't run away," He teases, throwing me a wink as he shuts the door, before I can come up with a retort.
By the time he rounds the hood and hops into the driver's seat, I have collected myself enough to pin him down with my best glare, but the asshole only laughs, immune to it after being treated to it every day for decades, I guess. "Come on, Mimsy, don't you trust me?" He puts the car in drive and pulls out of the parking lot.
"The jury is still out on that one." Absolute bullshit, he's one of the few people I trust completely. A direct outcome of knowing each other since we were in diapers basically, but I'll be damned if I admit any of that to him.
I lean back in my seat, forcing myself to slightly let my guard down — a part of me still expects him to stop the car at any given moment and say this has all been an elaborate prank. It was already way more than I ever expected when we were casually flirting and hooking up (the latter anything but casual from the get go on my part, if I'm being honest), but an actual date? That's the territory of real romance, crossing into the realm of something way more serious.
Not taking his eyes off the road, Garrick places one hand over his heart and feigns being hurt with no shortage on the dramatics. He's borrowing so much from the trick inventory befitting a drama kid that it seems a real tragedy he turned down Bodhi's request to sign up for the drama club with him in high-school — I turned down that offer myself, but my refusal didn't deprive the world of a Broadway star. "You wound me, Cardulo! I'm very trustworthy!"
I roll my eyes, fighting a smile off my face, "Says who? Name one aspect of your life where you are actually responsible!"
"Aside from having a bachelor's degree in geography —"
"You turned in each and every one of your assignment mere minutes before the deadline, failed at least three of your courses every semester and it took all of us not talking to you and pulling all sorts of blackmails to get you to write your final paper." It was actually pretty funny — Garrick was so easily distracted that he should have been awarded a PhD in procrastination, so, in order to make sure he got his degree we all ignored him during the last month before the deadline and pretending he was invisible until he showed up with at least five pages each day. Xaden went so far as to threaten to kick him out of the band.
He continues, unbothered by my intervention, "— and an amazing drummer for one of the greatest rock bands in the world…"
"You show up late at every rehearsal and avoid writing sessions like the plague."
"That's not true." He shakes his head, and I'm momentarily distracted by the way his soft curls bounce around his temples and brush against the back of the collar of his leather jacket. "I avoid bureaucracy and business meetings with the lawyers like the plague." He stresses the world bureaucracy and pulls a disgusted face when he says it, as if the mere word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "I don't show up for writing sessions because I'm not a songwriter, that's you and Bodhs. I can't help until you have something for me to put a rhythm and melodic line to. See? There's a difference."
That's a fair point, but again, not gonna admit it to his face.
We have a tradition when we start work-shopping new albums, one that started when we were still living in the band house with Sloane and Liam and continued after we hit it off — all four of us lock ourselves together in a room and don't get out of there until we have an initial draft to show the label.
Out of all of us, Garrick is the one who rarely contributes to the writing process when working on a new album. He sits with us during the brainstorming process and gives us his opinion when asked, but mostly during the idea and vibe phase, when we have to figure out the general theme of the album and the story we want to spin with each song. The wording phase is when he's usually absent — when we get to that step he's usually the one to volunteer to get us all food or something.
However, I have to give credit where credit is due. Garrick truly shines when we get to the part where we have to find a rhythm — he's a genius when it comes to that, way better than any of us. I guess that's fair, given that he's also the one with the most knowledge in the instrumental side — he only plays drums and knows the basics around a guitar and a piano due to the requirements of our upbringing, but Garrick can tell apart most of the instruments, how they'd sound in different keys, and frankly bosses us around on the technical side of things.
"As if anyone likes the legal crap," I scoff.
"Only freaks and Xaden actually enjoy that crap," Garrick agrees with an easy laugh. "And the two categories overlap like one of those circle thingies…"
"A Venn diagram?" I offer, amused by the deep thinking face he pulls. "Careful, don't want you to pull a muscle by thinking too much, big guy."
He stops at a red light and turns around to roll his eyes at me, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in a barely contained smile. "Yes, that. Don't be a smartass." I can pinpoint exactly the second a new thought crosses his mind — his brows knit together, forming an annoyingly cute line between his eyebrows that my fingers itch to reach out and smooth out. "Speaking of legal stuff… what did you think of Dain's idea on upgrading the band house?"
