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It's not sexual, but . . . intimate. Comforting someone in their grief is an act of love, being allowed to do it is a gift of trust. To see someone at their most vulnerable, to know their bare, unhidden pain.
Garrett lies back on the pillow, folding it in half beneath his head, tucking his arm under it, staring at the ceiling. His eyes are still wet, shiny in the dim moonlight that reverberates off the lake and through the window. I strip off my sweater and step out of my black leggings. I unhook my bra and slide it off my arms. I place Garrett's clothes and mine on the corner chair, and then I slide under the cool sheets with him. Our bodies are aligned, every inch touching, and my arm is draped across his waist.
Words scrape up Garrett's throat. "This sucks."
Fresh tears spring into my eyes. I stroke his chest and curve my leg around his hip, weaving myself around him.
"I know."
His fingers brush my shoulder and his arm tugs me even closer.
"I'm glad you're here. It makes it better."
I lift up on my elbow, gazing down at him, crying for him while I swear, "I love you, Garrett. I love you so much. And I'm never letting you go again. There is nowhere in this world I want to be, except next to you--wherever you are."
Sadness strips away the extra--leaving only what's important, only what matters. They're not just words I say--they're words I mean, to the depths of my soul. I want to share it all with Garrett--every joy, and every pain too. I want to walk through life with him at my side--face whatever comes with him.
We couldn't do that when we were young. The love was there, but we weren't ready . . . we couldn't deal with the painful parts, the unexpected. We can now. We're older, wiser--stronger together. We can be by each other's sides, be each other's solace, through the good and the bad.
Garrett raises his palm against mine, pressing our hands together, watching as our fingers fold and entwine together. He looks at my face, and brushes back my hair. "I love you too, Cal, so much. Everything else . . . is just details."
I slide up and shift, so I'm on my back and Garrett's head can rest against my breast. I hum softly, because he's always loved my voice. And he lets me stroke his hair and hold him--we hold onto each other--all through the night.
~
Garrett
The first day after Snoopy dies is hard. The pain is still fresh and raw, a wound that's still bleeding. On a logical level, it's weird. My brain tells me that Snoopy was a dog--my pet--that he had a good run, that I'm lucky to have had him for so long. But my heart doesn't get that message. It's fucking wrecked . . . shattered . . . like I've lost a member of my family, almost like one of my brothers has died.
When my class shuffles in for third period, I know they already know. It's in their subdued, somber demeanors as they take their seats--a sea of sympathetic expressions that can only briefly meet my eyes.
After the last, late bell rings, I close the door, and as I walk back to my desk, Nancy says quietly, "We heard about your dog. We're sorry, Coach Daniels."
I manage a tight smile. "Thank you."
"It's messed up," Brad Reefer adds, in the back.
"It sucks, man." Dugan shakes his head.
"Yeah." I nod. "Yeah. It does."
"If there's anything we can do," DJ tells me from the front row, "tell us, okay?"
I clear my throat, their unusual kindness and empathy twisting my lungs into a knot.
"Thanks, guys."
Then I focus on today's lesson plan and get through it.
The second day is harder. I feel bruised all over when it settles in that Snoopy's gone. I have these crazy, split-second moments when I expect him to come around the corner barking or jump on me when I walk in the front door. And every time I realize he's not there . . . it hurts all over again.
Callie's with me every day, almost every minute. Hugging me, loving me, keeping me busy, distracting me . . . making it all just a little bit easier because she's her, and she's here.
On the third day, I walk into third period, and my whole class is already there, in their seats. This is odd for them. There's a cardboard box in the middle of my desk and at first I think it could be a prank--a stink bomb or a paintball grenade.
"What's this?"
"It's for you," Skylar says.
And they're all watching me . . . waiting . . . smiling like creepy clown children in a horror movie.
"O-kay," I say suspiciously. Then I take the lid off the box.
And I stare.
At the sleeping ball of golden fur curled up in the corner.
