What happens with the next guy?
I’m going to want to be loved by someone else one day; I’m going to long for him the same way I did for Garrett. More, maybe. So what’s stopping me from doing the exact same thing — molding myself around him without even realizing because I’m so desperate for that connection? It won’t change just because I’ll get older; LuAnn and Dominique are proof of that. They still feel that pull to subsume themselves in somebody else’s life, to go all or nothing for the sake of a relationship. And if they do, then they risk losing themselves, but if they don’t, well, they lose him instead. But it can’t be that simple a choice, can it? There has to be some middle way where I stay myself, in the world I choose, but get love, too.
There must be.
So, you’re officially over him — finally free from romantic agony, loose from the clutches of miserable, lonely woe. You did it. And doesn’t it feel wonderful?
But even though you deserve a party — a celebratory circus, a ticker-tape parade — for your awesome achievement, be warned. The specter of unrequited love can strike at any time, reducing even the most fearless, independent woman to a weepy wreck.
Don’t let it happen again. You were strong enough to strike it down before; you’ll be smart enough to avoid it the next time around.
Love isn’t pain. Heartbreak isn’t noble or romantic. You deserve better, so don’t ever forget.
Dominique is gone when I wake up, with nothing but perfect hospital corners on the bedding and an ache in my neck to show she was ever here at all. I trip downstairs, wondering how she went off the rails so spectacularly. Maybe Josh is right, and it really is the quiet ones you need to worry about — the ones with years of rebellion stored up tight, just waiting to burst forth in new, self-destructive ways.
Mom is waiting in the kitchen, with a plate of . . . “Are those pancakes?” I say, shocked. I hop up on the counter and take in the spread: turkey bacon, syrup, even fresh juice. “Like, not from a box or anything?”
She laughs, depositing another batch of pancakes onto the platter, fresh from the pan. The scents of butter and vanilla waft through the sunlit room. “You make me sound like a lost cause in the kitchen.”
“No!” I say, loading my plate with deliciousness. “Well, it’s never really been your number-one strength,” I admit with a grin. “But these are great. What’s the occasion?”
She leans against the counter, already dressed for the day in a smart business outfit, polished and professional. “Well,” she begins, sounding almost cautious, “I thought we could have that talk. . . .”
“Mmm-hmm?” My mouth is full of pancakey goodness.
“Your father called last night.” Mom presses her lips together. “He has . . . a proposition for you. For, us really.”
“Oh.” I stop, the free breakfast not seeming so free anymore. Dad has kept sending his usual postcards and short e-mails from his tour, but his bailing on my birthday still lingers, uncomfortable at the back of every breezy phone call. “Where is he this time?” I ask slowly.
“California, for now. He’s doing some session work.” Mom uses that same neutral tone for whenever we talk about Dad, as if we’re discussing the weather or a TV show. She has a stack of books in her study about positive postdivorce parenting and how important it is to remain impartial in your children’s relationship. “But he’ll be going to Europe for a couple of weeks over Christmas vacation,” she adds. “And . . . he wants you to go along, too. To make up for his canceling these last months.”
I blink. “Europe?”
Mom nods, her expression still unreadable. “He’s playing some shows in London, and then Berlin, Rome . . . I have the itinerary, he e-mailed it to me.”
“Would you . . . ? I mean, would I be allowed to go?” I ask breathlessly, already picturing the quaint cobbled streets of Paris, snow falling softly on the River Seine.
Europe!
“If that’s what you want, then, yes, we would work something out.” Again, Mom stays neutral, hands wrapped tightly around her mug of tea. I pause my fantasy of macarons and chocolat chaud for just a moment.
“You don’t sound too thrilled,” I tell her. She gives a small shrug.
“I don’t think it’s the best idea — you crammed in a tour bus with a bunch of musicians. But . . .” She exhales. “I want you to spend time with him, Sadie. He’s your father. And if the only time he has is this, then so be it.”
