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I stand in the gravel driveway and look up at the stately redbrick house. It fits Garrett, reminds me of him—simple, handsome, solid, and sturdy.
“Wow,” I breathe out, teasing. “The north side of the lake, huh? When did you become Mr. Fancy-schmancy?”
Growing up around here, if you lived on the north side, everyone thought you were rich.
Garrett gazes up at the house too. “Signing the mortgage for this place was one of the scariest days of my life. Even with the extra from coaching and driving lessons on the side, I gave new meaning to the term house-poor. But . . . it worked out.”
“Yeah, it did.” Affection and warmth climb up my throat and pepper my words. “I’m happy for you, Garrett. You have everything you always wanted.”
His eyes drift from his house to me, lingering.
“Not everything.” Then he shrugs, grinning. “But it is a great fucking house.”
Inside, it’s easy to tell a man lives here alone. It’s clean, comfortable—with neutral-color walls and well-used furniture and a Ping-Pong table where a dining table should be. There are curtains that I’d bet my left boob Mrs. Daniels bought and hung for him. There are a few framed family pictures on the walls and in a glass case in the corner of the living room, the dozens of football trophies and awards Garrett earned through the years—first as a player, and then as a coach.
A barking ball of white fur comes leaping off the recliner at us, his nose sniffing and tail wagging at about a hundred miles per hour.
“Snoopy!” I gasp. “Oh my God . . . is this Snoopy?”
I reach down and pet his sweet little head, his familiar floppy ears. He whines excitedly and fidgets and twists like he can’t get close enough.
There’s a smile in Garrett’s voice—joy.
“Damn straight he’s Snoopy. Still going strong.”
Snoopy pees on the floor a little—the highest compliment an excited dog can give.
“The last time I saw you, you were a puppy,” I coo. “And look at you now, you handsome silver fox.” I look up at Garrett, as Snoopy’s happy whining serenade reaches a crescendo. “I think he remembers me.”
“Of course he remembers you,” Garrett says roughly. “You named him.”
I remember that day, how it looked, smelled . . . what it felt like. Garrett, showing up at my house with a ball of fluff wrapped in his T-shirt. Taking him to the walk-in pet clinic, buying supplies at the pet store, bathing him together, and then, that night, cuddling him between us in the middle of Garrett’s bed like he was our baby.
I continue rubbing my hands all over his soft fur. My smile stretches so wide, it brings tears to my eyes and Snoopy licks them away.
“I’ve missed you, good boy.”
And for the first time I can remember, I realize with a deep stab of longing . . . that there are many things around here that I’ve missed.
~ ~ ~
“Do you want wine?” Garrett asks from the island in his kitchen where he’s seasoning two T-bone steaks. I’m trimming the asparagus that will be wrapped in foil with a little butter and parmesan cheese, then put on the grill.
“Sure.”
Garrett goes to the small wine rack beside the fridge, his movements smooth and graceful. “Red or white?”
“White, please.”
When he sets the half-filled wineglass next to me, I snort out a laugh—can’t help it.
“What?” Garrett asks.
“Nothing, it’s just . . . funny. It feels like yesterday you were bringing me beer in a plastic cup and the most romantic thing I thought you could do was cook me a bowl of ramen. And then, boom, here we are.” I hold my glass up to the light. “You have actual wineglasses and you’re all . . . Rico Suave. How did we get here?”
Garrett lifts one broad shoulder. “We grew up.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Although”—Garrett opens a cabinet door, the second shelf stacked with the familiar orange and white packages—“I still make a kick-ass bowl of ramen.”
I laugh.
“It’s all about adding the extra spices.”
He moves back to the counter, picking up the tray and giving me the dirtiest of smiles.
“But that’s nothing compared to my steaks. Once you taste my meat, baby, it’s the only thing you’ll want in your mouth.”
~ ~ ~
“So . . . why history? Teaching? How did that happen, exactly?”
We eat in the backyard, at a small table with a dim lantern between us and strings of bare-bulb lights hanging above the fence, framing the yard. The lake is stunning at night, still as glass, shining like a pool of moonlight.
“That’s an interesting story.”
Garrett bites a piece of steak off his fork, sliding it from between his lips. And I’m struck by the way he chews—it’s hot. I don’t think his chewing turned me on before, but now, the way his lips move and his jaw tightens, just rubs me in all the right ways.
