“Sadie . . .” Kayla sighs. “I don’t know. . . .”
“Sure, you do. Fun!” I demand. “Who’s with me?”
More silence, broken only by the sound of my cell phone. “I mean it,” I tell them, backing away. “Start thinking about what we can do.” I answer my phone. “Hello?”
“Sadie?”
“Hey, Garrett.” I find a quiet corner. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” he says. “Getting settled back in. You have no idea how great it is not to be taking communal showers anymore!”
I laugh. “What, you don’t miss bonding with your fellow man — one big group of sweaty towels and shared soap?”
“Er, no,” Garrett says firmly. “Anyway, what are you up to? I thought we could get together tonight.”
“I’m at work right now,” I tell him as I watch the girls across the room. They don’t look like they’re planning a night of fun and debauchery — that’s for sure. “And I can’t hang later, I’m doing something with the girls.”
“Come on,” he says, dragging the words out temptingly. “You see them every day. I only just got back!”
“Garrett . . .”
“We could get takeout,” he continues. “Go for a drive or something.”
I feel the smallest tug in my chest, the muscle memory of response from all those times I would drop what I was doing to see him. Every time. And look how that turned out. “Sorry,” I tell him, my tone brisk. “Things are hectic until the weekend. I told you. But we’ll do something then, OK?”
“But Sadie . . .”
Across the room, Dominique scrapes her chair back, about to bail. “I have to run. Call me later.” I hang up and quickly call over to them, “If you all haven’t agreed on something to do by the time I get back, you’re taking my morning shifts for the rest of the week.”
“But —” Dominique starts, but I’m already heading to serve the next customer.
“Morning shifts,” I call back. “Seven-thirty, bright and early. Get thinking.”
They exist. Honestly, they do. Guys who aren’t him. Who might actually like you back and, gasp, do something about it.
(Pause to recover from the shock of it all.)
The sooner you start interacting with those other guys, the sooner you’ll see that he isn’t your sole chance of romantic happiness in the world. And that these Other Guys might actually be cute, and fun, and maybe even a better match for you.
After all, they actually notice you’re alive.
We hear the party before we even arrive: the faint thud of bass echoing through the trees, and laughter drifting out in muffled bursts. My anticipation grows. By “fun,” I figured a movie night or five-dollar bowling at the lanes outside of town, but LuAnn knew about a party happening a couple of towns over, and by some miracle, they all agreed to come.
Dominique slows her car and turns down a dirt road marked with a chalk X on the dry earth. “Deliverance much?” she mutters as we emerge into a clearing filled with other cars and beat-up pickup trucks.
I’m too busy squinting at my makeup in a compact mirror to reply, but luckily, LuAnn seems to have snapped out of her funk. “Hush, you.” She prods Dominique with her lip-gloss wand. “If you didn’t want to have a good time, you shouldn’t have come!”
“I don’t remember having a choice,” Dominique replies, but she puts the car in park, swipes LuAnn’s lip gloss, and turns the rearview mirror to check her reflection.
“So, whose party is this again?” Kayla asks. She’s next to me in the backseat.
“Some college guys, I think,” LuAnn replies. “One of those come one, come all things. I heard about it from a couple of people.”
“But if it sucks, we’re leaving,” Dominique says quickly, teasing out her hair. “Designated driver’s prerogative.”
“At least walk through the front door before deciding the party’s beneath you,” LuAnn says with a laugh as we clamber out of the car.
Kayla falls back beside me as we follow a path through the dim trees. “Do you think my outfit is OK for a college party?” she whispers. She’s wearing jeans and a plain blue T-shirt under a zip-up hoodie. “I’m not really dressed up.”
“We’re in the woods in western Massachusetts,” I tell her. “There is no underdressed out here. If anything, I’m the one OTT.”
“No way,” she reassures me. “You look the cutest in that dress.”
