Getting Over Garrett Delaney(62)
Author: Abby McDonald

I hurry to get ready, and by the time Garrett arrives, I’m waiting on the front step in jeans and a cute jacket, my hair carefully styled into bouncy curls.

“Hey, you look great.” Garrett greets me with a hug. He looks dressier than usual, sporting a dress shirt and cords, his hair combed into something resembling a neat style. I look past him to the gleaming car parked by the curb.

“Where’s Vera?” I ask, shocked. “Did she finally give up on you?”

“No, she’s good. My parents lent me theirs for the night.” Garrett grins proudly, spinning the keys on his finger. “They said it might rain, and I didn’t want you getting wet.”

“Ooh, fancy.” I follow him to the car, where he hurries to the passenger side to open the door for me. “Remember the time we got caught in that hailstorm?” I ask, sliding into the leather seat. “I thought I was going to freeze to death.”

“Not this time.” He closes the door behind me, then walks around to the driver’s seat. “Tonight, we ride like kings!”

We drive a half hour out to Northampton, where Garrett insists on covering my eyes as we make our way — very slowly — from the corner parking lot to some mysterious destination.

“Can I look yet?” I ask, his hands still over my face.

“Hold on.” He steers me forward.

“But we — ow!” I exclaim as I trip on a hard step.

“Sorry!” Garrett keeps his hands in place, maneuvering me down a flight of stairs. “OK, now you can look!” He uncovers my eyes. “Ta-da!”

I blink. I’m standing in a dark, dingy basement-café-slash-bar. Through the dim lights I can make out some faded, torn couches, with a bunch of college kids sitting around a small stage area. The smell of something not entirely legal wafts in the air.

This is his big surprise?

“Over here.” Garrett leads me to a table in the corner with a red-and-white checked tablecloth and a single rose in a chipped vase. “It’s a poetry night,” he announces, clearly thrilled. “Some of the guys from camp told me about it. They should be here later.”

“Oh . . . awesome,” I say slowly, taking a seat in one of the rickety chairs.

“You want a drink? Soda?” He asks eagerly. I nod. “I’ll be right back.”

He goes to the bar, while I scope out the room and try to shake the niggling feeling that’s been stalking me ever since he arrived to pick me up. I know I’m not exactly experienced in this department — OK, not at all experienced — but I know Garrett, and I’ve seen him at work when it comes to other girls. The borrowed car, the dress shirt, the special table . . .

It can’t be a date, can it?

“One soda for the girl with the amazing hair.” Garrett returns, pulling out the chair across from me. I take the glass and gulp down a long swallow, remembering what Josh said about it settling your stomach. For some reason, mine is suddenly twisting in a strange dance. Garrett seems totally at ease, but now that that thought is in my mind, it’s all I can focus on. Is this a date? Does he want it to be? Does he think I want it to be?

But the biggest question of all is, do I want it to be?

“I’m glad we got to do this.” Garrett smiles at me. “You’ve been so busy since I got back, I feel like we haven’t had any time to ourselves. You know, just us.” He pushes back a lock of hair — the one that’s always falling in his eyes. Despite the cleanup, he still has faded ink on his fingertips, and something about the familiar gesture makes me take a breath. What am I doing? I’m overthinking this; there’s nothing wrong with us hanging out and talking, the same as we’ve always done.

I relax. “Me too.” I smile. “Anyway, I have all this news. You’ll never guess what my dad said —”

“Here they are!” Garrett suddenly bounces up, waving across the room to a group of college-age kids who just came in. They wave back but stay on the other side of the room, where they claim a couple of the moth-eaten couches. “I’m just going to go say hi,” Garrett says. “I’ll be right back.” He heads across the room and greets them with backslaps and handshakes.

I sip my soda and wait. The room is filling up now, the crowd full of guys in army jackets, with dreadlocks and/or goatees, while the girls all seem detached and disdainful in that “dark eyeliner and piercings” kind of way. A few of them shoot me curious stares, and I feel painfully young in my plain outfit, wishing I hadn’t let Kayla talk me out of that vintage dress.

Kayla . . . I’m starting to feel guilty about our fight now, and the things I said to her. I didn’t mean to snap, but the way she was talking about me and Garrett. . . .

I look over at him, but he’s pulled up a chair and is talking enthusiastically with his new friends, showing no sign of getting back to me anytime soon. I waver, uncertain, but as the minutes stretch out, I start to feel even more conspicuous, sitting here alone. Finally, I scrape back my chair and approach his group. A boy with one of those Russian army coats is in the middle of talking about Hemingway and how he’s the ultimate male writer.

“Absolutely,” Garrett agrees, leaning back in his seat. “Although, that braggadocio was always more myth than man.”

“I knew you’d say that,” the girl next to him mutters darkly. She’s got her hair bobbed in a sleek flapper style, and her carefully painted eyeliner disappears into two winged tips. “Never mind what a rampant misogynist he was. What about the five wives he left in his wake?”

I hover awkwardly for a moment. Finally, Garrett looks up. “Oh, sorry — everyone, this is my friend Sadie.”

“Hi.” I wave. They all nod back before resuming their spirited debate.

“But you can’t write off an artist because of his personal life. What about D. H. Lawrence, or Polanski?”

“God forbid we measure the content of their souls as well as their creative output.”

I wait a while longer, then go and drag over a chair from the next table. Garrett scoots over to make space for me. “So, were these people all at lit camp with you?” I ask quietly.

“Just Alex, and Charlotte there.” He nods. “But we all drove down for the slam night a couple of weeks ago and met everyone else.”

“You came down for a visit?” I repeat, confused. “You never said.”

He looks back at me. “Oh . . . I mean, I didn’t come to Sherman. It was just a crazy road-trip thing.” Garrett pats my knee. “Hey, look — they’re starting.”