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.
I browse the stacks until I can’t carry any more choices, then settle in at the little coffee shop next door to whittle down my short list, surrounded by bearded college undergrads and burly biker types. I’m so deep in a collection of vintage kids’ ballet stories that I barely hear Josh’s voice. “Is that a cinnamon roll? Traitor.”
I look up as he folds himself into the chair opposite, a stern expression on his face. I hurry to swallow a mouthful of the offending pastry.
“Just keeping tabs on the competition,” I protest quickly. “And they’ve got nothing on you.”
He breaks into a smile. “I’m kidding. And, sure they don’t.”
“Modest,” I tease. “Anyway, no more delays.” I push my plate aside. “I can’t stand the suspense. What’s the big secret? Did everything work out?”
Josh suddenly looks bashful. In fact, if the light wasn’t already rosy from the stained-glass panels in the window, I would swear he’s blushing. He reaches for a sugar packet and begins to tear it open. “I, uh, came to talk to the guy next door. Did you take a look around?” I shake my head. “Right, I forgot, the books. Anyway, he’s got this great restaurant. Nothing fancy, just simple, fresh stuff. They even grow a bunch of the produce on a farm nearby — the whole local-food movement.”
“That’s cool,” I say, even though I don’t really follow.
Josh makes tiny circles in the sugar crystals with his fingertips. “So . . . I came to see about working here. An apprenticeship,” he explains. “Not just the stuff I do at work, but real training.” He stops, and then a huge grin spreads across his face, as if he just can’t hold it back. “And . . . he said yes. I got the job.”
“Josh!” I leap up. “That’s amazing! Congratulations!” I hug him across the table. “So you’re going to be a chef, for real?”
“Maybe. We’ll see. It doesn’t pay much, and I’ll be working crazy hours, but . . . I don’t know, I think I could be good at it.” Josh looks at me, hopeful, as if he’s waiting for agreement.
“Of course you will,” I insist. “We’ll miss you, though. When do you start?”
“Not for another couple of weeks. His summer intern goes back to culinary school in the fall.”
“Is that something you’ll need to do, then?” I ask, curious. “Go to cooking school?”
“I don’t know. I’m not thinking that far ahead.” He’s still grinning, clearly thrilled. “For now, I’ll just see how this works out.”
“It will be great,” I declare. “I can just see you in one of those floppy white hats, whipping up amazing meals and yelling at all your kitchen underlings.”
He snorts. “I think I’ll be the one getting yelled at for now. And I won’t be anywhere near the real food — just chopping stuff and cleaning up.”
“But it’s a start,” I insist. “You’ll be winning Michelin stars in no time. That’s the award, right?” I check. “That all the fancy restaurants have?”
He nods. “But I want to be more of a James Beard guy. It’s the award they give for the best chefs in America,” he explains. “The ones who really push the boundaries and put a whole modern spin on things.”
I’m amazed. “You never said you were into this stuff. You always complain about being stuck in the kitchen back at work.”
Josh shrugs again. “Sure, because I’m grilling sandwiches for the millionth time. This is different. Will — the guy in the restaurant — he’s doing amazing stuff with meats and herbs and —” He seems to catch himself, stopping with a shy smile. “Sorry, I get kind of carried away when it comes to cooking.”
“No, it’s great.” I look at him, at the energy in his expression. The casual act is gone, and instead, there’s something focused and full of excitement. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
Josh coughs, and suddenly that goofy smile is back. “There I go, ruining my bad reputation.”
“Sure, you’re a regular rebel without a cause.” I laugh. “Now, how about we get something to toast this news of yours?”
There’s a reason you didn’t block off contact with him entirely. And that reason is friendship — or at least, the dream of a happy, healthy friendship, unencumbered by the crippling weight of unrequited love. The utopia of BFFs, the (ahem) platonic ideal of emotional maturity. It’s getting closer every day, but the question is, are you ready for it?
I don’t mean kind of, almost, nearly ready. I’m talking immune-to-his-charms, cool-and-collected, ready-to-hang-up-in-a-heartbeat kind of ready. Because you haven’t done all this work just to turn around and hurl yourself at his feet again, pleading, “Love me! Love me!”
Asphalt hurts. But not as much as abandoning your dignity.
“I’m bored.” Kayla collapses next to me after Sunny Dayze lets out. I’m perched on the bench in front of Totally Wired on my break, peeling an orange and watching people on Main Street meander past. There’s a soothing calm to it, I’ve found: the slow strolling and absent errands that used to fill me with disdain and frustration are now kind of charming, after a manic morning serving coffees in the café.
“That’s new.” I offer her an orange segment. “Usually you’re exhausted and/or homicidal. Which, you know, isn’t the best thing when you’re working with kids.”