It's a puppy--a golden retriever puppy--about eight weeks old judging from his size. Gently, I pick him up, and hold him close to my face. His legs dangle loosely, and his snout stretches into a wide, sharp-toothed yawn. Then his black eyes creak open, and stare back at me.
The air punches from my lungs--all of it. Making my voice raspy and choked.
"You guys . . . you got me a dog?"
And they brought it to school--so much better than a rooster.
They nod.
And I'm completely knocked on my ass. My eyes burn--and my dick is big enough to admit, I may actually fucking cry.
"Do you like him?" Reefer asks.
"I . . . love him. It's one of the best gifts anyone has ever given me."
And it's not just about the dog. It's that it came from them--these selfish, short-sighted, amazing, awesome kids. That they were kind enough, giving enough to do this . . . it makes me feel like just maybe, I'm doing something right with them.
I shift him to the crook of my arm, and pet his soft fur and scratch behind his little ears. "How did you afford this?"
He looks like a purebreed--we're talking eight-hundred dollars, easy.
Dugan raises his hand. "I wanted to steal him."
"Don't steal shit, Dugan."
He tucks his shoulder-length hair behind his ear. "I wasn't gonna get caught."
I shake my head. "Doesn't matter--don't steal. It'll mess up your life."
He shrugs.
"We all chipped in," Nancy tells me. "All your classes."
"And the football team too," DJ says.
Nancy nods. "We remembered when you'd bring Snoopy to school sometimes."
"And to practice," DJ adds.
"And we knew it wasn't right that you didn't have a dog anymore," Skylar says.
"And we wanted to do something for you," Nancy finishes.
I choke out a laugh, shaking my head. "I can't believe you guys bought me a dog. Thank you, for real, this is . . . it's incredible. It means the world to me."
"What are you going to name him?" DJ asks, grinning broadly.
"Good question." I look down at the little guy in my arms--already asleep again. Then I get the best idea ever.
I jerk my head towards the door. "Let's go. Class trip. Way before any of your times, Miss Carpenter named Snoopy. Seems only right that she comes up with something for this bad boy too."
I throw my jacket over the puppy, in case Miss McCarthy is patrolling the halls, and lead my class down to the auditorium. Callie stands up from the front row, crossing her delicate arms, somehow looking even hotter now than when we left my house this morning.
"Coach Daniels. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I lift the jacket, revealing the bundle of adorable in my arms. And any illusion of professionalism goes out the window.
"Oh my God!" She coos and squeals. "Who is this?"
I hand the little guy over and gesture to my class.
"A present from the kids."
She meets my eyes and her face goes soft. Because she knows--she knows what this means to me. She knows me, through and through.
"What should we call him?" I ask Callie.
And for a second, when our eyes meet, it's like we're the only two people in the room.
She gazes at the puppy, her forehead scrunching, thinking it over. Then she looks back at me.
"Woodstock. With this beautiful yellow coat . . . d
efinitely Woodstock. And we can call him Woody for short."
I laugh, nodding.
"You pick the best names. It's perfect. Woody--awesome."
"Can I hold him?" Nancy asks.
I nod, and Callie hands him over. The kids swell in around Nancy as she sits down, drifting far enough away from us for Callie to whisper so they can't hear, "I really, really want to kiss you right now."
And I smirk, because--fuck yeah.
I point at Nancy, using my coaching voice--the one that's always followed. "Keep an eye on Woody. There's an issue Miss Carpenter and I have to deal with backstage."
If they're quick enough to pick up on what we're doing, they don't show it. I lead Callie up the side stage steps, and brush the heavy curtain aside. We step behind it and then, just in case, I tug her into a dark little alcove to the right of the stage. It's like this place was designed for making out--those naughty theater people.
I lean back against the wall, lifting my hands, gazing down at my girl.
"Have at me, babe. I'm all yours."
Callie reaches up, tugging at my shirt, bringing my mouth closer to hers. "Yeah . . . you really are."
Then she presses those sweet lips against mine and kisses the hell out of me.
