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“That’s adorable. God, Garrett, I haven’t seen you since that night . . . up at Rutgers, remember?”
Callie goes stiff on my lap.
“We were so drunk . . . we got pretty wild that night. Good times.” She tilts her head towards the door. “Well, I have to get going.” Her eyes graze over me, and it feels cold . . . slimy . . . like an alien invasion. “Make sure you hold onto him this time, Callie. He is just . . . incredible.”
Her head swivels away from us.
“Oh, hey, Dean.”
Dean dips his chin. “She-devil.” He wags his finger. “You make sure you watch out for those priests now. One good splash of holy water and it’s”—he waves his arms—“straight back home to hell for you.”
“Bye, Dean,” Becca says dryly. Then she walks away.
The table is silent then. I watch the emotions scatter over Callie’s face. Her forehead scrunches and a little line appears between her brows that I want to smooth away for her.
“Did . . . did you fuck her?”
There is no good answer to that question.
Okay—no would be a good answer . . . but that’s not an answer I can give.
“It was a long time ago.”
Callie turns away from me, staring down at her hands on the table. Then she stands up. “I’m gonna go.”
I rise from the chair, but Callie puts up her hand. “I don’t want to be around you right now.”
And she walks the fuck out.
I look at Dean, who waves his hand. “Go, Romeo . . . go. I’ll take care of the tab.”
“Thanks, man.”
And I’m following Callie out the door into the empty parking lot.
“Callaway! Hey, where are you going?”
She doesn’t turn around. “Home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
The light of her phone casts her face in a pale, bluish glow.
“No—I’ll take an Uber.”
I snort. “That’ll take an hour. The closest thing to an Uber around here is the back of Mickey Kadeski’s bike.” I step closer and she doesn’t move away. “Come on, Callie. Get in the car.”
She looks up at me and it’s all there in her eyes—anger and betrayal and so much hurt it knocks the breath out of me. But then she nods tightly and gets in my Jeep.
~ ~ ~
Callie
Breathe . . . just breathe . . .
A part of me knows I’m being silly—stupid. I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman. An adult. This shouldn’t be wrecking me like it is.
Garrett slept with Becca Saber. He fucked her, touched her. His mouth kissed her; her hands touched him. All of him.
I fold my arms around myself and a groan slips from my lips. Because it hurts. Hurts just as much as it would’ve if I’d found out when I was seventeen. And it’s like that seventeen-year-old girl has possessed me—like she’s running the show.
“You lied to me.”
From the corner of my eye, Garrett shakes his head while he drives.
“I didn’t lie.”
“Oh, give me a fucking break!” I turn to him. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I brought up her name in the grocery store weeks ago! And you didn’t say anything—that’s a lie.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me! And you knew that—and that’s why you lied.”
“It was seventeen fucking years ago! You’re being totally ridiculous right now.”
“Don’t do that! Don’t you dare minimize my feelings. You knew I’d be upset so you took the chicken-shit way out and you lied. I’m allowed to be pissed off about that.”
A minute later, we pull into Garrett’s driveway.
“You said you’d drive me home,” I hiss.
Garrett’s eyes are two hard black stones and his jaw is granite. “We need to talk about this. That’s not a conversation I’m going to have with your parents in the next room.”
Fine. Fine—I feel like yelling anyway.
I yank open the car door and stomp up the walkway. Garrett opens the front door, and Snoopy’s already there to greet us in the foyer. The little dog’s presence gives me a moment of calm, of rationality. I pet him under his chin.
“Hey, Snoopy. It’s okay.”
Garrett walks to the kitchen and Snoopy and I follow. He opens the back sliding door and lets the dog out. Then he turns to me, and his eyes are softer. Regretful.
“I’m sorry, Callie. You’re right. I should have told you.” He shakes his head. “It just . . . it didn’t matter to me and after all this time, I didn’t want it to matter to us. Not when we were happy and rebuilding what we have. I didn’t want it to screw things up between us.”
My seventeen-year-old self is not impressed.
“How would you feel if it was me . . . if I’d screwed Dean?”
“That’s not even the same thing! Becca wasn’t your best friend. That would only be the same if I hooked up with Sydney.”