I hope so. I’m wearing the vintage red outfit I bought in the city, since Kayla nixed every other option of mine as too “Old Sadie.” We told our parents we were going to a party at LuAnn’s and that we’d be home by midnight, no problem. I hope the Gods of Completely Necessary Partying are on my side. It’s the first time I’ve ever had to lie to my mom about my whereabouts, but I figure it’s for a good cause. After all, she should be happy I’ve made it to all of seventeen years old without sneaking off to illicit parties with my friends. She should be happy I have friends at all.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, and I startle, wondering if Mom can somehow sense my sneaking around. But instead, it’s just Garrett. Again.
Last call for pizza. I ordered veggie, just for you.
“I don’t get it. That’s the fifth time he’s texted tonight.” I sigh, tapping out a quick response. “I know he’s been away, but how come he’s being so . . . I don’t know, full-on?”
Kayla smirks. “Of course he’s being full-on. You don’t need him anymore. Guys can sense that,” she adds, as we head deeper through the woods. “It’s like they have a radar for it. TJ dumped Lexie last year by text, and then the minute she moved on, he started hanging around again, wanting to get back together. They always want what they can’t have.”
I shake my head. “Garrett’s not like that. And anyway, we were never together.”
“But you were always around whenever he called,” Kayla points out. “Now you’re busy. His tiny man-brain can’t process it.”
Before I have time to wonder if Kayla could be right, we round a corner and finally emerge into a clearing by the house.
“Awesome.” Kayla grins, taking in the bright lights and mass of older, infinitely cool people clutching plastic cups and beers; talking, dancing, and most definitely not moping around over boys.
“Classy.” Dominique sighs, deadpan.
“What were you expecting?” LuAnn asks with a grin, leading the way up the front steps. “Wine and cheese?”
I follow, taking in the scene. The house is a log cabin, the kind Thoreau would have hidden away in to write his odes to the joy of nature. But tonight, the only odes will be to the joys of alcohol and loud music. Lights blaze into the dim woods, and people have spilled out onto the porch. There’s something in the air — and not just the waft of smoke that might not be entirely nicotine based. No, this is more. Possibility. Adventure. Or, at the very least, some excellent people watching.
I turn to Kayla, excited. “See? Way better than sitting at home, waiting for Blake to call.”
“OK,” she agrees, looking more cheerful than when she slumped through the doors of the café this afternoon. “You were right. This is pretty great.”
LuAnn drifts off to say hi to some people, and Dominique promptly disappears, so Kayla and I wander through the house, trying not to look like gawky high-school kids. We find some sodas and a couple of Popsicles from the freezer and set up station on the edge of the living room, midway between the “hang out and talk” zone on the back porch and the designated dance area inside. A hipster-looking kid in neon shades is iPod-DJing, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table, while kids shuffle and shimmy and even full-on dance in the crammed living room. There are couples everywhere — no real PDAs, but normal party fun: guys and girls talking, laughing, having fun. Together.
I watch them as if they’re a foreign tribe.
“Do you think . . . ?” I start to ask, then stop, embarrassed. “Never mind.”
“What?” Kayla turns to me.
“I just . . . You know how in the plan, you guys talked about me needing to find some other guy — just for fun?” I add quickly, seeking refuge in my Popsicle. “Well . . . maybe I’m ready for that.”
Kayla lets out a little shriek of excitement. “Really? You think? Because I wanted to say something, but I didn’t want to be pushy or anything.”
“Since when has that ever stopped you?” I tease.
“I can be cool!” she protests, laughing. “But you want to? Find a guy, I mean.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Not for an actual relationship or anything, but maybe to try and . . . I don’t know, flirt. Not that I’d even know how,” I add quickly. “See, this is the problem! I’ve spent so much time loving Garrett, it’s like I missed these crucial training years, when everyone else learns how to hang out and flirt and hook up.”
“And now we get to make up for lost time!” Kayla squeezes me with a hug, “I’m so proud of you!”
I laugh, blushing. Admitting my complete inexperience when it comes to dating is kind of humiliating, but Kayla doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, she’s practically bouncing with excitement.
“So, what kind of guys do you like?” she demands, then immediately answers herself: “Wait, we know that already. Tall, intellectual, pretentious. OK, so for tonight, I think we need the complete opposite. The anti-Garrett.”
