Getting Over Garrett Delaney(43)
Author: Abby McDonald

I brighten. I was resigned to loitering, alone in the parking lot, through another forty minutes of blood-filled hockey action. “Are you sure?” I double-check, still feeling guilty about dragging him away from all the fun. “You don’t have to. I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck looking after me or anything. . . .”

“Who’s stuck?” He grins, jamming his baseball cap on so that tufts of hair stick out over his ears. “I just have to make a tiny detour first.”

I follow Josh to his truck, a rusted red old pickup. He climbs easily into the driver’s seat and leans over to open the door for me. I clamber up, with decidedly less grace. “Sorry about the mess,” he says, sweeping some empty soda cups aside. He starts the engine and yanks it into gear.

“It’s cool. I’m all about the mess.” I look around, disoriented to be so high off the road. “This is great,” I tell him as we head out of the parking lot. “It’s like you can crush everything in your path.”

Josh laughs. “Almost. Although, I had a run-in with an SUV last year, and we barely made it out unscathed. Isn’t that right, Dolly?” He pats the steering wheel affectionately.

“Dolly?” I laugh. “What kind of name is that?”

“A great one!” he protests, but when I keep giggling, he explains, “When I got her, the radio was jammed. She would only play this classic country station. I fixed it in the end, but the name stuck.”

“Dolly,” I repeat, amused. Such a feminine name for such a hulking great mass of metal — the total opposite of Garrett’s Vespa, Vera. “Why do guys do that?” I ask. “Name their vehicles.”

“Ownership.” He grins. I reach over and punch him lightly. “What?” he protests. “It’s true! And it gives us something to swear when we break down out in the middle of nowhere.” He grabs a cable hanging from the old-fashioned cassette player and plugs it into his iPod. “Ready to rock?”

“I don’t know about that.” I get comfortable, slipping off my sneakers and propping my bare feet on the dashboard. “But I could maybe manage a leisurely roll.”

He hands me his iPod. “Go crazy.”

I pick some old-school Springsteen, and we turn onto the highway, beginning to wind through the sprawling woodlands of the Pioneer Valley. I love this part of the country. Sure, western Massachusetts can be frustrating if you want entertainment — and live a painfully car-free existence — but when it comes to twilight filtering through the leafy canopy or dense, lush hillsides, we can’t be beat. Out past Sherman, the towns are farther apart: small, white clapboard hamlets buried in the woods, marked by church spires and town ponds, signs for homemade honey for sale along the side roads, and farm stands with fresh eggs and corn.

“So, your first hockey game didn’t turn out too great.”

It’s only when Josh speaks up that I realize I’ve zoned out, watching the world speed by in the soft evening light. “At least I tried it,” I say, trying to look on the bright side of bearing witness to three nosebleeds and one shattered cheekbone. “That was the point, right?”

“I guess.” He glances over at me. “How’s it working out for you, this trying new things kick?”

“Good,” I answer slowly, feeling self-conscious. He hasn’t been a part of my Getting Over Garrett squad, but he has to know what’s been going on. By now, even regular customers like Mr. Hartley must know what’s going on. “Do you think I’m crazy?” I suddenly ask. “It must seem weird, me running around with this plan of mine. . . .”

Josh thinks about it, which isn’t really reassuring, but then he shakes his head. “No more crazy than the rest of us. I mean, at least you know what you want, and you’re trying to get there.” He shrugs, shoulders rolling beneath his faded blue T-shirt. “Most people just sit around complaining.”

“Yeah, I did plenty of that.” I sigh at the thought. “A couple of years’ worth.”

“So, don’t worry about what people think,” he says, easy and relaxed. “As long as it works for you.”

“You’re right.” I smile back, relieved. “And it is working. Well, except for today,” I correct myself. “Note to self: no sports. Ever.”

Josh laughs. “Come on, I bet we can find something more your speed. Bocce, maybe. Or table tennis.”

“Right, because I’m in a retirement home.” I laugh, relaxing back into the old, faded bucket seat. My bare feet are up on the dashboard, the nails still painted with remnants of sparkly pink polish from Kayla’s sleepover. I’m struck suddenly with how much things have changed this summer. Changed, or grown from nothing at all. I’m riding here alongside a guy I didn’t even know a few weeks ago, my life filled with friendship and new adventures I’d never even considered.

Sure, I may have wound up huddled on the asphalt outside a major sporting event, fighting not to hurl, but I went. I showed up! Old Sadie wouldn’t have deigned to attend in a million years, not when she was locked so securely in her bubble of a world.

Maybe the path to that extraordinary life I wanted is just a lot more meandering than I figured.

“About this ‘tiny’ detour . . .” I say, a half hour into the drive. “I’m not complaining, I just think we should have a plan, you know, if you’re going to be transporting a minor across state lines.”

Josh laughs. “Not much farther now. I’m just seeing a guy about a thing.”

“Cryptic.” I fix him with a look, but he just shrugs.

“That’s me, international man of mystery.”

“You mean, the kitchen-boy act is just a ruse, and secretly you’re off fighting spies and evil scientists between shifts?”

“Gee, my cover is blown.” He turns off the road into a dirt parking lot, a series of buildings just visible through the trees. “Here we are.”

“Here being . . . ?”

Josh shakes his head. “I don’t want to jinx it. But if it works out, I’ll tell you everything, OK?”

“Deal.”

Josh arranges to meet me in twenty minutes, then disappears off on his mysterious mission. I don’t mind, because he’s deposited me at what might just be the cutest bookstore I’ve ever seen: nestled under the beams of an old converted mill, overlooking the falls. I haven’t been on a quest for used books since Garrett left, but this place feels like home right away, even without him. The sound of water rushing outside, the dusk light fading through the old paned windows . . . It’s pure bliss. There’s even a resident cat, strolling by occasionally, letting me tickle its chin.