Getting Over Garrett Delaney(19)
Author: Abby McDonald

I’m already flushing with embarrassment. “Listen,” I start, shamefaced, “I want to apologize for the other day. . . .”

But instead of seeming mad, Kayla just shakes her head. “No, it’s my fault! I was the one who loaded you down with all my stuff.”

“But still . . . I feel bad about what happened. Did you get cleaned up OK?”

“Sure.” Now it’s Kayla’s turn to look awkward. “I’m really sorry I bailed on you, but that wasn’t really the color to have splashed all over my jeans. . . .”

“Oh, man,” I say as the implication of red Slushie stains down her pants becomes clear. “I didn’t even think of that.”

“Me neither,” she says, “until a group of guys started pointing and laughing. I just had to get out of there.”

A large man behind Kayla clears his throat loudly. “Right,” I say quickly. “What can I get you? On the house,” I add in a whisper.

“Oh, awesome.” She grins. “Just give me something with ice and syrup.”

“You sure?” Her bratlets are now terrorizing an unfortunate Seeing Eye dog in the corner. “They don’t look like they need any more sugar.”

“Not them — me,” Kayla says. “I’ve got another two hours until their parents come!”

“Sugar rush, coming right up,” I say, marking down an extra-large order.

My Zen-like work state lasts through the end of the week — if you can call it Zen when I’m obsessively checking my phone every break for word from Garrett. His ambitious course load is taking its toll, and our morning chats have been getting briefer and briefer: barely time for a “How are you?” let alone time for a confession of love, before he’s off to breakfast, or class, or whatever else he’s doing out there in the woods. Without me.

“Any hot weekend plans?” LuAnn asks as we sweep the floors on Friday night. The café is empty except for a lone woman in the corner determined to leech our wireless Internet until the lights go off and we forcibly throw her out.

I shrug. “Nothing much. Just hanging out. I can cover a shift, if you need me to.”

“No wild parties and illicit hookups?” She sighs wistfully. “Man, what I wouldn’t give to be seventeen again.”

I want to laugh. Where do I start? With the fact that I have no access to those wild parties without Garrett or that the closest I’ve been to an illicit hookup is when Kenny Mendolson accidentally touched my chest while reaching for a pipette in chem lab last year?

“Sure,” I murmur, remembering Kenny’s horror. The least he could have done is looked pleased. “It’s a blast.”

“I remember when I was your age,” LuAnn begins, sounding as if she’s a jaded fifty-year-old rather than barely into her twenties. “I snuck out past curfew so many times my mom just gave up on me. I had a thing for guys on motorcycles,” she adds with a wink.

“I know what you mean,” I agree. Well, a Vespa is almost a motorcycle.

We finish clearing the debris of empty plates and coffee mugs, then take a break by the counter to share the last of the day’s pastries. LuAnn nibbles daintily on a scone.

“So, are you in school?” I ask her, curious. Most of the staff here juggle their shifts around study of some kind, but I’ve never heard LuAnn talk about her life outside of Totally Wired.

“Not right now.” LuAnn shrugs. A faint shadow flits across her face. “I tried fashion school,” she says after a moment’s pause.

“That sounds great. What happened?”

“It was great, until I dropped out.” She puts down the scone and begins twirling hair around her index finger. “After that, I went to college for a while. English. Then drama. I switched to art history, then dropped that as well. I’m great at starting things,” she tells me, her voice suddenly bright and metallic. “And excellent at dropping out. I do it all the time.” She’s wound her hair so tight that blood begins to pool in her fingertip.

“So what brought you to Sherman?” I ask, changing the subject. LuAnn may seem offhand about it, but I can tell that she isn’t as blasé about her checkered history as she would like me to think. I circle around the counter and begin to wipe it down. LuAnn reaches for another pastry.

“The usual.” She gives an expressive shrug. “Love. Hope. Delusions of happiness.”

I keep cleaning, not wanting to push her anymore.

“It was a guy,” she finally explains with a self-deprecating look. “He got into grad school around here, so I quit and followed him.”

“Oh.” I pause. “Are you still . . . ?”

“Together? Nope.” LuAnn still sounds flippant, but her eyes aren’t quite so light anymore. “He managed to last about a month before sleeping with his TA. His T and A, I like to call her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever. That’ll teach me not to build my life around a man whose favorite book is Atlas Shrugged. Listen, kid.” She waggles her finger, as if scolding me. “Nothing good comes from Ayn Rand. Trust me on this.”

“Garrett loves that book,” I protest.

She hoots with laughter. “I’ll bet he does.”

By the time we finish cleanup, and finally get our Wi-Fi leech to leave, it’s dark and clouded over outside, another summer storm on the way. “You want a ride?” LuAnn offers, locking up behind us.

“Are you sure it’s not out of your way?” I ask, pulling my sweater down over my hands against the chill.

“It’s no problem.” LuAnn leads me toward an old red Civic, parked just down the street. “You’ll have to overlook the mess. And the smell.”

But just as she pulls the door open for me, I feel a buzz in my pocket. I wait a second, sure it’s just another phantom ring, but no: there it is again.

I check caller ID, my heart already racing.

Garrett.

9

“You know what? I can take the bus,” I tell LuAnn, already backing away.

“Private caller, huh?” LuAnn winks. “I get it. Have a good weekend!”

I hurry down the street, eagerly pressing the phone to my cheek. “Garrett? Hey!”

And there he is, loud and clear and perfect down the line. “Sadie, what’s up? How’s life toiling down in the mines?”

“Oh, you know.” I take a seat on a bench by the bus stop, his voice slipping over me like a relaxing balm. No more tired muscles or pain in my back from hoisting dirty plates all day; no, right now there’s nothing in the world but me and him. “Same old. How’s camp? Did you get that poetry paper back yet?”