Getting Over Garrett Delaney(32)
Author: Abby McDonald

“Ha!” There’s a snort of disapproval behind me, and we both look to see Dominique in the office doorway, arms folded. “Maybe there wouldn’t have been a crisis if you hired more staff to cover the shifts.”

“This is a private meeting, Dom,” Carlos snaps back.

“I’m just saying.” She gives a haughty glare. “And maybe if you hadn’t forgotten the wholesaler order — again — I wouldn’t have had to leave her alone to go get more supplies.”

I blink. Dominique ditched out early on her shift that day. She wasn’t on some mission for supplies, but I’m not about to argue, especially when Carlos is scowling so ferociously.

“Are you telling me how to run my business?”

Dominique shrugs. “Why not? You clearly need the guidance.”

Carlos scrapes back his chair, enraged. “I’ve had enough of you ordering me around. Don’t forget: you’re just a waitress!”

“Just?” Dominique’s voice goes up a couple of decibels in outrage. “Who here does your taxes, and checks the books, and saves your derrière when your buddy Fitz decides to skim five thousand dollars off the operating budget?”

“He was borrowing it!” Carlos yells back.

I look between them, furiously raging at each other, and decide to make a tactical retreat. “I’ll, um, get back to work,” I murmur, quickly scurrying past Dominique as she launches into a tally of Carlos’s many failings.

“Don’t even think I’ve forgotten about the frozen yogurt incident. Imbécile!”

And so instead of being the most humiliating experience of my entire life (OK, as well as), my oh-so-public meltdown actually turns out to be a meager token from the Gods of Fresh Starts. Because suddenly, I’m not alone in this anymore. Instead of being scornful, they actually want to help. I can’t believe it. Even Dominique comes around (when she’s done laughing all over again at my plight), probably to spite Carlos, or at the prospect of pulling out her military dictator act in the guise of a good cause.

Dominique. Helping.

I know.

“Repeat after me: I don’t need a guy to feel good about myself.” LuAnn prods me with a pair of serving tongs. Barely a week has passed since I came clean to them all, but already she’s settled in to her role as tutor-slash-slave-driver extraordinaire, determined to rid me of my love for good.

“LuAnn!” I protest. “I’m not out obsessing over every guy I meet. This is about Garrett.”

“Repeat it!” she orders, prodding me harder. “I’m serious, kid. You need to say it until you believe it. Fake it till you make it.”

I sigh. Arguing will only prolong the fight. “I don’t need a guy to feel good about myself,” I parrot obediently. “There, happy? Now, can I get my phone back?

“Ask Dom.” LuAnn shrugs. “She’s the communications keeper.”

This strategy — holding my phone hostage, except for brief visitation rights on my breaks — is designed to keep me from another crawling-on-the-floor incident.

I scoot around the counter to where Dominique is sitting at a back table, freshening her manicure before her shift starts. “Phone?” I ask. “Pretty please?”

She doesn’t look up. “You’ve still got another half hour.”

“But I promised I’d call my dad,” I say. “I’m taking the afternoon off to meet him in the city, remember?”

“You know the rules.” Entirely unimpressed, she blows on a freshly painted nail. “And you’re the one who asked me to keep it away from you.”

I sigh. She’s right — we picked Dominique for this because we knew she’d never let me slip. LuAnn is the voice of reason, Kayla my cheerleader, and Dominique? She’s the hard-ass, and thus perfect for minding my cell phone, letting me have it only for approved callers and rationed texts to Garrett. But right now, her hard-assedness is the last thing I need, when I have a legitimate reason for needing that phone.

“Come on, Dom.”

She glares.

“Dominique,” I correct myself quickly. “He needs to know which bus I’m taking.” Right on cue, my cell begins to ring. She starts painting the other hand.

“Just look at the caller ID!” I tell her, “It’s not Garrett, I swear.”

With infinite slowness, Dominique plucks my phone from her purse and checks the screen. “Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You can take it. But no cheating!”

I take it eagerly. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, pumpkin, what’s going on?”

“Nothing much, just work.” I drift toward the back hallway, away from the chatter at the front of the café. “I’m just leaving. I’ll be on the eleven o’clock bus. We get in about two —”

“Here’s the thing,” he interrupts. “They canceled our shows here, so we’re heading up to Montreal for a last-minute booking.”

I stop. “Canada?”

“I know — it’s crazy.” He laughs. “I really wanted to see you, but we have to drive through the night to make it tomorrow. I’m sorry,” he says, “but we’ll do something when I get back — I promise.”

“Oh.” I recover. “Sure, that’s fine.”

“OK, I’ve got to run. They’re loading up the van. I’ll call you later, OK? Love you!”

“Love you,” I repeat dully, hanging up.

I stay there in the narrow space, trying not to feel that familiar wave of disappointment. He does this too often, changing plans on a whim, and although I thought I was too old to feel let down by him again, I can’t help the tightness in my throat and the flashbacks to being twelve, thirteen, fourteen: waiting on the couch at home for him to come pick me up, invariably an hour late.

“What’s up?”

I blink. Josh has paused from salad assembly and is watching me through the open kitchen door, his hair looping out from under his baseball cap in lazy curls.

“It’s nothing.” I force a smile. “Just, I was going to go to Boston to see my dad. But he can’t make it.” I shrug, nonchalant. “I guess that means I can take my shift after all.”

“What’s this about Boston?” LuAnn bounces beside me, a riot of patterns in a floral tea dress and striped cardigan. “Are you going to meet Garrett? Sadie, you know that’s forbidden. Verboten! Prohibido!”