Getting Over Garrett Delaney(66)
Author: Abby McDonald

“Gee, you make it sound so fun.”

I laugh. “Well, what did you have in mind?”

“Um, how about more beach time? And some parties. Ooh, and a road trip!” Kayla lights up. “The brat camp finishes next week, and then I’m free! Broke, but free.”

“You should come work at Totally Wired,” I suggest, reaching for another cookie. “We’ve got an open slot now that Dominique’s fled the state. I’m going to keep some shifts even when school starts, which means we could work together. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“You really think they’d hire me?” Kayla asks hopefully. “Because that would be the best. If I have to wipe up after another leaking kid, I think I’m going to start shoving corks somewhere corks aren’t designed to go.”

I laugh. “There’s wiping, sure, but no bodily fluids,” I promise. “And Carlos is still permanently hungover, he’ll say yes for sure — if we ask really loudly.”

“Yay!” Kayla claps. “OK, I have this family thing with Aunt June today, but you want to hang out tonight? I could call the girls and do a movie slumber party thing?”

“Sounds great,” I say. Just then, a familiar-sounding engine cuts through the silence. Kayla looks past me and breaks out into a smug little smile.

“Helllooo.”

“What?” I ask, turning. Josh’s mud-splattered truck is pulling to a stop in front of my house. He climbs down from the driver’s cab and nods over at us, tugging on his cap sheepishly. “What’s he doing here?” I whisper.

“Duh.” Kayla laughs. “Go on!” She’s already pushing me off the step. “But you better tell me everything!”

“Kayla . . .”

“Everything.” She grins, then gets up and disappears back into her house, leaving me with no reason to linger here. I take a deep breath and head back across the street, inexplicably nervous. “Hey.” I stop beside the truck. “What’s up?”

“Sorry to just show up, but you didn’t answer your phone,” Josh starts, running one hand over the top of his head, messing his hair even more. His skin is tan against the red of that zombie shirt, his eyes bright but bashful. “I was just heading out to the beach for the day, and I wondered . . . if you want to come.”

He looks up at that last part, meeting my eyes with a look that is definitely not just platonic.

I feel a thrill. “You mean . . . like a date?” I venture, suddenly needing to know exactly what this is we’re doing here. No more unspoken agreements and blurry lines. I need some clarity, this time around.

“Maybe,” Josh ventures, starting to smile. “If you want it to be. Or it could be just date-ish.”

“Date-like,” I reply, relaxing. “Date-esque.”

“A quasi-date,” he agrees. We grin at each other awkwardly.

“Yes,” I decide. “I’m in, but . . . would you wait, just five minutes? I need to grab my stuff.”

“Sure,” he keeps smiling. “Take as long as you need.”

I bound inside, thundering up the stairs to assemble my beach bag in two minutes flat. Sneakers, sunscreen, my iPod for the drive . . .

There’s only one thing left to do. I walk over to my computer and sit down. A few quick clicks and I have it up on-screen: the whole website, every perfect relationship, every great romantic couple. Years of work. A lifetime of dreaming. A shrine to something that I now know doesn’t exist — not in real life. Not so neatly. No, Kayla is right: real love is a whole lot messier — and maybe a whole lot more fun.

I click again and type in my password. A window pops up.

Are you sure you want to delete the database?

I hit the enter key without hesitation and bound back downstairs, out into the sunshine.