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Or, it’s possible I’m really weird.
How Garrett cuts his food is sexy too. The way his sculpted forearms contract with that muscular vein on display, just asking to be licked. And he has great hands—long, thick fingers—the way they wrap around his utensils makes me imagine how they would look wrapped around his cock. How he would grip himself, if we were making love, and move between my legs, hungry to push inside me. I would lift my hips to meet him—both of us all frenzied, urgent, sweaty need.
“Are you hot?” Garrett asks.
Because I’m flushed and fanning myself.
I take a long sip of wine. “No, I’m fine. So . . . teaching?”
He nods, wiping his mouth with his napkin. That’s hot too.
Holy shit, I’m in trouble.
“I went into college undecided, you know that. I figured I’d be majoring in football,” he jokes. “And then it was . . . spring of my sophomore year, just after my second knee surgery . . .”
Garrett was named Player of Year and received the National Quarterback Award his first year at Rutgers. But then, early in his second season, he took a hit that shattered his knee and ended his career. I watched the replay on television only once, and then I threw up in the bathroom.
“. . . I was taking US history. The first day of class, the professor—Malcom Forrester—walked in all serious and dignified, wearing a suit. He nodded to a few of us but didn’t say a word, not until he stepped up to the podium to give his lecture. And when he did, it wasn’t just a lecture, it was a speech—and it was mesmerizing. Like Abraham Lincoln was right there, talking to us. He made it so vivid, Cal, the battles, the politics, he made it so . . . interesting.”
Garrett’s own tone is mesmerizing, and it’s like I can feel the excitement he felt then.
“I used to bring a recorder to class—this was before smartphones—so I could take notes from the lecture later, because when Professor Forrester was talking, I just wanted to listen. To absorb every word of history he was handing out.” Garrett takes a drink of wine, his eyes finding mine. “And that’s when I knew what I wanted to do. If I couldn’t play football, I wanted to coach and I knew I wanted it to be at Lakeside. But almost just as much, I wanted to do what Professor Forrester did. I wanted to make the past come alive for the kids in my class, really teach them something. Something they can take with them, that’ll make a difference in their lives.” He shrugs. “And the rest is history.”
I put my hand over his on the table.
“I’m sorry about your knee. It shouldn’t have happened, not to you.”
There’s no pain in his eyes, no flinching—I know it must’ve been a deep wound for him, but I’m relieved to see that it’s healed. That it didn’t scar him, change him, not the part of him that matters.
“Life happens, Callie—sometimes it’s good, sometimes it sucks hairy monkey balls. But, life happens to all of us.”
“I sent you a card when you got hurt,” I tell him quietly, like a confession. “I put my number in it, in case there was anything I could do. I don’t know if you got it.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you call me?”
He lifts one shoulder again. “I figured it was a pity-fuck card. That you felt sorry for me. I didn’t want a pity-fuck card from you.”
“It was not a pity-fuck card! I was devastated for you!”
I smack his arm.
Garrett grabs my hand, holding it between the two of his.
“Careful, you’ll break your hand on that steel.”
I snatch my hand back from the idiot, shaking my head.
“I thought about coming to see you, but I was still talking to Sydney then, and she said she’d heard you were dating someone new. I didn’t want to complicate that for you. Make things harder than they already were. I sent the card so you’d know I cared. I wanted to cheer you up.”
He smiles crookedly, and my chest feels light, breathless.
“Sydney heard wrong, I wasn’t dating anyone seriously. I wish you would’ve visited me in the hospital. A blow job would’ve cheered me up—you were always really good at those.”
I hit him again. “Jackass.”
He just chuckles.
~ ~ ~
After dinner, washing the dishes is a team effort—Snoopy licks the plates, Garrett washes, and I dry. Once that’s done, Garrett refills my wineglass and grabs a water for himself and we head back outside, sitting in the low, cushioned chairs beside the fire pit. The air is tinged with a hickory, smoky scent, and everything has that pretty, flamey, orange glow.
“Okay, Mr. Miyagi . . . Daniel-son me.”
Garrett’s smile is broad, and I feel that tingling, weak sensation in my knees. Then he clears his throat and begins to school me.