I shrug. "Don't know, it would kind of make sense? I mean, it would be way easier when we have to work on songs if we had such a place."
Today, after our meeting with the label to sort out the requirements for the new album, we had lunch with our "team" (meaning the Mairis and Quinn) to discuss the details from the meetings. When Sloane jokingly asked us whose house we're going to lock ourselves in for the next month or so now that Xaden's dad rented out our former band house — mine or Bodhi's were the only real options because Xaden is going through a rough patch with Cat and we've seen dumpsters cleaner than Garrick's flat; seeing as Liam now lives with Bodhi and we have the strict rule of only band members allowed, mine is the safer bet — Dain asked us if it's not easier to just get a place together. One thing led to another and an idea started to take shape, with Quinn taking a notepad to scribble down all the crazy requirements each of us came up with (one more outrageous than the other) and Liam going as far as looking online for buildings.
"Der and Bri are going to die of laughter if they hear we're all moving in together again after the absolute shit show we made when we moved out of Fen's," Garrick laughs.
"We wouldn't technically live together." I roll my eyes. "We'd each have our own apartments."
One of the places that seems to check all our boxes is this five story block of penthouses and the boys started throwing around ideas about how we can renovate the place so that each of us would have their own floor. It got pretty out of hand as we each came up with exaggerated demands and Quinn pointed out that our rich trust-fund babies sides came out to play — which, after Xaden proposed a private gym and a home cinema… fair.
It's Garrick's turn now to shrug, his sight fixed on the road in front of us as he easily swerves to avoid the busiest streets, away from the center of the city, which makes me wonder for the hundredth time where the fuck he's taking me. There are kidnappers who give better clues about their intentions! "There'd be a common floor too."
"We'll see. Let's not get our hopes up, Dain still has to run the numbers to see if it's feasible," I point out, leaning towards the radio to find something decent to listen to.
"Why wouldn't it be? We surely make enough to afford some very practical necessities!" Garrick playfully slaps my hand away from the radio and I glare up at him, ready to bite his head off. "Open the glove compartment and take out the CD album," he instructs, waving his hand vaguely in that direction.
"Who the fuck still has CD albums?" I roll my eyes, but do as I'm told. Anyone else bossing me around would have ended up with at least a minor injury, but let's just say I had a change of heart when I learned just how sexy Garrick's bossy side can be in… certain scenarios. "And how the fuck is having an inside and outside pool, a home cinema, a private gym and a basketball court practical?"
"Firstly, there is nothing wrong with CD albums! Have you heard the shit on the radio?! I'd rather have my own compilations than to listen to those nonsense atrocities, thank you very much!"
"You sound like my grandpa. They also put us on the radio, y'know?" I point out, just to annoy him. I don't really listen to the radio much myself — even when driving, I connect my Spotify to the speakers, an option Garrick's truck that has probably seen the Cold War never heard of.
Garrick ignores my comment, "And secondly, those are very necessary things! It's not like we can go out to do any of those things in public spaces. I don't know about you, but I like doing my reps without an army of fans asking me to pose for pictures and it's not fun to go to the movies and wake up the next day with fifty articles criticizing my popcorn choices."
I roll my eyes and groan in agreement. I started dreading whenever my sister calls me because of how often she warns me about the upcoming articles about me and the band to give us time to prepare before the news hit the papers — a blessing and a curse to have a journalist sister. I decide to concede on the practicality of our hypothetical future investment.
Flipping through the album, I frown reading the labels written in black sharpie on them in Garrick's barely legible handwriting — titles like 'Five hours of J. Bonham', 'Mix — Keith Moon + Neil Peart', 'Ringo the Starr' and "R. Taylor + D. Grohl".
"Garrick Hector Tavis, I'm not listening to drum solos!" I snarl, debating whether the risk of getting into an accident is worth throwing the album at his head.
He stops at a red light right then, giving me the perfect opportunity to practice my aim, but before I can do so, he snatches the organizer from my hand and flips to the first CD in the pile. "They're masterpieces, and, for your information, not all of those are drum solos. But anyway, I won't force you to listen to those today." He rolls his eyes and lets out another exaggerated dramatic sigh as if he's conceding and accepting my inability to appreciate real art. And again, he anticipates my scorching retort, tapping the CD as he adds, "I made this one for you."
