Getting Over Garrett Delaney(55)
Author: Abby McDonald

“It didn’t.”

“Why not? He was into you — I know it.” Kayla peers past me. “Look, he’s still there, you can go try again.” She pushes me back toward the screen door, but I stand firm. “Saaadie.” She keeps pushing. “You can’t keep pining.”

“This has nothing to do with Garrett!” I protest. It’s true, the Gods of Unrequited Crushes have finally been vanquished. For once, Garrett is the last thing on my mind. “Kayla, I swear. I talked, we flirted, but . . . I didn’t like him enough, OK? I mean, I’m all for moving on,” I add, “but can I move on to a guy who doesn’t have mud between his toes?”

“Mud?” She screws her face up. “Eww, OK, that’s gross!”

“Exactly.” I look at the knot of people around us, suddenly feeling an itch of energy in my veins. “Come on, let’s dance!”

We lose ourselves in the middle of the tight crowd for a while, and I forget everything except the thump of bass and quick beats of all these songs I’ve never heard before. I don’t ever dance at parties, but tonight it’s different; everyone here is into it, oblivious. Girls are dancing alone, eyes closed; burly guys in vintage shirts throw themselves into the music; and Kayla and I are unnoticed in the middle of it all. Nobody knows who I am, and nobody cares. There’s something freeing about that. I spin around, dizzy, clutching onto Kayla as we laugh until my lungs hurt.

I tug her out of the crowd for a moment to catch my breath. “Have you seen LuAnn or Dom anywhere?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head, hair falling loose from her usual ponytail. “Not all night.”

“Oooh, seating!” I spy a free corner of couch and head over to claim it. Kayla follows, and soon we’re crushed between an amorous couple and three long-haired hippie chicks passing a menthol cigarette around. “Maybe I should call Oliver over,” I say. “There are Birkenstocks aplenty around here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go try again with him?” She asks, still dubious. “Because he really was cute, and mud washes off. . . .”

“I’m fine, really,” I reassure her. “It was good practice, but we weren’t meant to be. I don’t even compost.”

Kayla giggles. “Sorry. I was kind of pushing you onto him.”

“No, I needed it. I can’t avoid dating forever. And at least you have a future as a brothel owner ahead of you, if college doesn’t work out.” I grin.

“Sure, my parents will love that.” She laughs, but then pauses, sounding almost wistful. “I guess part of me wants to live vicariously through you,” she adds slowly. “Since I haven’t kissed anyone aside from Blake.”

I blink. “Ever?”

“Ever.” She nods, blushing. “We got together freshman year, remember?”

“Weird,” I say. The hippie chicks leave, murmuring something about a drum circle, so I scoot over on the couch to claim their space. “I mean, good weird,” I add. “That you found each other and all.”

She nods slowly, curling up in the corner. “Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if we hadn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not that I don’t love him or anything,” Kayla says quickly, playing with the fringe on a couch cushion. “But I don’t know. . . . Sometimes I try to think who I’d be, without him.”

“You mean like me trying to figure out who I am without Garrett?”

“Right. And we’re happy, me and Blake,” she says quickly, as if to even mention otherwise is girlfriend sacrilege. “But I think about it. Like, would I have run track, if practices hadn’t clashed with date night? And would I have made different friends?” She’s wearing a contemplative look I don’t think I’ve seen on her before.

“I like the Laurens and Yolanda and everyone,” she continues slowly, “but I started hanging out with them because we were all one big group — Blake and his friends, and then us girls, because we were dating them.” She bites her lip. “That’s how it’s always been: me and him together. And now I’m picking colleges to be near him, and . . . I just wonder — that’s all.”

She gives me a shy smile, and although I know she doesn’t wish she’d never gotten together with Blake at all, I understand what she means. If I hadn’t met Garrett, what would my life look like now?

“They never tell us what happens after happily ever after,” I say. “I had to add a whole new section to the website. . . .” I trail off, realizing what I’ve said, but it’s too late.

“What website?” Kayla asks.

I blush. “Um, remember those lists we used to make? About the top couples, or most romantic movie characters?”

“Sure.” She smiles. “We filled whole notebooks with that stuff.”

“Well . . . I kind of took it to the next level.” Feeling like the biggest loser on earth, I tell her about my database. “I don’t do it anymore,” I say quickly. “It kind of faded out this summer, without my Garrett stuff fueling it on.”

“I think it’s cute!” Kayla laughs. “And, OK, maybe a little dorky.”

I groan, covering my face with my hands.

“Aww, it’s OK, it just shows you’re a romantic at heart.” Kayla nudges me. “Just be careful with that. Real-life relationships . . . they’re not like they are in books and movies. Life is, well, it’s a whole lot messier.” She sighs.

I’m wondering what to say to that when LuAnn appears in front of us, breathless. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“We’ve just been enjoying the scenery.” Kayla winks. “And it’s cute!”

“Uh-huh.” Distracted, LuAnn looks back toward the living area. The volume has risen even more — raucous with music and the sound of the crowd cheering at something. “We might have a problem.”

I pause, still distracted by Kayla’s last comment. “What kind of problem?”

“A Dominique-shaped one.”

There’s a sudden whoop from the other room. Kayla and I exchange a look, then we quickly follow LuAnn to the scene of the commotion.

“Yeah, baby!” some guys are yelling. “Get it on!”

We push our way through the dense crowd until I can see what’s causing such joy: Dominique, a bottle of tequila in one hand, grinding up against any guy in a ten-foot radius. The preppy cardigan is gone, and she’s sweaty and disheveled, breaking out in hysterical giggles.