Getting Over Garrett Delaney

by McDonald, Abby

  The bus finally arrives, rolling to a stop with a screech. I haul myself on board and slink to a free seat, water squelching in my sneakers with every step. But the discomfort is nothing compared with the sharp ache in my chest, the fierce pain of rejection and sorrow. I slump in my seat, broken. Because he doesn’t love me. Not like that, not how I desperately want. He never has.

  I’d thought maybe if I just kept waiting . . . that this was our fate. Maybe the Gods of True Love were testing me or this was just the path our story had to take. Wanting him for so long, well, that would just make it sweeter when we could finally be together.

  The old excuses tumble through my mind as the bus jerks slowly through town: month after month of trying to rationalize and explain away the simple fact that . . . he doesn’t love me.

  He never will.

  Worn out, I rest my head against the cold, smudged glass. Sherman passes me by as we drive the familiar route, lush trees damp and dripping, streets washed in rain. My breath fogs the window, and suddenly, I see it with painful clarity — my whole friendship with Garrett, laid out. Because this isn’t just about Rhiannon, or Beth, or any one of the parade of girls Garrett falls for with heartbreaking regularity. This is about me. And how I will never get to be one of those girls, no matter how much I hope and pray and want it.

  He’ll never compose whole odes to my beauty and grace. He’ll never show up with a boom box to reenact Say Anything outside my window. He’ll never drive over at three a.m. because I’m sick and can’t sleep and just want to feel his arms around me. I can pine away for him for the rest of my life and turn into some Miss Havisham — old and embittered and wondering What if? forevermore — but it won’t make a difference.

  Two whole years I’ve waited for him. Two years with him as the center of my whole world — the only number on my speed dial, the first thought I have every morning, and the last thought I have at night. And now . . . ?

  Now I know for sure. This can’t go on.

  I can’t keep doing this to myself, getting my hopes up so high, only to have them come crashing down. I can’t keep waiting for him to come to his senses, having my whole emotional state rest on what he decides. What if he never wakes up to how perfect we’d be together? What if I spend another year pining for him — or longer even? In a terrible flash, I see my future stretching out before me: waiting for his calls, rearranging my life around college visits, and decoding texts and instant messages like they could be something real, something true.

  This isn’t love; this is pure torment.

  And suddenly I know what I have to do, with more certainty than I’ve ever known anything in my life before. I have to be done with this. I have to cast off this wretched unrequited love, any way I can.

  I need to get over him for good.

  By the time I get home, I know for sure I have no other option. Either I spend the rest of my life uselessly pining after a boy who will never be mine, or I find some way to break free from this hold he has on me.

  But how?

  I take a long, hot shower. But all the Peach Bliss Bubble Buff in the world won’t scrub away my misery. I towel off and wrap myself in my softest pajamas, as if the well-worn flannel could cocoon my poor, broken heart. But not even my favorite knitted bootie slippers provide me with the magical answer of how, exactly, I’m supposed to get over a boy who has been the center of my entire world for two entire years. Where do I even begin? Am I supposed to cut him out of my life completely? Hypnotize myself into believing I’m not in love with him anymore? Stage an exorcism to get him out of my heart forever?

  I wish it were that easy.

  Mom finds me on a stool in the kitchen, tearing into a plate of leftover chicken potpie.

  “Did you make it back OK?” she asks, filling the teakettle and setting out mugs. She’s back in her favorite around-the-house sweats — purple velour this time. “I called to see if you wanted a ride, but your cell went to voicemail.”

  I nod slowly. “Garrett called.”

  “How’s he getting along?” Mom asks, oblivious to my plight. “Is that camp turning out to be fun?”

  I nod again, the gravy and vegetables suddenly tasting like cardboard in my mouth. “Yup.” I push my plate away. “He’s having all kinds of fun.”

  “That’s nice.” Mom bustles away with the hot water and herbal tea bags. “I know you were disappointed not to get in, but maybe it’s for the best. You can spend the summer making friends here in town and then try for it next year.”