I raise an eyebrow as i retrieve the ancient CD collection, watching his face closely for the carefully masked signs of nervousness that I doubt anyone who hasn't known Garrick for as long as I do would notice. Placed carefully in the protective plastic case, there is a plain white record, the kind we must have hundreds of left from the time we used to send our demos to different labels, not much different from the other sharpie marked CDs in the album aside from the fact that this one is clearly newer. There are just two words written in black sharpie on it in an unusually neat version of Garrick's otherwise messy handwriting — 'For Mimsy'.
"Did you make me a mix tape?" I ask incredulously, swallowing the knot that formed in my throat.
"Too old-school?" Garrick asks. "If you'd prefer, we can just listen to the radio too. I'm sure we can find something decent if—"
I shake my head, "Garrick? Shut up," I cut him off gently, my voice lowering as I make conscious efforts to keep it level. His face is turned back to the road so I can only see his profile — his jaw is clenched and my heart thrums in my chest at the sight of how concerned he actually is as I push the disc in the CD player. "I think it's actually romantic. Thank you." To my surprise, I manage to say that without my voice shaking too badly. It's more than just thoughtful, it's more effort and attention than anyone has ever shown me and I have this stinging feeling behind the eyes.
From the first song on the track list, it becomes obvious that Garrick tried to balance a mix of my favorite songs and artists (which he joins me into singing along to), with some silly Disney songs here and there (like Lost in the Woods from Frozen and You're Welcome from Moana, which he acts out as he drives, making me double over laughing), but also some songs that I haven't heard before. During those I remain silent, listening carefully to the lyrics as if there is a code hidden there for me to crack.
He goes into these deep commentaries in between songs, justifying his choices. When he notices after three or four such songs that I'm quiet, he gets this sheepish look on his face and scratches the back of his neck, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the road ahead of us. "They made me think of you," Garrick confesses during I'm yours by Jason Mraz, swerving off the highway onto a dirt road. I haven't even realized when we left the city behind. "I've never made a mix tape before, but I felt like they just fit in there."
I purse my lips and pretend that the view suddenly caught my attention as well, looking at anything but him because I can feel my cheeks on fire and I don't want him to think I'm as easily impressionable as a middle grade girl (even though I've been getting flustered around him since around that time). "They're lovely."
That doesn't even begin to cover the miriad of emotion tangled into a knot that settled stubbornly in my chest. I've always thought that it was an outdated cliche when I saw this trope in the movies — the boy who compiled a mix tape for the girl or came with a boombox under her window —, but being on the receiving end of that kind of attention… it evokes feelings that I have no idea how to properly describe. And if you add to it the shy look on his face — in over twenty years of knowing Garrick Tavis, I've never seen him acting shy or being embarrassed by anything! — and how anxious he looked when he showed me the CD… oh dear God…
It was infinitely easier when it was just about sex — when our lips and our bodies did the talking. I'm not saying my feelings for Garrick were not complicated then — fuck, they absolutely were! This is the guy I've had a crush on since I was thirteen and I've been dreaming about having him ever since hormones kicked in and boys weren't so gross anymore. Having even a fraction of his attention was better than anything I could have hoped for — even if the thought of being one of God knows how many others warming his bed was like stabbing myself in the chest. He was addicting, a drug that I knew wasn't good for me, but to which I kept coming back to, pretending for a few minutes, hours, that he was only mine.
Now, however … having his sole undivided attention… that mantra of 'do not cry, do not hope, do not get attached' that I drilled into my head is warring against everything else. Because right now he's giving me very high hopes, I'm way too attached to him — as if he carved a place for himself in the very fabric of my being — and I feel flustered and closed to tears whenever he looks at me with those deep hazel eyes, as if I'm the center of everything for him. Or is that just another scenario I made up in my mind?
