The moment he’s out of earshot, LuAnn grips my hand. “What did we say about touching?” she hisses.
I pull away. “It was a friendly hug!”
“Sure, but I count three friendly hugs, an arm squeeze, and a hand pat in the last hour alone,” she retorts.
“And that’s not even including what we couldn’t see in the theater with the lights down low,” Aiko adds with a knowing look.
“Exactly!” LuAnn nods. “That was another thing, no dark rooms!”
I laugh at their concern. “It’s OK, guys. Can’t you see? Everything’s OK. Normal. Platonic. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Really?” Kayla checks, concerned. “Everything’s not rushing back, being around him again?”
We all look over to where Garrett is gathering an armful of paper towels for us, and some tiny cups of water, too. He’s as cute as he ever was to me, but there’s something different now — as if I’m seeing him from farther away, not so bound up in longing and hopeless romantic dreams.
Like I’ve been telling myself all summer: he’s just a boy.
“Really,” I swear. “Even if he hugs me a hundred times, I’ll be OK.”
We make it through the ice-cream break without any more passive-aggressive digs from LuAnn, and soon, Garrett’s Vespa is idling to a stop outside my house.
“You know, you’ve changed,” Garrett says as he walks me to the front door.
“Oh, right.” I touch my curls, self-conscious. “The hair. I figured it was time for a change.”
“No, not just that.” He pauses, studying me. “You seem . . . I don’t know, different from when I saw you last.”
I shrug. “Different good or different bad?”
He pauses. “Well . . .”
“Garrett!” I shove him. Off balance, he stumbles backward.
“OK, OK! Different good.” He laughs. “I don’t know how to describe it.”
“What?” I tease. “You, lost for a good description? No similes, metaphors, long comparisons to Whitman or Hemingway — hey!” Now it’s his turn to push me. I skip ahead, laughing. “Camp has clearly drained you of all your literary prowess.”
We pause by the door. “It’s good to be back.” Garrett smiles down at me. “I really did miss you out there.”
“I missed you, too,” I say quietly, and despite everything, it’s true. “Anyway, I better go.” I back away, pretty sure that lingering on the dark front step is up there on LuAnn’s list of risky behavior.
“Sure. Right.” Garrett grins. “I’ll see you . . . when?”
“Not sure.” I open the door. “I’m working, and then hanging with Kayla, so . . . maybe over the weekend?”
He blinks. “But that’s ages away.”
I laugh. “You’ve managed six weeks without me. You can last!”
I close the door behind me, overwhelmed with relief. I may have dismissed Kayla’s concerns as if they were nothing, but part of me has been scared that they might be true. After all, it’s one thing to say I’m over a guy when he’s safely out of range — over state lines and far away — but back, here in front of me, laughing, talking, touching . . . How would I fare then? Would I crumble in the face of his cuteness? Melt inside all over again at his literary musings?
No!
I skip upstairs, buoyed by my success. Sure, Garrett is just as charming as he always was. And, yes, maybe my stomach has been skipping with exhilaration all evening, but why shouldn’t it? This was an important night — the testing of my resolve. And I was victorious! Not filled with pangs of desperate longing, not left feeling rejected and miserable. No, for the first time, it felt like we were . . . equals. Two friends, hanging out — not one guy with a girl trying to mask her slavish devotion.
I don’t need him anymore.
The list of anti-crush commandments is still pinned up above my desk: a record of my summer, right there in black and white. I take it down, remembering each painful event. The Slushie incident, my Totally Wired meltdown . . .
I rip the list in two, feeling a surge of achievement.
I’m freed from the shackles of longing, set loose from the bonds of my despair. Sadie Elisabeth Allen — a prisoner of unrequited love, no more!
“Are you feeling OK?” Josh finds me sitting outside the café at 6:45 the next morning, basking in the early sun. “Sick? Delirious maybe?”
“No, why?” I blink, baffled.
“Because you’re never early!” Josh begins unlocking the half dozen bolts on the door. “Hmmm, maybe you’ve been taken over by aliens. No, wait — you’re really an evil Sadie-shaped cyborg!”