“But they’re so inane.” She sighs. “It’s all, ‘Kayla, look at my crayons!’ and, ‘Kayla, I made you a bracelet!’ Please. Come back when you can pee on your own.”
I laugh. “And somehow, every mom in town thinks you’re God’s gift to child care.”
Kayla bats her eyelashes at me. “As long as they tip at the end of summer!”
We sit side by side in th
e sun, enjoying the last orange sections. “Fall’s coming,” Kayla says. “I can feel it in the air.”
“You lie,” I tell her. “Fall isn’t coming, because if it does, that means winter’s on the way, and I refuse.”
“You refuse?”
“Yup. I’m not allowing it this year,” I declare, folding my arms. “Wet mittens and runny noses and ugly snow boots, and waiting in the cold for the bus. It’s just not going to happen. I forbid it. It’s staying summer forever.”
Kayla giggles. “Good luck with that, holding back the seasons.”
“Hey, they’re always telling us we don’t know what we can achieve if we set our minds to it.” I shrug. “So, I’m setting my mind to this.”
“Aww, I like winter,” she muses. “Fires and hot chocolate and snuggling up with . . . well”— she stops —“snuggling in general.”
I shoot her a sympathetic look, but Kayla fixes a smile on her face. “Anyway, you won’t be standing around in the cold in the mornings, you’ll be riding in with me.”
“Well, in that case, winter is allowed this year,” I decide. “Just for you.”
LuAnn’s peeling red Civic screeches into a spot just across from us. She hops out, dressed in a crazy polka-dot dress, with ballet slippers tied crisscross all the way up her calves. “Hey!” She waves over to us, walking straight out into the street. A minivan slams on its brakes and blares its horn, but LuAnn just bounces over to us, beaming.
“I thought up another step for that plan of yours!”
“You did?” I remain noncommittal. LuAnn’s previous suggestions for the “Getting Over Garrett” file have so far included transferring to an international school somewhere glamorous and European, making out with twenty-four boys in twenty-four hours, and staging an intricate voodoo witchcraft ceremony to peel his essence from around my soul. “That’s sweet,” I tell her. “But I’m doing fine for now.”
“She’s hardly even talked to him this week,” Kayla agrees.
I turn to her. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”
“Duh.” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Do I need to remind you about a certain Slushie incident? For the sake of my wardrobe, I need to know if you’re in panic mode.”
“No panicking,” I tell them both. “I’m good — I promise.”
“But you could be better!” LuAnn cries. “If you just had — drumroll — snap bracelets!” She produces a handful of thin rubber bands. “See? You put them on, and then whenever you think about Garrett, you snap them.” She demonstrates on my bare wrist. I reel back in pain.
“Owww!”
“It’s negative reinforcement,” LuAnn declares, eyes lit up with a sly gleam. “Eventually, you associate Garrett with pain and stop thinking about him.”
“Um, no,” I tell her firmly, peeling them off. “Don’t you think it’s a little extreme?”
LuAnn shakes her head. “You said it yourself: you can’t underestimate a broken heart.”
“It’s OK.” I laugh. “Really. I don’t need to resort to physical harm — I promise.”
LuAnn doesn’t look convinced. “It can sneak up on you at any time,” she warns, tucking the rubber bands away. “One minute you’re fine, and the next — bam! You’re weeping in the corner in three-day-old sweatpants, with nothing but a pack of Hostess Cupcakes to fill the emptiness and longing inside.”
I blink. “Thanks for the warning,” I tell her slowly. “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
“Sure thing!” She heads inside, skirts fluttering.
I turn to Kayla. “Um, let me know if you ever see her with a cattle prod, OK?”
The rest of the afternoon slips by without any more crazy ideas from LuAnn — except her attempts to play Lady Gaga on the stereo, which are quickly overridden by five different customers and an executive decision from Dominique.
“Some of us are trying to work,” Dominique informs LuAnn, striding behind the counter and snatching the offending CD from the player.
“You’re not even on today. You don’t get a say!” LuAnn objects, rushing to save her pop mix from the trash. I edge back, out of the way.
“I have six chapters to learn before my test tomorrow.” Dominique stalks back to her corner table: a makeshift fort of textbooks and wide-ruled notebooks. “I need quiet!”
“But Dom —”
“Just play something else,” Carlos calls from the back office, where he’s been locked away, scowling at the books. He scoots his chair into the doorway and tells LuAnn, “The customers are always right, remember?”
“Fine,” she answers with a grin, reaching for another CD. “You asked for it.”
A moment later, Carlos’s hit song starts playing; LuAnn sings loudly along. “I’m feelin’ free . . .” she warbles. “Like a bird in the sky . . .”
“LuAnn!” Carlos warns her. She pivots away, turning to the next customer.