That wasn’t a no. Which means, it’s a yes.
I leap up. “Mom! Thank you!” I squeal, burying her in a hug.
She pulls back. “Before you get carried away, just think about it, please?” Mom fixes me with a look. “Think about what it would actually be like. You know how focused he gets, especially on tour. It’s your decision,” she adds. “But don’t go rushing into it. Think about it for a few days before we talk to him.”
“Yes, fine, I’ll think,” I tell her, but the decision was made the minute she said “Europe.” What is there to think about? “And thanks for breakfast.” I grab another pancake to eat on the go. “You’re the best!”
I’m still bouncing when I get to work, just imagining the adventures I’ll have. Garrett will be so jealous. He’s always talked about taking a trip abroad and tracing the footsteps of the great American expat writers who used to hang out in the coffeehouses of Berlin and Paris. He said we’d go together, after high school or when one of us did a college semester abroad, but now I’ll be the one venturing out there before him.
“You seem happy.” Josh leans against the counter, his red T-shirt emblazoned with a cute cartoon zombie. “Was the mission a success?”
“Yes, sir.” I salute. “Mission complete. We really owe you one, Mom had no idea what happened.” I move closer, distracted by the familiar-looking illustration. “Is that one of Aiko’s designs?” I ask.
“Yes!” Josh grins, tugging at the shirt. “She finally caved to LuAnn and started selling them online. What do you think?”
“I like it. Very undead chic.” The doorbell dings behind us suddenly, and I turn to see Dominique sashay in, her shirt crisp and her jeans fresh — not a sign that merely eight hours ago she was stripping for a room full of strangers. She looks past us as if we don’t exist, breezing through to the back of the café.
Josh and I exchange a look. “Not it,” he says quickly.
“Hey!”
“You snooze, you lose.” Josh backs away, grinning. “And someone has to be alive to open up!” He crosses to the front of the café to flip the closed sign while I brace myself for battle.
Here goes nothing.
I find Dominique clearing out her locker: stuffing old time sheets and notes into a trash bag. “Spring cleaning?” I approach gingerly, not sure quite how to act now after her drunken revelations. She looks up.
“No,” Dominique answers simply, pulling a cardigan from the lockers and folding it neatly into her shoulder bag. “I’m quitting.”
“What?”
“The café, Sherman . . .” Dominique gives me a tired smile. “I’m applying to transfer to another school. Out West maybe, or Chicago. I’m done here.”
I look around. The café is almost empty, nobody except Josh to witness this huge development. All the times she’s threatened to quit, nobody actually thought she’d go ahead and do it. “B-but . . . Carlos,” I stutter. “I mean, what did he say?”
“What could he say?” she replies with a shrug. “I left a note. He’ll be fine.”
She turns back to the locker and checks it one last time. She’s utterly self-contained, and something about her pose — so studied and careful — reminds me of that poem they always drag out in lit class, the John Donne one, about no man being an island. But Dominique is. She is a vast territory, walled and guarded.
“Um. Good luck, I guess,” I offer, feeling useless. She finishes packing, but before she leaves, she reaches out and puts her hand lightly on my arm, the kindest gesture I think I’ve ever seen he
r make.
“Merci,” she tells me quietly.
“For what?”
“You changed. This summer, with that plan of yours . . .”
I don’t follow. “What do you mean?”
There’s another pause, and for a moment, I think she’s just going to snatch her hand back, deliver a deadpan bon mot, and leave, but once again she surprises me. “I don’t like who I am with him,” she answers. “How he makes me feel. Last night . . .” She swallows and shakes her head, stronger this time. “You were right. I don’t have to be this girl. I can do something about it.”
And then the wall is back up: she straightens and gives one last look around. “Tell the others . . . Well, tell them whatever. It won’t matter to me.”
She stalks away, the door closing behind her with a final ding.
