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"I made a pot."
He leans back, watching me, eyes trailing over my face.
"Stop freaking out, Callie."
"I'm not freaking out."
"I can hear you freaking out, from here." He tilts his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. It's not a cute-tilt, like Snoopy. It's a sexy, hot-tilt . . . a manly-tilt. "The question is, why?"
I swallow and lift my chin and just . . . put it all out there.
"Am I Cancun?"
Garrett laughs. "What?"
"Am I that girl in Cancun . . . the one you do shots with, and go to clubs with, and have sex on the beach with . . . and then never see or think about ever again?"
He squints at me. "What the hell are you talking about? Were you drinking something else besides coffee?"
I shake my head and sigh.
"I'm not staying in Lakeside, Garrett."
A shadow falls over his features. "I know that."
"I have a life. A whole life in San Diego that I plan to get back to."
"I know that too." He reaches out, tracing my bottom lip with his thumb. "But for this year, your life is here."
"And what happens when I go back to San Diego?"
"I . . . don't know. But I know I want to figure it out. And we will, Cal, we'll figure it out."
Those are good answers. I like those answers. But I have to know, I want us to be clear--no misunderstandings or mistakes.
"What is this to you . . . what are we doing? What do you want?"
Garrett smiles that easy smile that makes me want to lick every single inch of his skin.
"This is . . . you and me . . . the reboot. We'll talk and laugh, and fuck until we can't move and probably fight at some point too. And we'll . . . be."
I reach for him. He releases my arms and rolls us to the side, my hands around his neck, my leg draped across his hip. "As for what I want . . . I want you, Callie. For as long as you're here, for as long as you'll let me have you. I want all of you."
Chapter Fifteen
Garrett
On Monday, I start picking Callie up in the morning, so we can drive to school together. I don't know why I didn't think of it before--all those post-fantastic-screwing endorphins pumping through my bloodstream must be giving me brilliant ideas. Although no one sees us pull into the parking lot or walk in together, by midmorning talk around the school hallways is already rampant. It's like the kids can smell the attraction on us--nosy little bloodhounds. They whisper and point, and by Tuesday they ask me about it, because privacy and personal boundaries mean nothing to them.
Are you and Miss Carpenter hooking up?
Is Miss Carpenter your OTP?
Miss Carpenter's hot, Coach. You gotta lock that down. Give a chick a mile and she'll take the whole nine inches from somebody else, you know what I'm saying?
OMG, Coach D! You and Miss Carpenter should totally go to prom! It's sooooo cute when old people date!
OTP is One True Pair, by the way . . . and I hate myself for knowing that.
By Wednesday, they invent one of those celebrity, name-mashing nicknames for us. "Darpenter," Dean tells me, barely managing to keep a straight face.
I sit back in my office chair. "You're screwing with me."
He's pulled some pretty twisted practical jokes in the past.
He holds up his empty hands. "Afraid not. Kelly Simmons told me it's all over the girls' bathrooms and Merkle said two of her art kids engraved it on keychains."
"Keychains?"
"Yep, you and Callie are officially relationship goals." He makes the hashtag sign with his fingers. "Congratulations."
Then he cracks up.
"Great--thanks."
Darpenter . . . sounds like a chemical you use to strip off paint.
"It could've been worse, D. Could've been . . . Carret." He reconsiders, "Carret's kind of cute, actually."
I give him the finger.
"So it's official then?" My best friend asks, sobering slightly. "You guys are giving it another shot? I've lost my wingman?"
All this time, all these years, when it comes to dating I've been fixated on keeping my life my own--keeping it uncomplicated and drama-free. But it's different with Callie--so easy to slip into that steady groove because we mesh . . . seamlessly fit together. We always did. She knows me, she gets me--and there's not a single thing about her that I don't adore.
My life is still simple, still easy . . . but it's just so much better with her in it.
"Yeah, man. I mean . . . it's Callie, you know?"
And I don't need to say anything else. Dean gets me too.
"I'm happy for you. I hope it works out . . ." Then he snickers, ". . . Gallie."
Dickhead.
~
"You're the only person I know who doesn't eat fruit to be healthy, but actually enjoys it."
It's kind of nuts the things you find attractive about someone when you're really into them. Callie was always a fruit salad kind of girl, even when we were kids. Right now, we're in The Cave, the teachers' lounge, as our classes attend a first period anti-drug assembly in the auditorium. And she's popping giant, radioactive-sized green grapes in her mouth. Watching her slip them between her gorgeous pouty lips is turning me on something fierce.
She giggles, shrugging. "Fruit is good." She holds one out to me. "Want one?"
My eyes dart between the grape and her mouth.
"No . . . I just want to keep watching you eat them."
Her pretty green eyes narrow wickedly. She takes the next grape and gives it a nice, slow lick and I can't help but picture her doing the same to my balls. Then she closes her eyes, gives a little hungry moan before making a lovely, wide O with her mouth and popping the big round grape through her luscious lips.
I smother a groan. Looks like a trip to the faculty bathroom for some "private time" is in my future. Jesus, how old am I again?
"Get a room, you two," Donna Merkle teases as she sits down at the table next to Callie. And then I catch her staring at Jerry's ass as he pours himself a cup of coffee across the room. They've been markedly less vicious with each other during the staff meetings, though they still hate-fuck each other with their eyes.
It's not an uncommon thing for relationships to develop between teachers--no matter how weird or incompatible it may look from the outside. It's like costars on a movie set or soldiers on deployment--we're all stuck in this building together for hours a day, and only other teachers really understand what it's like. Things are bound to happen. And something is definitely happening with Merkle and Jerry. Callie sees it too.
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"You and Jerry first, Donna."
"Leaving now," Merkle says, rising. And Jerry's eyes follow her right out the door.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table.
"So, you're coming over tonight after the game, right?"
Callie's parents have made some good progress on the recovery front. The hospital bed has been taken down--they're using walkers and crutches to get around now. They still need Callie to do any heavy lifting, but their progress has given her just a bit more time out of the house . . . and over at mine.
"Definitely." She nods. "Can't mess with a streak."
God damn, she's perfect.
We've won every game since mine and Callie's first night together, and I have no doubt we'll win again tonight. Her pussy is my gorgeous good-luck charm and I make damn sure I give that beauty the gratitude and worship it deserves.
~
Later that day, in third period, Miss McCarthy comes on the loudspeaker and announces the nominations for homecoming queen, who will be crowned next week. When she reads Simone Porchesky's name, Nancy and Skylar and more than half the rest of the class bust a gut laughing.
Nancy shrieks and grabs her phone. "OMG, Simone is up for homecoming queen! Hilarious!"
I know Simone--she's in Callie's theater class. Blue hair, piercings, tattoos--she's designing the sets and the costumes for Callie's play.
"Why is that hilarious?" I ask.
But my gut curdles with the suspicion that I already know why.
"It's a joke," Nancy tells me. "A bunch of us got together and put her name in as a joke. I posted about it but I didn't actually think she'd really get nominated! This is amazing."
I think about that scene from The Breakfast Club, where Andy the jock talks about the humiliation the kid whose ass cheeks he taped together must've felt. I think about Callie, and the care and affection she feels for her students--how hearing about this is going to crush a piece of her.
And I think about Simone, just a girl trying to figure herself out--and the isolation and embarrassment and the fucking hurt she's going to feel. Because kids know when you're laughing with them, even if they don't see it. They know when they're a punchline. And it's soul shattering.
"Why would you do that?"
Nancy shrugs. "I don't know."
I believe her--and it's horrifying. That she would inflict this kind of cruelty on someone else without any real reason at all.