  “Uh-huh.” I sigh, and finally she notices my dejection.

  “Are you OK, honey?” She pauses by the sink.

  “Sure.” I muster a halfhearted shrug. “Just . . . tired. It’s been a long day.”

  She smiles warmly. “I remember. I worked a summer job at the diner when I was in high school. I was run off my feet every night. I had to wear this red-and-white-checked dress,” she adds, turning back to the tea, “with snaps all down the front. I’m sure I have the photos somewhere. . . .”

  “Sounds cute.”

  I wish for a moment that I could tell her everything, but Mom and I don’t really go too deep when it comes to our feelings. We never have. Every time I forget and talk about feeling stressed from school, say, or upset about something, she always leaps in with action plans and life-coach psychobabble about transforming my reality, when really all I ever need is for her to say that yes, life sucks sometimes, and that’s OK. I never really minded before — after all, I had Garrett for the deep emotional wrangling, and I could always rely on him to bring out an insightful quote from some classic novel or a story about some famous writer and how she used her inner pain to fuel works of greatness.

  But I don’t have him anymore. At least, not for this. And all the wallowing in the world isn’t getting me closer to that mythical goal of getting over Garrett.

  “Mom . . .” I start, reluctant. “Suppose you wanted to do something . . . like, a project,” I say vaguely. “But you didn’t know how to do it. Where would you start?”

  She brightens. This might well be the first time in history that I’ve asked her advice, let alone on something so near and dear to her heart.

  “Well . . .” Mom brings her tea over, sitting across from me at the big wooden kitchen table. “I always like to start with a plan.”

  “A plan. Right. I should have guessed.” I exhale, disappointed. Somehow I don’t think one of her cute blue workbooks is going to cut it when we’re talking about the vast, aching depths of my heart here.

  She laughs at my dubious expression. “I know you think plans are the enemy of all creativity — or whatever Garrett said that time — but they really do work. There’s nothing you can’t do if you break it down into simple steps.”

  “Nothing?” I repeat, still unconvinced. “But that’s not true! I mean, I get the appeal when it’s for something practical — assembling some IKEA shelves or making spaghetti carbonara — but what about emotional things?”

  “What do you mean?” She pours two cups of herbal tea, a smile tugging on the corners of her lips. She’s enjoying this.

  “Well, what if you had a client who wanted to stop feeling stressed, or angry, or being in love with someone?” I say, ultracasual. “You couldn’t just tell them to make a plan not to feel that way.”

  “Sure, I could.”

  “Mom!” I protest, frustrated.

  She laughs. “I’m not teasing you, Sadie — I promise. I know you think feelings are something we have no control over, but we do. We can control our actions, and eventually, we feel different. Take your example of someone feeling stressed,” she suggests. “He could make a plan with things to do that relax him and ways to avoid things that cause tension. He could take up yoga, consider a career move, even —”

  “OK, OK, I get it!” I interrupt her logical list of solutions. “But what about falling out of love?”

  “Love?” She gives me a knowing smile that makes me wonder if she can see right thro
ugh all of this.

  “Hypothetically,” I say quickly.

  “Of course,” she agrees, before taking a thoughtful sip of tea. “Well, you’re right — that would be harder. But not impossible.”

  “No?” I ask, feeling a tiny glint of hope.

  “Nothing’s impossible if you set your mind to it. Hypothetically speaking.” She grins.

  “So . . . you can plan to fall out of love with someone?” I ask, still not quite believing her, but surprised to realize just how much I want it to be true. What’s my alternative? Sitting around, aching with this broken heart, hoping that one day I’ll just magically wake up and find I’m not in love with Garrett anymore?

  “I think so.” Mom nods. “You might not be able to choose how you feel, but you can choose how you act. Decide to focus on something else, and stay busy, and soon you won’t feel so tied to the person anymore. I mean, that’s what I’d tell my client,” she adds.