"You put a lot of thought into this, didn't you?" I ask, watching him hum along to Check yes, Juliet by We The Kings. He doesn't sing on stage, saying it's too much of a headache to do that and also be the backbone of every song at his drums, but I've always liked Garrick's voice — it's not as versatile or as trained as Xaden's from a technical point of view and he doesn't reach for the high notes like Bodhi can; it's lower and deeper, strong and packing a lot of rumbling power. I could listen to it for hours.
Garrick gives me a boyish look, flickering his gaze between me and the dusty road now that there is no traffic to be mindful of. "Had a lot of time to think about this," He admits, relaxing his stance as he drives — he keeps the wheel steady with one hand, while the other trails down to settle on my thigh. The kind of thing that, coming to anyone else would be a turn off at best and a reason for spontaneous amputation most likely — but being Garrick, it's just as sexy as everything else he does. This man has the power to make even the cringiest and most overused cliches into something swoon-worthy.
"You asked me out two days ago." I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the heat spreading across my cheeks at the way he grips the skin left bare by my short jeans.
Garrick huffs a laugh, shaking his head, "Mims, I've been thinking of taking you out on a real date since way before your graduation."
My graduation marks the first time we slept together — we were both drunk after celebrating both being officially out of school and signing the contract with the label just a few days prior to that and… it just happened. We went out to his truck to get more booze because we were running out of it inside and… I can't pinpoint exactly what it was — being alone together near the truck at night, with the soft glow of the golden Christmas lights that we kept up all year because the boys were too lazy to get them down and having enough liquid courage to silence rational thought… What's for sure is that we ended up kissing against the hood of the car, and then one thing led to another. We woke up naked in my bed the next morning.
"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask quietly, lacing my fingers with his in my lap.
He lifts the shoulder of the arm he keep on the wheel in a half shrug. "Thought it was just a sure way to humiliate myself. You made it clear on that first morning that it was just a physical thing for you, so I thought it better to keep my trap shut and not spoil a good thing? But God, it was never just that for me. You ruined me forever, Cardulo."
I smile at that, squeezing his hand three times, which he does right back without hesitation. This time, I don't even try to keep my voice from shaking or to hide my blush — he's worn my resistance down slowly but surely, so that it feels ridiculous to keep clinging to the cool and unbothered image that's fake as hell and doesn't even fool anyone. "It was never just physical for me either, Tavis. Although that was a great bonus, not gonna lie."
He throws his head back laughing — that beautiful rich laugh of his that reverberates through his entire being, and I swear I can feel the phantom of those tremors in my own body. This guy has an insane effect on me. He turns to me with a huge teasing grin on his face as he asks, "So you're admitting I'm a sex god?"
I roll my eyes and pinch the skin on his wrist, just above where his tattoo ends. "Give the idiot a finger and he'll take your whole hand…" I sigh dramatically. "Way to spoil the moment, Tavis."
The road is bumpier and surprisingly secluded from civilization because all I see are fields, trees and rocks. We're driving upwards on what seems to be a rocky hill and I'm thankful that Garrick took his old truck for this drive because I doubt any of our fancy cars would survive the uphill climb unscathed. "For the millionth time, where the fuck are we going?"
"Just a little patience, Ims." Garrick gives me a dimpled big smile, wiggling his eyebrows at me.
"Fucking hell, Tavis! We're been driving for hours and we're now in the middle of fucking nowhere! There are serial killers less secretive than you are right now!" I'm aware of how whiny I sound as I complain, but this is truly getting ridiculous.
"You've listened to way too many documentaries about serial killers, Mimsy," Garrick laughs. "Rest assured, killing you is not on my list for tonight."
"Oh, I'm so relieved," I say, sarcasm lacing my every word, with no shortage of dramatic emphasis. "Please let me know ahead of time when you do decide to murder me in cold blood. I want to look good for the forensic team."
"You're delusional if you think I'd be careless enough to leave a trail," He says it so seriously that when he turns to look at me we both burst into laughter at the stupidity of this entire discussion.
"You're crazy." I playfully push him with my free hand, not letting go of his, not even for a moment.
"Says the lunatic next to me," He throws right back, giving me that blinding, knee-weakening smile of his again, that makes me wonder what the point of the surprise even is when I'd be very much content with just staring at him for hours. This long drive has already been better than any of my previous dates put together — and I had one guy who took me to Paris on spring break once. All those past dates seem soulless and colorless in comparison.