Without Dominique on shift, I’m run off my feet for the rest of the morning, dashing around to keep up with orders while I try to deconstruct her cryptic comments. Just taking off and leaving town, transferring schools, literally running away from Carlos? It seems so extreme to me, yet more drama from our most dramatic staff member. Ex-member now, I guess. But as much as I’m shocked by her sudden departure, a part of me understands it, too. That plaintive note in her voice, coming through the dark last night; the glimmer of self-loathing on her face today. She wants to escape the woman she’s become around him, any way she can.
“I called LuAnn; she’ll be in ASAP.” Josh hauls an armful of dirty dishes into the kitchen, backing through the swinging doors.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I call, trying to juggle three different drink orders for five different kinds of coffee. I hit the Beast, say a short prayer, and turn to the next customer to apologize. “Sorry, we’ll just be a moment —”
“Hey, Sadie.” It’s Garrett. He gives me a lopsided smile, his hair still falling long enough to tuck behind his ears. “What’s up?”
“Garrett, hi!” I turn back to the counter, trying to remember which jug is soy and which is two percent. “Could you hold on, like, ten minutes? We’re kind of slammed right now. . . .”
“I know, but I wanted to say sorry about last night.” He takes a hand from behind his back and holds out a bunch of daisies. “I got so caught up with this new poem, I lost track of time.”
The flowers are tied with string, obviously handpicked. I always loved daisies. I soften. “Thanks, that’s sweet. But we really are crazy right now.”
Josh appears next to me. “I can take the register if you pour.”
“Perfect.” We sidestep around each other in a well-practiced ballet while Garrett waits on the other side of the counter.
“Oh, before I forget . . .” Josh pulls a CD from his back pocket and slides it over to me. Sadie’s Mix is written on the front in scrawled Magic Marker. “I burned you some of those Thermals tracks.”
“Um, thanks,” I say, my focus pulled in three different directions. “That’s great. I’ll take a listen later.”
“Anyway.” Garrett coughs. He looks back and forth between me and Josh. “Sorry. I guess this isn’t a good time.”
“Not really!” I froth milk with one hand while Josh passes me a fresh mug. “I just had someone quit on me,” I explain to Garrett. “And the lunch crowd will be here any minute. . . .”
“Why don’t I help?” Garrett brightens.
“No, it’s fine.” I turn back to the drinks in front of me, and then stare at them, lost. “Crap. Was it soy in the mocha or in the latte?” I ask Josh.
“The latte.”
“Double crap.” I pour the drinks out and start fresh, pausing to wipe my sweaty face with the edge of my apron.
“I’m serious,” Garrett says, still loitering there on the other side of the counter.
“About what?”
“I’ll help,” He tells me. “I pulled mess-hall duty all summer, I can handle it.”
I pause. Normally, I’d turn him down flat, but today . . . ? I eye the debris scattered around the café, a vast wasteland of dirty plates and coffee rings on the tabletops. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. You need me.” Garrett laughs. He reaches over the counter and uses his thumb to wipe cappuccino foam from my cheek. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Um, it’s kind of the scut job,” I start cautiously, “but if you could bus tables . . .”
“Already done!” He backs away, grinning. “I’ll be the best table wiper you’ve ever seen!”
And he is. Well, good enough, anyway. Garrett fetches, carries, wipes, and cleans for the rest of the morning, until our rush dwindles to a steady stream, and LuAnn finally arrives to take over Dominique’s vacated post.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” She leans against the counter, watching Garrett clean tables out front. He’s found an apron and slung a dishcloth over one shoulder, happily playing the part of busboy for the day.
“What? Oh, right. Garrett offered to help out.”
LuAnn smirks. “And how does Josh feel about that?”
“Josh?” I pause. “He’s fine. We needed the help.”
“Are you sure about that?” LuAnn nods across the room. Josh is trailing Garrett’s route, checking every table after Garrett is done. “It’s cute the way guys get so protective of their territory. I’m surprised he doesn’t just pee all over the place.”
“LuAnn! Eww!” I bat her with the dishcloth.