  I nod slowly. I can’t believe it, but it kind of makes sense to me. “Thanks,” I say quietly.

  “Anytime.” She pats my hand. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  She’s halfway to the door when I call out. “There is one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  I cough, embarrassed, but if I’m going to do this, I need to go all in. “Can I borrow some of those self-help books?”

  Upstairs, I settle in front of my computer, already turning over ideas for this new plan of mine. But staring at my e-mail in-box, and the database icon sitting there at the bottom of my screen, I’m gripped with sudden frustration. I know what’s wrong with my Great Love project — the one thing I’ve so conveniently overlooked all this time.

  Enter new profile field: The End.

  I feel a surge of new energy as I click through the pages, updating every relationship with their dismal demise. Shakespeare is easy. Desdemona: murdered by her husband. Ophelia: drowned. Cordelia: hanged. Uplifting. Then there are the Russians; with them, it was all a painful end in a gutter somewhere. The French were big on tragic consumption; the Greeks loved nothing more than a good sacrificial slaughter or mistaken identity. Banishment, divorce, retreat to a nunnery, inconvenient icebergs — my fingertips fly across the keyboard as I fill in the missing details. There are myriad ways Great Love is torn asunder; I’ve just been too lovestruck to see it until now.

  And even the supposedly happy endings . . . well, we don’t know for sure what happens after the final credits roll. Elizabeth probably dies in childbirth while Darcy sits stoically outside the bedroom door. Nurse Hathaway might get bored of Doug Ross and his cable-knit sweaters and run off to a tropical island. Even Bella might discover that Edward always hogs the remote and has an annoying laugh and decide to call it quits — no hard feelings.

  The hours slip past me in a blur of Google and database updates, until three a.m. rolls around and I finally drag myself away from the desk and collapse into bed. I’ve barely scraped the surface of the couples on the site, but instead of being bereft over the long catalog of death and dejection I’ve added to my shining tribute to True Love, I feel strangely inspired.

  Just because they were soul mates doesn’t mean they had to last forever. Just because they felt true love doesn’t mean they couldn’t have a new life after that love was over.

  I yawn, snuggling deeper under my covers. Martha Gellhorn had a passionate marriage to Hemingway but decided she didn’t want to be a footnote in somebody else’s life. She divorced him and traveled the world as a trail-blazing reporter, having all kinds of adventures long after her supposed Great Love was over. I could be Martha! I decide in my sleepy haze. Sure, reporting from war zones can be kind of hazardous for the health, but that life — that moving on — that’s what I’m after here.

  And with my new plan, I’m going to make it happen.

  People go on crazy juice fasts or flush water through their insides to get rid of the toxins in their systems. And that’s what he is: a toxin. A chemical. An addictive substance wrapped up in magnificent cheekbones and a devastating smile. So if you’re going to get over him, you need to start by getting away from him: no calls, no texts, no e-mails. Nothing. Not until you can get through the day without him being the first — and only — thing on your mind.

  I wake the next morning with sunlight spilling through my open window and the spark of determination in my veins. I bounce out of bed, full of energy. This is it: the first day of the rest of my life. I never really bought into that kind of thinking before, but now the simplicity is irresistible. Things are going to be different now. I’m writing my own rules. Well, steps. No waiting around for Garrett to call, no hanging on his every message . . . Maybe it won’t even be as hard as I think, I decide, flossing enthusiastically. Sure, it feels like being in love with him is the only state of being I’ve ever known, but that will pass, it has to, and soon —

  Bing!

  The familiar sound of my IM alert bubbles to life.

  I freeze.

  Bing! it goes again. I look over at my computer screen; there’s a new chat box up, the text scrolling as the sender adds to the message.

  There’s only one person that could be.

  I stay stranded in the middle of the room with my tank top pulled halfway over my head. I shouldn’t be so surprised. We always chat in the mornings — it’s become our new summer routine. But despite the breezy promises that were just running through my mind, I find that every instinct I have says, “Go! Read it! Reply!”