“A short, dumb jock?” I say, dubious. She shakes her head.
“No, we can do better than that. . . .” Kayla scopes out the party, eyes narrowed with concentration.
“You know, you look like one of those sharks on the Discovery Channel,” I tell her, amused. “Hunting for prey.”
“Your prey,” she corrects me as a guy with cropped blond hair and stubble passes by. He’s twenty, maybe, wearing this faded red T-shirt that hugs his back. I pause, watching the muscles ripple as he reaches to hand his friend a beer.
“And we have a winner,” Kayla murmurs beside me.
I turn. “Who, him?” I blink. “No way. He’s old, and cute, and . . . so far out of my league!”
“Oh, no!” Kayla shakes her finger at me, scolding. “Don’t even start with that. You’re cute, and awesome, and your hair looks great tonight.”
“Thanks.” I soften. “But what do I even say to him?”
Kayla shrugs. “Anything. ‘Cool shirt.’ ‘Great party.’ ‘Do those pants have secret pockets?’ ” She takes a look at my nervous expression and laughs. “Guys aren’t some weird foreign species, Sadie. They’re people. You can talk to people! You do it all the time at the café.”
It’s true, I do. But as I look back over at this guy, I’m suddenly reluctant. “You know what? Maybe we should wait a while, until I’m more relaxed, and —”
“Nope!” Kayla links her arm through mine and begins to drag me purposefully out onto the porch toward that group of guys. “What have you got to lose?”
I don’t know, my self-respect? My dignity? Then I realize that I lost those things weeks ago, scrambling on the coffee shop floor.
“Nothing, I guess,” I agree, and head after her to go make a complete fool of myself.
Or maybe not. Red T-shirt guy’s name turns out to be Oliver. He’s nineteen, training to be a forest ranger, and to my amazement, after ten minutes of basic get-to-know-you chatting, he has yet to turn and flee into the dark night. In fact, he’s smiling at me, easy and relaxed. “So you’re in college around here?” he asks, leaning against one of the porch posts.
“Just graduated high school,” I lie. I try to sound casual, “I’m taking the year to work and travel before deciding on college.”
“Cool.” He nods, blue eyes smiling down at me.
Kayla clears her throat. “I’m going to go get a drink!” she exclaims brightly. “But I didn’t see where the bar is.” She flutters her eyelashes at Oliver’s friends. “Could you guys show me?”
There are murmurs of agreement, and before I realize what she’s doing, Kayla has ushered them inside, sending me a swift wink as she closes the screen door behind them.
I’m left alone with Oliver.
“So, forest ranger . . .” I perch on one of the chairs, trying to look casual, as if I do this all the time. Sure, I flirt with older boys — men! — every weekend. What of it? “Does that mean you’re an expert at building fires and all of that?”
The words are out of my mouth before I realize how inane they sound. Smooth, Sadie. Real smooth. But Oliver doesn’t seem to mind. “Sure, but mainly we try to educate people about not building them. The risk of wildfires, and stuff like that.”
“Right,” I say quickly. “Of course. Fire, bad.” I take a sip of my soda, still feeling lost. I shouldn’t be so uncomfortable. I’ve spent hundreds of hours — maybe even thousands — just hanging out, talking to Garrett, but that feels like a whole separate universe: one where I felt at ease in my own skin, instead of glancing down every five seconds to check that my bra isn’t showing.
“I’ve always been into the outdoors,” Oliver continues. “Like, when I was a kid, I was always running around, climbing trees. My parents took me camping a lot. It was great.”
“Mmm,” I murmur.
He sits on the bench beside me. “The thing people don’t realize is what a complex ecosystem the forests are,” he says. His face is tanned and animated with enthusiasm. “We’ve got to try and minimize our footprint.”
“Like tiptoeing,” I joke, but he stares at me blankly. “Kidding,” I add. OK, so, his sense of humor is somewhat lacking, but he is still blessed with those muscular arms. . . .
Oliver pauses a beat, then casually puts one of those arms over the back of the bench. “So, are you into the outdoors much?”