“That’s not fair!” I protest, following him inside. “I’m never late. Well, hardly ever,” I add.
“Sure.” He grins and flips on the lights. “But on time isn’t early.”
“So, maybe I’m feeling good today.” I pirouette to stash my bag in the lockers. I could hardly sleep last night, I was so happy my first big test with Garrett had passed without faltering. Now freedom is sparking through my veins, filling me with the sweet energy of independence. Which reminds me . . . “Didn’t someone promise me two fresh cinnamon rolls?”
“Now I get it.” Josh pulls upended chairs down from the tables with a clatter. He’s wearing a faded blue sweatshirt over jeans; his hair is still hanging in wet strands. “They only ever love me for my baked goods.”
“We start with the baked goods,” I console him. “But then we come around to you, too.”
“Wow, way to build a guy’s ego.”
“Who needs building?” I laugh. “You’re doing just fine all on your own.”
We slip into our morning setup, now a well-practiced routine, until the counters are gleaming and full sugar shakers adorn every table. “See? This is why I’m never early.” I slump against the register, surveying the calm, empty café. “There’s nothing left to do now until opening.”
“Nothing except watch me work my magic.” Josh beckons me through the hatch.
I gasp. “But I thought your recipe was top secret!”
“I figure I can trust you.” He shrugs. “And if you tell, well, I know half a dozen places to hide your body.”
I scoot around to the kitchen. “Just a word of advice: you might not want to mention that to girls. On dates, or, you know, even just in casual conversation.”
“Wow, that explains it.” Josh hits his forehead with his palm. “I’ve been wondering why they back away, looking scared. I figured I just had crazy BO or something.”
I whiff the air nearby. “No, you’re good.”
Ever since the hockey-game-slash-bookstore outing, Josh and I have fallen into an easy friendship, more comfortable around each other than before. I guess nearly vomiting on a guy’s sneakers will do that for you.
He points me to a corner, between boxes of coffee beans and a perilous stack of spare plates. “Over there. And don’t touch anything.”
“I won’t — I promise.” I hop up on the countertop, eager to watch the baking master at work.
“You should count yourself lucky.” Josh pulls on his baseball cap and his apron — a black full-length thing covered with band graffiti and random doodles in Wite-Out. “Many have tried to glimpse this magical process, yet none have succeeded.”
“Until now.” I swing my legs against the cabinet doors in time with the indie rock song he has playing on the tiny kitchen boom box. “Are you excited about the new job?”
“Sure.” He shrugs, assembling flour and butter and all kinds of sugary goodness. “I guess.”
“Right, I forgot — you’re too cool to get worked up over anything.”
“No insulting the chef!” He flicks some flour at me. I laugh.
“Still, we’re going to miss you around here.”
Josh gives me a shy smile. “I’ll miss you, too. All you guys,” he adds. “Well, except Dominique.”
“Aww, she’s not so bad,” I protest.
He blinks. “Since when?”
“That’s true about everyone,” he argues, sifting and mixing with sure, expert movements. “But I don’t walk around making small children cry.”
I laugh. “Not until you talk about hiding bodies, at least.”
“OK, you’re up.” Josh gestures me over. Somehow, he’s folded the dozen ingredients into a sticky dough with barely a glance.
“Really?” I clap my hands in glee and hop down. “I better warn you, though, I even burn toast.”
“It’s foolproof — I promise.” He waits while I wash my hands, then shows me how to roll the dough into a sheet and sprinkle pecans, cinnamon, and butter on top. “Then you fold it up like this, and smush it into whirls in the pan.”
“Smush. Is that a culinary term?” I tease, studding the dough with plenty of sugar until there’s no bare surface left to be seen. I roll carefully. “Doesn’t it need the sticky sauce on top?”
“That’s from the butter and sugar,” Josh explains. “It melts in the oven.”
“Butter.” I sigh happily. “Oh, how I love it so.” I finish and present my handiwork. Josh high-fives me.
“Now, you bake.”