  I pause, considering. I mean, it’s one teeny, tiny IM. And it’s not like I’m going out of my way to talk to him — it’s only four steps away! Besides, a little voice whispers, what harm would it do? I could start the detox after. And shouldn’t I warn him somehow — mention I’m going to be busy and not around to talk, so he doesn’t get worried when I ignore him?

  But then one message will turn into five, and then he’ll call, and I’ll be powerless to resist.

  No!

  I lunge across to my keyboard and click the X at the top of the chat box, keeping my eyes fixed on a spot on my wall above the screen so I’m not tempted to read the message. Then I quickly pull on the rest of my clothes, grab my book, and thunder down the stairs.

  It’s eight a.m., and already I feel the pull. Something tells me this is going to be a long day.

  You know that thing where somebody says “Don’t think of an elephant,” and suddenly, the only thing on your mind is just that: a whole parade of elephants stomping through your thoughts? All it takes is for me to try and not think of Garrett, and suddenly, he’s consuming my every idle musing. Picking a radio station? Garrett only listened to NPR. Browsing the refrigerator for orange juice? Garrett likes the pulp style best. I stare for ten minutes at breakfast options, remembering the many times Garrett has dropped by in the morning to mooch my scrambled eggs and drink coffee before giving me a ride to school, until finally I have to pass on eating anything at all.

  How am I going to deal with this? What single thing can I think about that doesn’t have some Garrett-related story attached? In the end, I fold myself into lotus position on the back porch and try to just think about nothing at all. Meditation. Clearing my mind. Focusing on calm breathing and the delicate slant of light through the railings rather than other, less important things. Like, say, the message I left unread upstairs, and whether my Internet service has it saved in an emergency file somewhere. . . .

  “Do you want some pancakes, honey?” Mom calls from inside.

  “No, I’m fine!” I yell back. Think calming thoughts, Sadie. Calming, non-Garrett thoughts . . .

  “Are you sure?” She comes outside, lingering in the doorway. “Have you eaten anything yet? Because coffee has zero nutritional value, and you know that breakfast is —”

  “The most important meal of the day,” I finish, sighing. So much for an uninterrupted calm. “Yes, I know.”

  “Maybe something else then,” she tries again, giving me that head-to-toe look
that I just know means she’s assessing my height-to-weight ratio and comparing it with whatever charts she has pinned up in the Sadie’s Developmental Progress corner. “I could do some French toast. You always like —”

  “I told you, I’m not hungry!” I snap.

  She blinks.

  I catch my breath. “Sorry,” I add, “I’m just . . . cranky this morning.”

  “Clearly.”

  “It’s nothing.” I wave away her concern. “And yes, I’ll have some pancakes. Thank you.”

  “OK, batter’s in the fridge. I’ll be at the conference until five, but you can use the car. Oh, and your father called.” She tries to keep her voice even, but I can hear the usual disapproving tone slip through the moment she mentions Dad.

  “What about?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, nothing urgent. He said you weren’t picking up your cell.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m keeping it on silent at the moment. Too much distraction,” I quickly explain. “I read an article about teens and ADD.”

  “Is that what you were talking about last night?” She looks impressed. “Technology detox. What an excellent thought. I might add that to my course.” She kisses me on the forehead, then goes back inside, already whipping out her cell phone to record a note to herself, completely unaware of the irony.

  I wait until she’s inside before retrieving my own phone. I’ve kept it on silent as a defense against Garrett, but I guess I need a tactic that doesn’t cut off everyone else from my life, too.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Pumpkin!”

  Yes, I’m seventeen years old. No, he won’t stop calling me that.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “Everything OK?”

  “Hold on a sec, will you?”

  I wait. There’s music in the background, the familiar jagged edges of a jam session, but it recedes as Dad leaves the room. There’s a click, and then he comes on again, clearer this time.