The car engine finally stops and I raise an eyebrow, looking out of the window and then back at Garrick, who's getting out of the car. "So? This is the big surprise?" I ask, my hand on the door handle, ready to follow him out.
"Wait here." At my exasperated groan he adds, "Just two more seconds. I swear this is worth it. When have I ever let you down, Mimsy?"
With one more eye-roll for good measure (especially at the old nickname that I can't stand coming from anyone else, but somehow Garrick manages to make it sound endearing), I sigh my agreement to wait. As he hurries somewhere behind the truck, tinkering with something in the covered truck bed, I slide down the sun visor to check my lipstick in the small mirror. I didn't go overboard with the makeup, opting for something basic that covers the small imperfections — the only thing I got out of Garrick's cryptic hints about this date was to dress into something comfy, so I prepared accordingly.
The moment I touch the sun visor, a piece of paper falls out of it, straight into my lap. Knowing Garrick's dysfunctional relationship with cleaning, I initially assume it's just an old receipt or something, but upon closer inspection, I realize it's an old photograph from our boarding school days. It's from the first day of school the year Bodhi and I joined Xaden and Garrick there — before Liam and Sloane came along. My mom was the one who took the photo and she still has it framed in the hallway at our home on the coast of Aretia, but I didn't know Garrick had a copy.
Xaden was far lankier than he is now and he was in the middle of his phase of using way too much hair gels and stealing his father's old cologne — a far cry from the rebel persona he cultivated later on. He had this boyish smile on his face, his arm thrown casually over Bodhi's shoulders — and God, I forgot how nerdy Bodhi looked with those wide framed glasses and the oversized Star Wars hoodies. However, I can't judge the cousins too much because I changed a lot myself from the fifteen years old girl standing next to Bodhi in this picture, with her long blonde pigtails tied low and left hanging over her shoulders.
At least one thing remains unchanged — the way I was furiously blushing pretending like nothing happened just because Garrick Tavis was standing behind me, his arms wrapped around my shoulders in a hug from behind. He has always been a handsome guy, even back then when he had that teenage awkwardness and the awful early 2010s Justin Bieber haircut (he'd spend hours in the mirror straightening his curs every day, which now seems like a capital crime), but damn the way he smiles…
"Fallen down memory lane, Ims?" Present day Garrick asks from next to me, making me jump in my seat. I didn't even hear him open my door.
"Something like that," I admit, reluctantly placing the picture back, making sure it's secure behind the small plastic holder. "I totally forgot we were so…" I trail off, trying to find a suitable word.
"Young? Cringe? Young and cringe?" Garrick offers, laughing softly as he helps me unbuckle the seatbelt and offers me a hand. "Puberty was a very weird time for all of us, huh?"
"Mmhm," I hum. "It's a nice picture, though."
"Yeah, it reminds me of where we came from, of… not necessarily easier times, but different. If I were to tell that acne covered punk that in just a few years he'd be playing drums in one of the best known bands in the world, he'd probably laugh in my face." His eyes shine with pride as he says this, but there is a shadow hiding just in the corner, a darker truth about that time that he doesn't dwell on — Garrick was sixteen back then, just a few months shy of the big fight with his parents that led to being disowned and him moving in with his older brother. But this is not the time, nor the place to revisit old wounds, so Garrick swerves the conversation in another direction, "And I'm pretty sure he'd say I'm full of shit if I told him that I'm now on a date with the Imogen Cardulo."
My cheeks are probably similarly red to the girl's in that old picture, and just like her, I'm trying to play it cool even if I'm anything but. "Don't think he'd be all that impressed," I manage to even fake a scoff at the idea. "I recall him teasing the pigtails and the frilly dresses."
Garrick looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "Mims, that boy was obsessed with the pigtails and the frilly dresses. He still is, even though the pigtails are gone and your hair is the only speck of color most days. It's just that now he's able to admit it, out loud and to himself. He can even face the ridiculousness of speaking about himself in third person."