“I’m actually baking something,” I marvel, watching as he slides the pans into the oven. “And that was so easy, too. I thought you toiled in here for hours to make those things!”
“Ah, but you can’t tell anyone how simple it is.” Josh grins. “You promised.”
I pause as the track switches on his mix CD, a familiar melody bursting out of the tinny speakers. “What is this song? You played it in the car before.”
“The Thermals,” he replies. “You like them? They’re playing in Northampton in a couple of weeks.” Josh pauses. “I could get tickets, if you want. . . .”
“Sure, sounds fun,” I reply, scrubbing my hands clean in the sink (since I’m guessing that licking the sugar off wouldn’t be the classiest move). “Maybe we make it a group thing? I know Kayla would like them, and maybe Garrett, too.”
“Garrett?” Josh stops clearing the baking ingredients.
“You know, my friend-slash-former-obsession?” I make a face. “That’s right, you weren’t here yesterday. He’s back from camp.”
Josh doesn’t say anything, he just goes back to cleaning the countertop, so I add, “LuAnn and Aiko went kind of crazy over it, but I’m fine. I mean, we’re friends. Anyway, I’ll ask about the gig.”
“Sure.” Josh shrugs. “Could you . . . ?” He gestures for me to move out of the way. “I need to get to . . .”
“Oh, sorry!” I scoot back into the doorway. “Do you want me to do anything else?”
“No, you’re good.” Josh looks up briefly. “You know, you should probably get out front, in case of customers. . . .”
I blink, thrown. “OK, right. Let me know when the rolls are done.”
“Sure.” Josh turns away again. “The oven buzzer is pretty loud, you’ll hear it.”
A customer arrives out in the café, so I don’t have time to dwell on Josh’s weird mood swing, but it must be the day for it, because everyone who walks through that door all morning seems to have a dour scowl on their face, even with the sweet, sweet scents of cinnamon and sugar wafting through the air. When I get back from my lunch break, Aiko is slouched behind the register, morosely flipping through a zine.
“Not you, too!” I cry. “What is it with today?”
She sighs. “Denton’s pissed at me because I said he looked like a hipster douche in his new sunglasses.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, well, it’s true. And Dominique hasn’t shown yet, and LuAnn has barricaded herself in the back office for some reason and is refusing to come out.”
“Is she OK?”
“No idea.” Aiko shrugs. “She practically knocked me down bolting out of here. I thought I’d check in a minute.”
“I’ll go.” I quickly order the Beast to make LuAnn’s favorite mocha drink. “Anything sugary left?” I ask Josh through the hatch, but he has the music turned up and can’t hear me.
At least, I hope he can’t. Like I said, mood swings everywhere.
The office is locked, so I tap lightly on the door. “LuAnn? Is everything OK?”
No reply.
“I’ve got you a coffee,” I say, tapping again. “With extra whipped cream and marshmallows.”
There’s silence, and then I hear the lock slide back. The door opens a crack, and LuAnn peeks out. “Caffeine?” she says hopefully.
I hold the mug back, just out of reach. “Not unless you let me in.”
There’s a pause, then the door opens wider. I slip inside as LuAnn goes and slumps in Carlos’s desk chair and spins it back and forth. She looks miserable.
“What’s up?” I ask gently, handing over the mug. “Aiko said . . .”
“That I freaked out?” She exhales, tugging the sleeves of her orange cardigan over her hands. “Tell her I’m sorry.”
“Hey, we’ve all done it!” I grin, but she doesn’t crack a smile. “Does that mean you’re not coming out?”
“It depends.” She wavers. “Is he still there?”
“Who?”
“Him,” she says, and I can hear the capitalization in her tone. It takes me a moment to get there, but then I realize what she means.
“Oh,” I breathe, wide eyed. “You mean . . . ?”
“Yup.”
“Let me check.” I open the door and peer down the hallway into the main café space. “What does he look like?”
“A lying, cheating asshole,” LuAnn says, still spinning in the chair.
“I’m going to need something more to go on,” I tell her, surveying the floor for possible candidates for the man who broke her heart so thoroughly she’s still reeling years later. “OK, there’s an older guy in a Hawaiian-print shirt. . . .”
