Getting Over Garrett Delaney(54)
Author: Abby McDonald

I turn. “Who, him?” I blink. “No way. He’s old, and cute, and . . . so far out of my league!”

“Oh, no!” Kayla shakes her finger at me, scolding. “Don’t even start with that. You’re cute, and awesome, and your hair looks great tonight.”

“Thanks.” I soften. “But what do I even say to him?”

Kayla shrugs. “Anything. ‘Cool shirt.’ ‘Great party.’ ‘Do those pants have secret pockets?’ ” She takes a look at my nervous expression and laughs. “Guys aren’t some weird foreign species, Sadie. They’re people. You can talk to people! You do it all the time at the café.”

It’s true, I do. But as I look back over at this guy, I’m suddenly reluctant. “You know what? Maybe we should wait a while, until I’m more relaxed, and —”

“Nope!” Kayla links her arm through mine and begins to drag me purposefully out onto the porch toward that group of guys. “What have you got to lose?”

I don’t know, my self-respect? My dignity? Then I realize that I lost those things weeks ago, scrambling on the coffee shop floor.

“Nothing, I guess,” I agree, and head after her to go make a complete fool of myself.

Or maybe not. Red T-shirt guy’s name turns out to be Oliver. He’s nineteen, training to be a forest ranger, and to my amazement, after ten minutes of basic get-to-know-you chatting, he has yet to turn and flee into the dark night. In fact, he’s smiling at me, easy and relaxed. “So you’re in college around here?” he asks, leaning against one of the porch posts.

“Just graduated high school,” I lie. I try to sound casual, “I’m taking the year to work and travel before deciding on college.”

“Cool.” He nods, blue eyes smiling down at me.

Kayla clears her throat. “I’m going to go get a drink!” she exclaims brightly. “But I didn’t see where the bar is.” She flutters her eyelashes at Oliver’s friends. “Could you guys show me?”

There are murmurs of agreement, and before I realize what she’s doing, Kayla has ushered them inside, sending me a swift wink as she closes the screen door behind them.

I’m left alone with Oliver.

“So, forest ranger . . .” I perch on one of the chairs, trying to look casual, as if I do this all the time. Sure, I flirt with older boys — men! — every weekend. What of it? “Does that mean you’re an expert at building fires and all of that?”

The words are out of my mouth before I realize how inane they sound. Smooth, Sadie. Real smooth. But Oliver doesn’t seem to mind. “Sure, but mainly we try to educate people about not building them. The risk of wildfires, and stuff like that.”

“Right,” I say quickly. “Of course. Fire, bad.” I take a sip of my soda, still feeling lost. I shouldn’t be so uncomfortable. I’ve spent hundreds of hours — maybe even thousands — just hanging out, talking to Garrett, but that feels like a whole separate universe: one where I felt at ease in my own skin, instead of glancing down every five seconds to check that my bra isn’t showing.

“I’ve always been into the outdoors,” Oliver continues. “Like, when I was a kid, I was always running around, climbing trees. My parents took me camping a lot. It was great.”

“Mmm,” I murmur.

He sits on the bench beside me. “The thing people don’t realize is what a complex ecosystem the forests are,” he says. His face is tanned and animated with enthusiasm. “We’ve got to try and minimize our footprint.”

“Like tiptoeing,” I joke, but he stares at me blankly. “Kidding,” I add. OK, so, his sense of humor is somewhat lacking, but he is still blessed with those muscular arms. . . .

Oliver pauses a beat, then casually puts one of those arms over the back of the bench. “So, are you into the outdoors much?”

I pause, trying to decide if lounging in my back yard qualifies. “Kind of.” I err on the side of vagueness.

Oliver brightens. “Oh, yeah? What kind of stuff?”

“You know . . .” I wonder guiltily if pretending to be a nature girl is the same as pretending to love Dostoyevsky novels and morose British music. Probably. But then my gaze falls to the ground and the point becomes moot, because he’s wearing sandals — those leather thong kind that German tourists wear, usually over socks. But Oliver isn’t wearing socks, and I can see his bare feet even in the dim light: they’re covered in dirt, as if he’s been hiking through the forest all day.

I swear I see something . . . wriggle, between his toes.

“Sadie?”

I know I told Kayla I wanted to try flirting with other guys, and I’m sure Oliver here is nice — heroically defending our great forests, with nothing but a backpack and those miraculous arms — but something about the sight of those grubby toes, and the dark, mysterious growths lurking in between. . . .

“Actually, I hate nature,” I say suddenly, dragging my eyes back up to his.

“What?” Oliver looks like I’ve just admitted I like setting forest fires in my spare time, but before I can take it all back, I realize I don’t want to.

“I mean, not nature — I don’t hate that,” I correct myself. “But being out in it. All the bugs and dirt and branches. I mean, going to bathroom in the bushes is just, eww, you know?” I grin, feeling strangely liberated by all this honesty. The plan was right — it may start small, with an innocent comment about camping, but before you know it, I’ll be stranded out in the middle of the Pioneer Valley, huddled over a damp campfire with a poison-ivy rash on my butt.

Oliver blinks, those pretty blue eyes staring at me. “I’m fine looking at trees and flowers,” I add. “But behind plate glass. Preferably with air-conditioning.”

“Huh.” He withdraws his arm.

“Anyway, it’s been fun talking to you!” I bounce up. “Um, see you around?”

I head back inside, feeling strangely triumphant. Sure, the objectively hot guy thinks I’m an evil, nature-hating girl now, but for some reason, that feels better than pretending to like things I don’t. I’m done smiling and nodding along just for some guy’s sake.

Especially if said guy is housing fungus on his feet.

“Well?” I find Kayla perched on one of the window seats, watching the party. She bounces up expectantly. “How did it go?”