Getting Over Garrett Delaney(21)
Author: Abby McDonald

He never will.

Worn out, I rest my head against the cold, smudged glass. Sherman passes me by as we drive the familiar route, lush trees damp and dripping, streets washed in rain. My breath fogs the window, and suddenly, I see it with painful clarity — my whole friendship with Garrett, laid out. Because this isn’t just about Rhiannon, or Beth, or any one of the parade of girls Garrett falls for with heartbreaking regularity. This is about me. And how I will never get to be one of those girls, no matter how much I hope and pray and want it.

He’ll never compose whole odes to my beauty and grace. He’ll never show up with a boom box to reenact Say Anything outside my window. He’ll never drive over at three a.m. because I’m sick and can’t sleep and just want to feel his arms around me. I can pine away for him for the rest of my life and turn into some Miss Havisham — old and embittered and wondering What if? forevermore — but it won’t make a difference.

Two whole years I’ve waited for him. Two years with him as the center of my whole world — the only number on my speed dial, the first thought I have every morning, and the last thought I have at night. And now . . . ?

Now I know for sure. This can’t go on.

I can’t keep doing this to myself, getting my hopes up so high, only to have them come crashing down. I can’t keep waiting for him to come to his senses, having my whole emotional state rest on what he decides. What if he never wakes up to how perfect we’d be together? What if I spend another year pining for him — or longer even? In a terrible flash, I see my future stretching out before me: waiting for his calls, rearranging my life around college visits, and decoding texts and instant messages like they could be something real, something true.

This isn’t love; this is pure torment.

And suddenly I know what I have to do, with more certainty than I’ve ever known anything in my life before. I have to be done with this. I have to cast off this wretched unrequited love, any way I can.

I need to get over him for good.

10

By the time I get home, I know for sure I have no other option. Either I spend the rest of my life uselessly pining after a boy who will never be mine, or I find some way to break free from this hold he has on me.

But how?

I take a long, hot shower. But all the Peach Bliss Bubble Buff in the world won’t scrub away my misery. I towel off and wrap myself in my softest pajamas, as if the well-worn flannel could cocoon my poor, broken heart. But not even my favorite knitted bootie slippers provide me with the magical answer of how, exactly, I’m supposed to get over a boy who has been the center of my entire world for two entire years. Where do I even begin? Am I supposed to cut him out of my life completely? Hypnotize myself into believing I’m not in love with him anymore? Stage an exorcism to get him out of my heart forever?

I wish it were that easy.

Mom finds me on a stool in the kitchen, tearing into a plate of leftover chicken potpie.

“Did you make it back OK?” she asks, filling the teakettle and setting out mugs. She’s back in her favorite around-the-house sweats — purple velour this time. “I called to see if you wanted a ride, but your cell went to voicemail.”

I nod slowly. “Garrett called.”

“How’s he getting along?” Mom asks, oblivious to my plight. “Is that camp turning out to be fun?”

I nod again, the gravy and vegetables suddenly tasting like cardboard in my mouth. “Yup.” I push my plate away. “He’s having all kinds of fun.”

“That’s nice.” Mom bustles away with the hot water and herbal tea bags. “I know you were disappointed not to get in, but maybe it’s for the best. You can spend the summer making friends here in town and then try for it next year.”

“Uh-huh.” I sigh, and finally she notices my dejection.

“Are you OK, honey?” She pauses by the sink.

“Sure.” I muster a halfhearted shrug. “Just . . . tired. It’s been a long day.”

She smiles warmly. “I remember. I worked a summer job at the diner when I was in high school. I was run off my feet every night. I had to wear this red-and-white-checked dress,” she adds, turning back to the tea, “with snaps all down the front. I’m sure I have the photos somewhere. . . .”

“Sounds cute.”

I wish for a moment that I could tell her everything, but Mom and I don’t really go too deep when it comes to our feelings. We never have. Every time I forget and talk about feeling stressed from school, say, or upset about something, she always leaps in with action plans and life-coach psychobabble about transforming my reality, when really all I ever need is for her to say that yes, life sucks sometimes, and that’s OK. I never really minded before — after all, I had Garrett for the deep emotional wrangling, and I could always rely on him to bring out an insightful quote from some classic novel or a story about some famous writer and how she used her inner pain to fuel works of greatness.

But I don’t have him anymore. At least, not for this. And all the wallowing in the world isn’t getting me closer to that mythical goal of getting over Garrett.

“Mom . . .” I start, reluctant. “Suppose you wanted to do something . . . like, a project,” I say vaguely. “But you didn’t know how to do it. Where would you start?”

She brightens. This might well be the first time in history that I’ve asked her advice, let alone on something so near and dear to her heart.

“Well . . .” Mom brings her tea over, sitting across from me at the big wooden kitchen table. “I always like to start with a plan.”

“A plan. Right. I should have guessed.” I exhale, disappointed. Somehow I don’t think one of her cute blue workbooks is going to cut it when we’re talking about the vast, aching depths of my heart here.

She laughs at my dubious expression. “I know you think plans are the enemy of all creativity — or whatever Garrett said that time — but they really do work. There’s nothing you can’t do if you break it down into simple steps.”

“Nothing?” I repeat, still unconvinced. “But that’s not true! I mean, I get the appeal when it’s for something practical — assembling some IKEA shelves or making spaghetti carbonara — but what about emotional things?”

“What do you mean?” She pours two cups of herbal tea, a smile tugging on the corners of her lips. She’s enjoying this.

“Well, what if you had a client who wanted to stop feeling stressed, or angry, or being in love with someone?” I say, ultracasual. “You couldn’t just tell them to make a plan not to feel that way.”