For once, no snarky comment comes out — I have no response to that, words utterly fail me. I raise on my tip toes, my arms wrapping around his neck and his coming to rest on my waist instinctively just as our lips touch. And maybe, I think as our kiss deepens, our mouths sliding against each other in a seamless harmony, no words are needed to communicate to him how he makes me feel. He knows, he must know — because, frankly, there's no one who knows me better than he does.
When the need for air finally breaks us apart, our foreheads rest against each other's. "You're an idiot," I mumble, but it's softer than my usual way of saying that, made even more tender as I peck his lips chastely. Just because I can.
He smiles, his grip on my waist tightening as if on instinct. "Yeah, but I'm your idiot."
"Promise?" I hate myself the moment that word leaves my mouth and I hate him even more for melting my defenses like wax, turning me into a disgusting mushy mess. I close my eyes not to see the cringed look in his eyes, hoping the earth would open up and swallow me whole.
One of his hands comes up, cradling my jaw in his palm as he tilts it upwards so our eyes meet. There is no cringing. His beautiful hazel eyes are somehow even warmer, softer, and the light brown speckles in the middle shine like golden honey. "Breaking news, Cardulo, you're stuck with me forever and ever. You couldn't get rid me if you wanted."
We're so close that when he talks his lips brush against mine in a maddening way that absolutely seals my fate, turning the remnants of any resistance I might have into dust. Damn him and the effect he has on me!
"Good," I whisper against his lips, just soaking in the feeling of having him so close to me — mine. That shit is more powerful than any drug. "Now, how much longer are you going to keep me waiting for this surprise of yours?"
Garrick laughs, his hands sliding to my hips to turn me around, pressing my back to his front, before covering my eyes. "Is this really necessary?" I groan, not really putting on a fight as he leads me towards the back of the car. Who'd complain about being pressed against that body?
"Very much so," He says and I don't have to see his smirk, I can hear it in his goddamn voice — that gruff, deep voice that rumbles through my body with how close he is to me right now. "First things first, though… you have to promise not to kick me."
"Garrick Hector Tavis, what the fuck did you do?" I might not be able to look him in the eye, but I scowl nonetheless. Glad to see I haven't turned into a total mushy idiot.
"Nothing!" He says defensively. "Nothing bad, at least. But just to be sure… promise not to get mad?"
At this point I'm expecting anything from a crazy sex mechanism installed into his truck, like a sex swing, to a box of pizza and a few beers. But honestly, the drive itself already raised this date way above any of my previous ones and the mushiness didn't fully vanish, so I decide I should give him some grace. "Fine, I promise not to get mad."
"Here it goes," Garrick whispers before dropping his hand to allow me to see. I try to pretend like my heart doesn't ache at the soft tremor in his voice.
And when I finally see what the fuss was all about, the aching is the least of my problems because my heart just about stops, then resumes pounding so much harder, as if to make up for the lost second. I cover my mouth with my hand, taking in the scene before me — trying to make sense of it, really.
"So?" Garrick asks anxiously a couple of seconds later when I don't say anything.
"It's not a sex swing," I meant to say it as a joke, but the words come out raspy, barely more than a broken whisper as I try to keep it all together and not break down crying because no one has ever put in so much effort for me before.
"Why would it be a…" Garrick gives me a confused look before his whole face breaks into the most boyish grin ever when he pieces together what I can't bring myself to put into words. "So you like it?"
I look towards the truck one more time, taking in every detail of his elaborate planning. The way he turned the back of the truck into an actual bed, with the fluffiest blankets on top of what looks way to comfortable and soft to be an air mattress. He put our old Christmas lights from when we lived in Riorson House around the truck, giving the whole thing a warm, cozy vibe. It feels intimate.
In the middle of the improvised bed there is a laptop and all of my favorite snacks — two casseroles with something that looks like pasta, sour cream potato chips and two types of popcorn, salted and with caramel, and also different brands of chocolates and gummy bears.
Turning back to Garrick, there is so much I want to tell him, but I it seems like the thing I pride myself on — my ability to string words together — decided to take a night off. If it hadn't, I would tell him how much I love everything he's done for me tonight, thank him for all the effort and the thoughtfulness that no one has ever even thought to show me before. I'd probably allow myself the vulnerability of admitting that this, this entire night, is exactly what that girl with silly blonde curls and girly dresses in his picture was dreaming of.