“You like this song, don’t you?”
“Uh, sure.” The middle-aged man blinks, then begins nodding in time with the beat. “I heard it on TV, that car ad.”
LuAnn shoots Carlos a triumphant look and keeps singing. “I’m flyin’ so high . . . Freeeeee . . .”
Carlos retreats, slamming the door behind him. I sneak a glance at Dominique, still full of questions about their weird back-alley makeout setup. She hasn’t said a word to me yet about my unfortunate discovery; she’s just been breezing through her shifts with the same icy detachment as ever. Does she care that I’ve kept her secret, or is she so far above petty gossiping that she wouldn’t even care if I told? I watch her: head bent over those law books, a pair of chic, wire-rimmed glasses on her nose. She looks studious and reserved, like the last person to be having a scandalous affair with her boss, but perhaps that’s the point.
Dominique looks up suddenly and catches my gaze. I turn away quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring.
“I don’t know why he’s so touchy,” LuAnn says. “Anyone would think he’s ashamed of selling out. I’d sell out in a minute,” she adds, “if it meant I got a check in the mail every month.”
I laugh. “What happened to artistic integrity?”
“Screw artistic integrity,” she shoots back. “Mama needs to pay rent.”
The door dings behind us.
“So what does a guy have to do to get some service around here?”
I turn. And there he is, a crumpled button-down shirt half tucked in to brown corduroy pants; his beat-up leather satchel slung across his body. He approaches the counter, a familiar grin on his face.
Garrett.
“So, what’s the coffee of the day?” His grin broadens as he leans on the counter.
I gape, frozen in place with a pair of muffin tongs in one hand and the other clutching a coffee mug for dear life.
Garrett. Back. Here.
My mouth drops open in shock. How is this possible? I had a whole countdown planned: his return date circled in red on my calendar at home — the calendar I haven’t looked at in weeks, I realize. The one currently buried under a mountain of trashy romance novels and teen movie DVDs. “I . . . I don’t . . .” I stutter, helpless.
LuAnn gives me a weird look. “That’s our Somali roast,” she says, stepping into the breach. “It pairs really well with our almond torte, if you’d like.”
Garrett turns to me. “What do you think, Sadie?”
“You guys know each other?” LuAnn brightens. “Why didn’t you say?”
Finally, my brain engages. “Garrett,” I manage. “He’s back. I mean, you’re back.”
“Surprise!” Garrett laughs. Before I can even think, he circles the counter and enfolds me in a massive hug. “I can’t believe it. The past six weeks have felt like a whole lifetime.”
I stay still, motionless in his arms.
Sure, I knew this day would come — but not yet! I was supposed to have time to strategize, to put a whole emergency plan in place before I was faced with this momentous occasion.
> “Hi!” I finally manage, disentangling myself from his arms. Up close, he’s painfully familiar — the way his hair falls into his eyes, the perfectly sculpted cheekbones, the smudge of birthmark just above his right ear. There’s newness, too, though: a fuzz of blond stubble on his chin, tan lines on his wrist. “What are you doing here?” I manage. “I mean, you didn’t say you were coming home!”
“Just got in.” He exhales. “I spent six hours crammed up against a Hell’s Angel named Bubba, so God knows I need a shower, but I just had to come by and see you first. Man, I missed you.”
I blink up at him, reeling. Then I remember LuAnn, standing just two feet away from us. Aiko has arrived, too, watching us curiously as she ties on her apron.
I leap back. “I’m going to go get you some of that torte!” I exclaim. “You go sit down. Relax.”
“It’s OK. I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to say hey.” Garrett’s still smiling, seemingly unconcerned by my babbling, clumsy performance. “But let’s hang out later. We could do a movie tonight. Annie Hall is playing in Northampton.”
“I don’t know. . . .” I try to think straight. “I was going to —”
“No excuses,” Garrett says, cutting me off. “Come on, it’s my first night back in town! You know how you love Woody Allen.” He gives me a mock puppy-dog look, and right away, everything rushes back to me — the late nights, the road trips. The way he can look at me like I’m the most important person in the world.
“OK,” I agree. “Tonight. I’ll see you then.”
“Great!” he says. “Pick you up at seven!”
I watch him lope away, still reeling from the change, from a ringtone on my phone, a face in photographs, a memory to this, flesh and blood, and back in town.
“Emergency staff meeting, now!” LuAnn announces. “Dominique! Aiko!”
She grabs my arm and drags me back toward the office. Carlos looks up in surprise as we barrel in.
“Sorry, we need the room,” LuAnn announces. “Shoo.”
“Shoo?” he repeats, looking at her with a mix of amazement and disbelief. “This is my office!”
Getting Over Garrett Delaney Page 16