She laughs. “I’m just saying. . . .”
“Well, don’t. At least not where customers can hear you.”
She props her chin on one hand and bats her eyelashes at me. “You know, maybe it’s not the café Josh is feeling protective about. . . .”
“What?” LuAnn gives me a meaningful look. “Oh, no, no way,” I tell her firmly, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. I turn away, busying myself with the pastry cabinet. “Now you really are being crazy.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Now, can we please focus on what we’re going to do about Dominique?”
For the next few days, Dominique’s scandalous departure is the only gossip in the café. Carlos takes the news with a nonchalant shrug, then proceeds to go AWOL for the week, apparently crawling every bar in the state until Josh and Denton go scrape him off the floor of a karaoke joint in Boston, clutching the mic and belting out his one big hit. I don’t know what to think; their relationship was way too clandestine for me to know if he meant it or was just playing around with her, but when Friday rolls around and he spends an hour flirting with a table of blond coeds — regaling them with tales of music festivals gone by — I get the feeling Dominique made the right call. If he loved her, he would have gone after her, or at least spent more than a few days mourning her loss before hitting on the next pretty young thing to cross his path.
“Penny for ’em.” Josh collapses against the counter next to me on Saturday morning. I jolt. “Your thoughts,” he adds. “You’ve been spaced out all shift.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I shrug. “Just contemplating the meaning of life, love, the universe . . . You know, the usual.”
“Nothing big, then.” He glances over to the front of the café, where Garrett is camped out at the window table with a book and his battered notepads — same as every other day this week. “That guy sure drinks a lot of coffee.”
I laugh. Garrett has become kind of a fixture in here: working on his poetry, chatting to the staff on their breaks, waiting patiently for me to swing by and hang out. “He shouldn’t put his feet up on the seats like that,” Josh adds, giving the Beast a smack. “You know how Carlos gets.”
“Come on . . .” I give him a look.
“What? I’m just saying. Customers bitch about that kind of thing all the time.”
“Fine, I’ll go tell him.” I start to edge out from behind the counter, but Josh turns, suddenly bumping into me.
“Sorry.” He looks awkward, realizing he’s trapped me in the narrow space. “I, uh —”
“It’s OK.” I step the other way, but he does, too. I laugh. “You want to pick left or right?”
“My left or yours?” He grins back.
“I don’t know. We could vote.”
“But what if it’s a tie?” Josh replies, forcing a serious expression.
“Good point. We could be here all day.”
“On the count of three . . .” Josh decides.
“Wait!” I stop him, giggling. “Which way am I going again?”
Finally Josh takes me by the arms and physically moves me to the side. “There.”
“Why didn’t you just do that five minutes ago?” I call, heading across the café.
“What? And miss our meaningful debate?” Josh calls back.
I arrive at Garrett’s table, still laughing. “You don’t have to stay here all day,” I tell him, pushing his feet off the chair and sliding in beside him. “You must be bored.”
“Not at all.” He leans back. “It’s fun, watching you in action.”
“Sure, because wiping tables is a spectator sport,” I murmur, but he just gives me that grin.
“But we’re hanging out. Kind of.” He drums his ink-stained fingers on the tabletop and shoots me a bashful look. “Remember, I’ve been starved for Sadie time all summer.”
I smile. I may not be hanging on his every word anymore, but I can’t deny the glow I get from him wanting to see me — choosing to loiter over a cup of coffee all day just for five minutes of my time, here and there. “So what’s the plan for the rest of summer?” I ask. “We’ve only got a few weeks left before school starts.”
“Plan?” he teases. “Next thing you’ll be making lists and plotting us a schedule.”
“Why not?” I protest, embarrassed. “At least that way we won’t forget anything. We should go into Boston — get stocked up on books and stuff for school.” I pull my order notebook out of my apron pocket and begin to make a list, but when I look up, he’s laughing at me. “What?”
Getting Over Garrett Delaney Page 21