Wordlessly, I reach for him, cupping his cheeks between my hands to bring his face close enough so I can kiss him — softly, without hurry, gently and sweetly, trying to convey all the emotion and vulnerability that I don't yet have the vocabulary to express. As my lips slide against his and my hands tremble slightly as they slowly move from his neck to his curls, I hope he feels the silent promise I'm not ready to voice — a promise to both him and myself, that one day, not very far from now, I'll learn all those words that stubbornly elude me now and be able to tell him how I feel. Tell him how much I love him.
And maybe he truly understands all that — he's joked many times before that he's the only person fluent in Imogency — because when we break apart and his eyes find mine, I truly feel like he's seeing deep into my soul, not only reading, but understanding my thoughts. His lips brush against my forehead in a tender kiss, and when I look up into his eyes again, I find so much warmth and affection there that I nearly choke.
"So far I haven't been punched so I'd say this date is going rather way" Garrick lightly jokes, an easy smile lightning up his face. I recognize this as his attempt to lighten up the moment in a way that only he can — by making a joke. For once, I'm floored with gratitude for it.
"It couldn't have gone any better than this," I tell him, laughing softly as I look at him.
Garrick's eyes shine with delight and he stars tugging me towards the truck. "Challenge accepted!" He declares.
If I'm being honest, tonight it feels as if the shadow of that girl whom I thought I buried deep deep down in a forgotten corner of my mind, along with all her unrealistic hopes and dreams of the perfect romance, assumes control. And I decide there is no harm in allowing her some power, so I don't chide myself for feeling giddy and silly. I giggle — me, Imogen Cardulo, giggling! — as I allow Garrick to pick me up and place me on the bed and the moment he join me, I scoot over to cuddle into his side.
Garrick wraps his arms around me tightly, pressing me impossibly closer to him as he settles more comfortable against the pillows. "Comfortable?" He asks, settling the laptop on his lap so its screen is at the perfect distance to the both of us.
"Very." I throw one leg over his and let my head rest on his chest, just above his heart. Once fully settled, he passes me one casserole and a fork, which I gladly accept. With all the chaos today with the label and the house hunting, I didn't get to eat anything and my stomach growls at the delicious smell of creamy pesto pasta with chicken — "Wait, when did you have time to go by your grandparent's?" I ask, recognizing the familiar, mouth watering taste of Grandma Tavis' recipe.
After he was disowned by his stuck-up parents for wanting to be a rock star, Garrick moved in with his older brother (and my sister's then-boyfriend and current husband), but it would have been impossible for Derik, only an intern who survived on coffee and instant noodles back then, to take care of a sixteen years old on his own. Their elderly paternal grandparents (who effectively cut all ties with their son after witnessing his shitty parenting) played a huge role in supporting both of them and, as a result, both Tavis brothers are extremely close to them, visiting and calling regularly. The ancient truck Garrick loves so much was a gift from them actually.
Honestly, we're all very fond of Ma and Pa Tavis too. They're in their late seventies now, but they are always there for our milestones and always come to our shows when we play close-by. Considering how Garrick's family situation is not the only rocky one, our band was practically adopted by the Tavises and it became a tradition to spend the holidays with them in Lewellen — my mom is the only other parent who joins us when she's not working, her busy surgeon schedule not always allowing her to catch a plane on time.
And unless Garrick can teleport, I fail to see how he got this delicious pasta.
"I didn't," He laughs, peeling his gaze off the screen to look at me. "I actually made it myself, but rest assured, there's no risk of food poisoning."
"How so?" I ask, trying not to pay too much attention to how my cheeks are on practically on fire thinking about Garrick cooking for me.
"Because I was merely a robot following Ma's strict instructions. I half expected her to bite my head off through FaceTime for weighing my ingredients wrong. Nothing escaped her notice."
I laugh, trying to imagine sweet Ma Tavis, who usually struggles with technology, trying to explain her grandson how to boil pasta and scolding him for adding just a pinch of salt more than he was supposed to. "I'm sure she wasn't that bad."
