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"You look great too, Cal, as beautiful as ever. What's going on? What are you doing here?"
I gesture in the direction of the principal's office and stumble over my words, because I still can't wrap my mind around it.
"I'm . . . getting a . . . job. Here. At Lakeside. I just met with Miss McCarthy . . . she really hasn't changed at all, has she?"
"Nope. Still bat-shit crazy."
"Yeah." The wind picks up, whipping at my hair. I tuck the blond strands behind my ear. "So . . . I'm subbing for Julie Shriver--teaching her theater class. I'm staying with my parents for the year while they recuperate."
His forehead furrows. "What happened to your parents?"
"Oh, God . . . You're not going to believe it."
"Try me."
I feel my cheeks go pink and warm. But . . . it's Garrett, so only the truth will do.
"My mother was giving my father a blow job on the way home from AC. He crashed into a ditch--breaking both their legs. One each."
Garrett tilts his head back and chuckles. His laugh is smooth and deep. Then he sobers to a smartass grin. "Yeah, my brother already told me--I just wanted to hear you say it out loud."
"Jerk." I push at his chest, and it feels like warm stone beneath my fingers. "It's so embarrassing."
"Nah, it's awesome." He waves his hand. "You should be proud. Your parents are seventy years old and still getting jiggy with it in the big, bad Buick. They've officially won at life."
"That's one way of looking at it." I shrug. "How are your parents? I saw Ryan at the hospital but we only talked for a minute. How's the rest of your family?"
"They're good. Everyone's pretty good. Connor's getting divorced, but he got three boys out of the deal, so it's still a win."
"Three boys? Wow. Carrying on the great all-boys Daniels tradition, huh?"
"No." He shakes his head. "Ryan has two girls, so we know who got the weak sperm in the family."
I roll my eyes, laughing. "Nice."
"I'm just kidding--my nieces kick ass and take names. Yours do too from what I hear. Colleen's oldest is a freshman this year, right?"
"Yeah. Emily. I've told her to get ready; high school is a whole new world."
And it all feels so un-awkward. Seamless. Talking to Garrett, laughing with him. Like riding your favorite bike down a smooth, familiar road.
"Are you still in California?" he asks.
"Yeah, I'm executive director of the Fountain Theater Company in San Diego."
"No kidding?" Pride suffuses his tone. "That's amazing. Good for you, Cal."
"Thanks." I gesture towards the football field behind the school building. "And you're teaching here . . . and coaching? Head Coach Daniels?"
He nods. "That's me."
"You must love it. My sister says the team's been outstanding the last few years."
"Yeah, they are. But I'm their coach, so outstanding is to be expected."
"Of course." I smile.
Then there's that quiet lull . . . comfortable . . . but still a lull, that always comes towards the end of a conversation.
I gesture towards my rental car. "Well, I should probably . . ."
"Yeah." Garrett nods, staring down at my hands, like he's looking for something.
Then his voice gets stronger--taking on that clear, decisive tone he always had, even when we were young.
"We should hang out, sometime. Since . . . you're going to be in town for a while. And we're going to be working together. We should catch up. Grab dinner or get a drink at Chubby's . . . legally, for once. It'll be fun."
My eyes find his--the eyes I grew up loving. And my voice is quiet with sincerity.
"I would really like that."
"Cool." He holds out his hand. "Give me your phone. I'll text mine, so you have the number. Let me know when you're free."
"Okay."
I put my phone in his hand and he taps the buttons for a minute, then gives it back. I slip it into my purse. And then I stop and just look at him. Because there were so many times, so many days when I thought of him--when I'd wondered, and wanted the chance to look at him again, even just one more time.
My voice is gentle, breathy. "It's . . . it's so good to see you again, Garrett."
And he's looking back at me, watching me, just like the first time.
"Yeah. Yeah, Callie, it really is."
We hold each other's gazes for a moment, taking each other in, absorbing these new, older versions of ourselves.
Then he opens the car door for me--and I remember that too. He used to do this all the time, every time, because Irene Daniels' boys were rowdy and rough and a little bit wild, but she raised them right--to be men. Gentlemen.