LuAnn snorts. “Give me some credit.”
“Fine.” I move on. “Those guys are way too young, and that one looks like he’s over fifty, so that leaves . . .” I stop, landing on a kind of cute, scruffy guy with dark hair. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a vintage-y T-shirt, and is sitting on one of the couches up front with his arm slung over some girl’s shoulder. Some young, pretty, adoring girl.
Bingo.
I turn back to LuAnn. “Does he know you work here?”
She nods sadly.
“What an ass!” I glare across the floor, as if I could pull a Matilda and ignite something out of sheer fury. “Bringing her here, like a trophy. Tacky.”
“Very.” She sighs. “But he doesn’t see it like that. He wants us to be friends.”
“Ugh!”
“Ugh,” she echoes, but she doesn’t sound outraged or vengeful, just . . . worn out. I know all too well how that feels. Not everyone can wind up happily platonic like me and Garrett.
I wait with her a moment, but I can see customers beginning to line up by the front counter. “I have to get back out there,” I say reluctantly. “Are you going to be OK?”
“Sure.” She musters a smile. “I’ll just wait it out, plotting all the ways I could kill him.”
“Well, as long as you’re being productive!” I give her a quick hug. “And if it makes you feel any better, you’re so much prettier than she is.”
LuAnn smiles, a real one this time. “It shouldn’t, but it does.”
The rest of the day passes uneventfully enough. LuAnn’s ex leaves, she emerges from hiding, and Dominique breezes in to replace Aiko on the afternoon shift — not that her Ice Queen glares help lift the mood at all. One potential customer even turns right around and walks out after taking in the tables full of depressed patrons and the miserable staff.
“You guys need to do something!” I hiss. “We’re not going to make any tips if you keep moping around like this.”
“Mneah.” LuAnn just shrugs, barely looking up from the fashion magazine she’s leafing through.
The doorbell dings, and Kayla walks in, her red shirt covered with an array of kid-related stains. “What can I get you?” I ask, relieved. Kayla will cheer them all right up; she’s practically the Goddess of Perkiness.
“A ticket down to New York?” She exhales in a long, pathetic breath. “Blake left today. Athletic orientation.”
“Aww, Kayla!” I round the counter and give her a hug. “I’m sorry. When will you see him again?”
“Not for another few weeks.” She looks forlorn. “We decided he should get settled and bond with the guys, you know? Instead of driving back to visit me every weekend.”
“That sounds sensible,” I say, trying to stay upbeat.
“It sucks.” She looks at me, genuinely upset. “I mean, we knew this was coming. It’s just . . . It hurts. I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”
“Sure, you do.” I steer her to LuAnn’s table. “You’ll call, and text, and time will fly by. You guys are solid, remember? Made to last. Tell her, LuAnn.”
“Love is a lie.” LuAnn looks up from her magazine. “It’s all doomed to end.”
“LuAnn!” I turn to Kayla. “Don’t listen to her. You and Blake will be fine.”
I go get them some drinks and pastries, but by the time I get back, Dominique is camped out with them, too, denouncing all men as fools.
“You can’t build your life around them,” she says, stone faced. “Because it may seem all sunshine and roses, but what happens when you realize it’s not anymore? What have you sacrificed by then?”
Kayla looks stricken.
“That’s enough,” I say, slamming the plates down. “No more moping, from any of you. This is a mope-free zone!”
Silence.
“I’m serious!” I exclaim. “Since when am I the functional, emotionally balanced person here?”
Kayla makes a face. “OK, now I just feel worse.”
“No,” I tell them. “No bad, no worse. You had the good sense to intervene when I was going crazy, so now it’s my turn. We are going to do something fun tonight, and nobody is going to talk about their boyfriend.” I look at Kayla. “Or ex-boyfriend.” I stare at LuAnn. “Or . . .” I turn to Dominique, but trail off at her panicked expression. “Or any other guy. OK?”
Getting Over Garrett Delaney Page 18