"She was an absolute menace the second she heard it was for you. I swear, that woman was better suited for the army than Pa." If my blush was bad before, now I'm afraid my face is even brighter than my hair, so much so that I doubt even the dim light provided by the golden Christmas lights can conceal it. He told his grandparents about us? If he notices, Garrick thankfully doesn't point it out, instead swerving the conversation again, "So, please tell me it's not too salty because I'm afraid she'll actually do well on her threat and give me only over-salted food at Thanksgiving."
I take a big bite of my pasta and barely catch myself from moaning at the divine taste. Looks like Ma Tavis' magic in the kitchen works long distance too. "It's absolutely delicious and I'll make sure to tell her that."
"Oh no, don't!" Garrick quickly shakes his head. "If you tell her that she'll take it as a sign to put me to more work in the kitchen. She was bad enough through FaceTime, imagine what she'd be like in person over Thanksgiving!"
I laugh, shaking my head, and glance at the screen. "I thought you hated The Corpse Bride," I say, raising an eyebrow.
Garrick gives me a sheepish look as the movie starts. "Yeah, about that… I actually never watched it?"
I push myself up to glare at him, "You argued with Bodhi and Quinn for hours when we wanted to watch it for movie night!"
He throws his hand up in surrender, still grinning. "I admit, I just wanted to annoy them and I really wanted to see that Spiderman movie instead. But! I know you didn't see it either so… wanna watch it now?" He even has the audacity to give me puppy eyes!
Rolling eyes, I return to my previous place against his chest, stabbing at my pasta as I pretend to be doing this just to please him. In truth, I actually been planning on watching it on my own too ever since that dispute during movie night just to see what all that fuss was about, but my schedule was just too crazy to allow that. "Okay, fine. Hit play."
The movie proves to be rather good and we both appreciate Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter singing, but by far the most entertaining part was our commentary during it. We stopped the movie to point out details that we liked and search for the lyrics to the songs because Garrick was sure Remains of the Day would sound better in another key. The ending was predictable, but that didn't stop us from debating how we'd have changed it to make it better — Garrick thought that a more zombie-ish take would have been more interesting and I complained about how lame the character of Victoria was. We both agreed in the end that it would have been a better movie if Victor ended up with Emily, the only interesting character in the entire movie (along with the dog).
Garrick had downloaded another Tim Burton film as backup and we let that one play for a bit, but we aren't as interesting it in. Or at least I'm not, my attention fixed on Garrick, watching him in the dim light. I reach up and trace the faint scar that runs down the side of his face, barely visible — he got in college during a bar fight after some asshole who was hitting on me refused to take no for an answer. I hated myself for getting him injured, even though he always joked and assured me that he was proud of it because 'chicks dig guys with sexy scars'.
And I guess he wasn't wrong. So many girls were throwing at him back then, even before the band started to get popular. Now there are forums and millions of of posts each day about him, it's crazy to think that there are millions of women out there lusting after the boy I grew up with.
It's even crazier to think that, in spite of all that… he's here with me. None of those girls knows the real Garrick Tavis, they don't know the depth of his laugh or how to read between his jokes and teasing to understand what he truly means. They see him at his best, when he shines like the star that he is on that stage. That's a mask that belongs to the public, forged and perfected to satisfy their fantasies. The real him though? He's mine.
"Hm?" Garrick turns to look at me.
"Nothing," I whisper, arching my neck slightly so I can kiss him again before resting my head against his chest again, his heartbeat a steady rhythm more alluring that any melody I know. The movie plays in the background, but my eyes begin to close.
I feel him softly kiss my forehead, then my cheek before I drift off to sleep completely and I open my eyes slightly to find him staring sheepishly back. "Go to sleep, Immy. I'm here," Garrick whispers softly, reaching down to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, letting his palm rest against my cheek for a moment longer.
I tug at him, wordlessly asking him to join me — a request that, every single one of my other wordless wishes, is granted without hesitation. Garrick slides lower on the makeshift bed and draws the covers over us before enveloping me into his arms, tucking me under his chin.
I bury my face in his chest. We've gone to sleep in the same bed before, before and after we started sleeping together, but this feels different. It feels like something shifted permanently between us.
Just before I succumb to sleep, I think that the feeling of being in his arms is like finally coming home. I'm at home with him and I never want to leave the warmth of his arms again.