I pause, trying to decide if lounging in my back yard qualifies. “Kind of.” I err on the side of vagueness.
Oliver brightens. “Oh, yeah? What kind of stuff?”
“You know . . .” I wonder guiltily if pretending to be a nature girl is the same as pretending to love Dostoyevsky novels and morose British music. Probably. But then my gaze falls to the ground and the point becomes moot, because he’s wearing sandals — those leather thong kind that German tourists wear, usually over socks. But Oliver isn’t wearing socks, and I can see his bare feet even in the dim light: they’re covered in dirt, as if he’s been hiking through the forest all day.
I swear I see something . . . wriggle, between his toes.
“Sadie?”
I know I told Kayla I wanted to try flirting with other guys, and I’m sure Oliver here is nice — heroically defending our great forests, with nothing but a backpack and those miraculous arms — but something about the sight of those grubby toes, and the dark, mysterious growths lurking in between. . . .
“Actually, I hate nature,” I say suddenly, dragging my eyes back up to his.
“What?” Oliver looks like I’ve just admitted I like setting forest fires in my spare time, but before I can take it all back, I realize I don’t want to.
“I mean, not nature — I don’t hate that,” I correct myself. “But being out in it. All the bugs and dirt and branches. I mean, going to bathroom in the bushes is just, eww, you know?” I grin, feeling strangely liberated by all this honesty. The plan was right — it may start small, with an innocent comment about camping, but before you know it, I’ll be stranded out in the middle of the Pioneer Valley, huddled over a damp campfire with a poison-ivy rash on my butt.
Oliver blinks, those pretty blue eyes staring at me. “I’m fine looking at trees and flowers,” I add. “But behind plate glass. Preferably with air-conditioning.”
“Huh.” He withdraws his arm.
“Anyway, it’s been fun talking to you!” I bounce up. “Um, see you around?”
I head back inside, feeling strangely triumphant. Sure, the objectively hot guy thinks I’m an evil, nature-hating girl now, but for some reason, that feels better than pretending to like things I don’t. I’m done smiling and nodding along just for some guy’s sake.
> Especially if said guy is housing fungus on his feet.
“Well?” I find Kayla perched on one of the window seats, watching the party. She bounces up expectantly. “How did it go?”
“It didn’t.”
“Why not? He was into you — I know it.” Kayla peers past me. “Look, he’s still there, you can go try again.” She pushes me back toward the screen door, but I stand firm. “Saaadie.” She keeps pushing. “You can’t keep pining.”
“This has nothing to do with Garrett!” I protest. It’s true, the Gods of Unrequited Crushes have finally been vanquished. For once, Garrett is the last thing on my mind. “Kayla, I swear. I talked, we flirted, but . . . I didn’t like him enough, OK? I mean, I’m all for moving on,” I add, “but can I move on to a guy who doesn’t have mud between his toes?”
“Mud?” She screws her face up. “Eww, OK, that’s gross!”
“Exactly.” I look at the knot of people around us, suddenly feeling an itch of energy in my veins. “Come on, let’s dance!”
We lose ourselves in the middle of the tight crowd for a while, and I forget everything except the thump of bass and quick beats of all these songs I’ve never heard before. I don’t ever dance at parties, but tonight it’s different; everyone here is into it, oblivious. Girls are dancing alone, eyes closed; burly guys in vintage shirts throw themselves into the music; and Kayla and I are unnoticed in the middle of it all. Nobody knows who I am, and nobody cares. There’s something freeing about that. I spin around, dizzy, clutching onto Kayla as we laugh until my lungs hurt.
I tug her out of the crowd for a moment to catch my breath. “Have you seen LuAnn or Dom anywhere?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head, hair falling loose from her usual ponytail. “Not all night.”
“Oooh, seating!” I spy a free corner of couch and head over to claim it. Kayla follows, and soon we’re crushed between an amorous couple and three long-haired hippie chicks passing a menthol cigarette around. “Maybe I should call Oliver over,” I say. “There are Birkenstocks aplenty around here.”
Getting Over Garrett Delaney Page 19
