Perfect Regret (Bad Rep #2)(20)
Author: A. Meredith Walters

Garrett looked at me as I tried to get my breathing under control. “I won’t let the forest monster get you, I promise,” he teased and I smacked his arm.

“Shut up, will you and open the damn door,” I growled, making him laugh.

He was still laughing at me as he let me into his house, turning on the hallway light. It was strange being here without the mob of people. I had never taken the time to notice his home before. It had just been the scene of the party. Not a place where he ate and slept and lived his life.

There was a faded print on the wall just inside the door. I recognized it as a Monet reproduction. Seeing it there surprised me. I had expected beer posters and pictures of half naked girls. Definitely not Monet.

“Do you want something to drink? I’ve got beer and beer,” Garrett offered and I smiled.

“I think I’ll have a beer. Thanks,” I said, taking off my coat and hanging it on the hook in the corner.

“You can head on to the living room. You know where it is, right?” Garrett asked and I pointed down the hallway to where I knew it to be.

He went into the kitchen and I walked down the hallway. It was so quiet, it was almost disconcerting. Entering the dark room, I fumbled around for the light switch, banging my shin on a table in the process.

“Mother f**king Christ!” I yelled, leaning over to rub my wounded leg. The lights came on and Garrett stared at me as though I had lost my mind.

“Your stupid table attacked me,” I explained, pointing at the offending piece of furniture.

“Ah. I should have warned you about that table. It can be temperamental,” he joked, handing me the beer. “You okay? Let me see what that nasty piece of wood did to you,” he teased, getting down on his knees in front of me and slowly lifted the leg of my jeans.

My breath caught in my throat as his fingers slid along my skin as he rolled up the fabric to reveal the red welt on my shin.

“Ouch. That’ll hurt like hell in the morning. Let me get you some ice,” Garrett said, lightly rubbing the spot on my leg. It already hurt like hell, but all I could feel at that moment was the way his fingers set off butterflies in my stomach.

Those stupid butterflies needed to die now!

I jerked my leg away and quickly rolled down my pants. “That’s okay. I’ll live. But it’s war on the rest of your furniture, fair warning,” I told him, hoping I successfully hid the trembling in my voice.

Garrett got to his feet and shrugged. “It’s your leg,” he retorted and seemed strangely frustrated.

Not wanting to stand there like an idiot I started to wander around the room, taking in everything that I had never bothered to notice before. On one side of the room was a large fireplace. The mantle was covered with framed photographs. Looking at them, I recognized a younger and completely adorable Garrett. There was a picture of Garrett with a fishing pole, holding up a huge trout by a river.

In another one, Garrett was flanked by a nice looking man and woman on a beach. The same man and woman appeared in several photographs. Some with the young Garrett, others by themselves. These were obviously his parents.

His dad looked like a clean-cut version of Garrett. His mom was pretty in an understated way. In every picture, they looked like a happy family. Maysie had told me his parents had passed away but I didn’t know the story. And I didn’t feel comfortable asking him.

I picked up a trophy and read the inscription: First place All County Debate Tournament, 2008.

I snickered at the thought of Garrett being on the debate team. The image didn’t quite compute with what I knew of him.

“What’s so funny?” he asked with amusement. I held up the trophy.

“Did you buy this as a joke?” I asked.

Garrett’s eyes narrowed a bit at my ribbing. “No, I was on the debate team for three years in high school. The team went to Nationals my senior year. But that was right after I quit,” he said and it seemed like a touchy subject. I wished I hadn’t brought it up.

“I know I don’t look like the brainy type, but I’m not a complete dumbass,” he muttered, looking almost embarrassed by my perception of him. I felt shame for my snap judgment.

“No, it’s just I was on the debate team back home as well,” I hurried on, trying to cover my colossal jerkiness.

Garrett’s eyebrows raised. “I guess we have something in common then,” he said as I placed the trophy back on the mantle. I was distracted from his comment at the sight of an eight by ten photograph of Garrett. I assumed it was his senior portrait. It was one of those cheesy, overly posed photographs that we looked back a year later and cringed over.

This one wasn’t too bad as far as portraits go. He was leaned against a fence wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. His blond hair was cut short and he looked surprisingly well kempt and a lot like your typical preppy guy in high school.

Looking over my shoulder I stared at the man he was now. He was pulling a guitar case out from underneath the couch and unclipping the snaps. His long hair fell across his face as he leaned down. He had ditched the shirt as soon as we stepped into his house.

The guy in the picture was leaner and less muscular. His eyes were clear and his face clean-shaven. The guy behind me affected an air of indifference to everything around him. So different from the boy in the photograph with the world in his eyes.

How did he get from A to B? How was it possible that in just a few years he went from your every day boy next door to this party loving, toke a joint on a regular basis, living life without a clue guy?

I turned away from the tantalizing glimpses of a Garrett I would never know to face the Garrett who I was currently with. He was now strumming an acoustic guitar. He played around for a bit, plucking out an unfamiliar tune.

I listened silently, not sure what to do or say. This quiet, introspective side of Garrett had me off balance.

And when he started to hum along to the strange melody I had to stop myself from sighing aloud. Hey, even I wasn’t immune to a good-looking musician. I did possess the double X chromosome, you know.

His eyes were closed and his fingers moved along the fret board with a confidence that was definitely appealing. His face was open and unguarded and I could watch him like this forever.

I liked this Garrett. I more than liked this Garrett. He fascinated me.

Garrett opened his eyes and found me watching him. The air heated between us, the molecules practically crackling with electricity.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said softly, as though more to himself than to me.