The feeling of being precious and protected and cared about warms my muscles as I climb into the car, the same way it always used to. Garrett closes the door behind me and taps on the hood. He gives me one last breathtaking smile and steps back.
Then he stands there, arms crossed, watching me pull out of the parking lot and drive safely away.
Later, once I'm parked in my parents' driveway, I remember my phone. I take it out of my purse. And when I read what Garett texted to himself I laugh out loud, alone in the car:
Garrett, you're even hotter than I remember.
I want to rip your clothes off with my teeth.
~Callie
Nope--Garrett Daniels hasn't changed a bit.
And that's a wonderful thing.
Garrett
"You called her name out the window and ran across the parking lot to talk to her? Jesus, did you hold a boom box over your head too?" Dean asks.
"Shut up, dickweed."
"Why don't you borrow the pussy costume Merkle wore to the women's march last year?"
Merkle is Donna Merkle--the megafeminist art teacher at Lakeside.
I flip him off.
We're sitting down at my dock later that day, fishing and drinking a few beers while I tell him about seeing Callie again, the story with her parents, and how she's going to be subbing at the school this year.
Dean shakes his head. "Just be careful with that, D."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I was here, dude. I remember how you were when you came back from California after you guys broke up. It was rough. And that's being really fucking generous."
I reach down to where Snoopy is lying on the dock and scratch his belly. He rolls over to give me full access, the shameless bastard.
"That was years ago; we were kids. We're adults now. We can be friends."
He shakes his head again. "See, it doesn't work like that, man. Like, take me and Lizzy Appleguard. We were neighbors, friends--borrowing cups of sugar, I helped her hang her TV, shit like that. We screwed for a few weeks and it was good while it lasted. And then, we went back to being friends. I was an usher in her wedding. You and Tara, same thing--you knew each other in high school, passed each other in the halls, you bumped uglies for a few months, now you're friends again, passing each other in the grocery store, "Hey, how you doing? What's up?"
Dean reels in his line, giving his fishing pole a little tug. "But you and Callie . . . I remember how you two were back in the day. It was intense. A ton of heat, and there was love . . . but I don't remember a single day when you two were anything close to friends."
Chapter Six
Callie
Days go by, and I'm not able to text Garrett to catch up. Because time really flies when you have ten thousand things to do: paperwork, fingerprints, background check--all so I can get emergency certification to teach in New Jersey. There are phone calls to make--to the HR department to set up my emergency family leave, and to Cheryl and Bruce who prove their BFF worthiness by packing up my whole wardrobe and other essentials and shipping it all to me.
My parents coming home from the hospital is a fiasco in and of itself. Between picking up the medical equipment--matching wheelchairs and crutches--and the stress of ordering and fitting a double-wide hospital bed in
the middle of the living room--Colleen and I drink through half of her "supplies" in the first week.
Then, before I know it--before I'm anywhere close to prepared or organized--it's the day before the first day of school, and I have to report to the high school at 8 a.m. sharp for a staff in-service meeting.
I step through the side door of the auditorium a few minutes early. The rows of dark seats, the thin black carpeting beneath my feet, the dim lighting, and quiet, empty stage hidden behind the draping of the red velvet curtain . . . it all takes me back to twenty years ago.
Like it was just waiting here for me, frozen in time.
I made a lot of memories in this room--on that stage and in the secret lofts and caverns behind it--and there's not a bad one in the bunch.
The heavy metal door shuts against my back with a resounding clang, turning every head in every seat my way. Of course.
Most of the faces are new, but some I recognize--Kelly Simmons, who was the head cheerleader and top mean girl of our graduating class. Her eyes drag up and down over my body before she gives me a tight, unfriendly smile--then whispers to the two equally blond, long-acrylic-painted-fingernailed women on either side of her. Alison Bellinger adjusts her yellow-framed glasses and gives me a vigorous open-palmed wave. She was the student council president in the class above me and judging from her unruly, brown curly hair, effusive expression, and brightly colored Lakeside sweatshirt, she's just as boisterous as she was then. And look at that--Mr. Roidchester, my old bio teacher, is still alive. We figured he was like a hundred years old back then, but his crotchety, gray, wrinkled self is still kicking.
