Getting Over Garrett Delaney(38)
Author: Abby McDonald

At least, that’s the theory. But watching Kayla toss aside my precious memories with such casual disregard is too much for my sentimental heart to take. “Not that!” I yelp as she grabs a handful of faded old flyers from my dresser.

“This?” Kayla holds up a crumpled blue sheet of paper. “‘Library sale, Wednesday, 2 p.m.’ Wow.” She laughs, “I can see why you want the reminder . . . from two years ago.”

“It was the first time Garrett and I hung out.” I take it from her and smooth out the paper, remembering how nervous and excited I’d been. Meeting him by accident was one thing, but the first real, live plans we made? That was momentous. “It stays.”

Kayla sighs. “OK, let me see it.” I pass it back to her, but she doesn’t pause for a split second before announcing “Nope!” and ripping the flyer in two.

I let out another yelp. She rips the pieces again. I whimper.

“Sadie!” She laughs. “Get a grip. These are just things, remember?”

“They’re memories.” I look around, feeling a pang. “And once he’s gone, they’re all I’ll have left of him. Don’t you keep things from Blake, to remember all the time you’ve spent together?”

Kayla shakes her head. “Not like this. Photos are memories. Special gifts are memories. A room full of junk is just a creepy stalker shrine.”

“I’m not creepy!” I object. She doesn’t reply, just holds up an old shirt of Garrett’s I “borrowed” six months ago and conveniently forgot to return.

“When was the last time you washed this?”

“Um, never?” I reply in a small voice. “I didn’t want to lose the scent of him!”

“Just listen to yourself.” Kayla shakes her head in despair. “Personal hygiene isn’t negotiable!”

I blink.

“You’re right,” I say in shock. “What have I become?”

And just like that, I see the clutter for what it really is: sad, pathetic hoarding, a testament to my powers of denial and self-delusion. But no more.

“Trash it!” I say, a new surge of energy coursing through my veins. “Trash everything!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Kayla grins as I tear into the stack of stuff anew. All those dreary indie bands that Garrett loves so? Gone! The endless parade of books about twenty-something men having identity crises in Brooklyn? Out of here! My shelf of snooty foreign films about existentialism and the constant betrayal of death? ¡Adiós, amigos!

Soon, the garbage bags are filled to overflowing and everything useful is packed up and ready to take to Goodwill. “Somewhere, a pretentious teenage boy is about to get very lucky,” I joke, hauling the last box to the doorway.

“Wow.” Kayla exhales, sinking onto the bed. “It’s like a blank canvas. You can be whoever you want now.”

I sit next to her, taking in the spaces on my shelves and the white gaps on my walls where my set of Criterion Collection movie posters used to hang. She’s right — it is kind of . . . freeing, to be rid of it all. I’m liberated from reminders of that pining, angst-ridden past: no signs of Garrett hanging around, waiting to fill me with indecision and second thoughts. Now I just have a few boxes of photos and gifts stored away, safely out of sight in the top of my wardrobe.

But how empty the room looks is heartbreaking in a whole different way.

“Was I really this pathetic?” I ask quietly.

Kayla turns to me in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Beth said once that it was obvious how much I loved him, that I trailed around like some kind of puppy.” I gulp, anxious. “Is that what everyone thought?”

“No!” Kayla gives me a hug. “I mean, we knew you were superclose. It just seemed like . . . you were in your own world together — that’s all.”

“Really? Because I want to know if it was a running joke or something.”

“I swear.” Kayla squeezes my shoulder. “To tell the truth, some girls were kind of jealous of you. Garrett’s up there on the school hot list.”

“He is?”

“No idea why.” She laughs.

“Yeah, yeah, pretentious jerk, I know.” I manage a smile. “But he wasn’t, not to me. He still isn’t,” I add. “But I just can’t believe I ended up like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like my entire world revolved around him. I didn’t even realize — that’s the crazy thing,” I tell her. “All this time, I’ve been walking around thinking I’m some strong, independent girl who would never lose her head over a boy. And it turns out, I’m nothing but a Garrett clone.”

“You’re not!” Kayla protests, grinning. “You have way better hair.”

I laugh, despite myself.

“It’s OK,” she tells me. “We all go crazy for a guy sometimes. And then we date him, figure out he’s not this perfect mythical god, and get over it. Maybe that was your thing,” she suggests. “You never got together with him, so he stayed up on the Perfect Boyfriend pedestal.”

“Maybe.” I look around. “Anyway, come on. Let’s get this stuff into the garage.”

Kayla pulls me to my feet. “You know what the best thing is about this clear-out?” she asks, hoisting two bags of trash down the hall.

I struggle under the weight of the boxes. “I don’t have to go to sleep with Vladimir Nabokov staring down at me?”

“Sure, that, but also you’ll be able to bring guys back here now.”

“Guys?” I laugh, following her downstairs. “What guys? Aside from Garrett, the only man ever to step foot in my room was there to fix the heat.”

Kayla grins. “Exactly! But that’s all going to change. And when you do bring a guy up to, ahem, pretend to watch a movie, he won’t take one look around and run.”

“OK, now you’re just exaggerating.”

“Trust me on this, Sadie. Obsession is not cute in a date, especially if they’re obsessed with someone else.” Kayla dumps her bags in the garage. “It’s like those girls who collect dolls or have a wall full of kitten posters. You might want to look up at adorable bundles of fluff every night, but just think how it looks to someone else. You know Lizzie Jordan, right?”

I shake my head.

“Junior, blondish, student council?’