Garrett bites a piece of steak off his fork, sliding it from between his lips. And I'm struck by the way he chews--it's hot. I don't think his chewing turned me on before, but now, the way his lips move and his jaw tightens, just rubs me in all the right ways.
Or, it's possible I'm really weird.
How Garrett cuts his food is sexy too. The way his sculpted forearms contract with that muscular vein on display, just asking to be licked. And he has great hands--long, thick fingers--the way they wrap around his utensils makes me imagine how they would look wrapped around his cock. How he would grip himself, if we were making love, and move between my legs, hungry to push inside me. I would lift my hips to meet him--both of us all frenzied, urgent, sweaty need.
"Are you hot?" Garrett asks.
Because I'm flushed and fanning myself.
I take a long sip of wine. "No, I'm fine. So . . . teaching?"
He nods, wiping his mouth with his napkin. That's hot too.
Holy shit, I'm in trouble.
"I went into college undecided, you know that. I figured I'd be majoring in football," he jokes. "And then it was . . . spring of my sophomore year, just after my second knee surgery . . ."
Garrett was named Player of Year and received the National Quarterback Award his first year at Rutgers. But then, early in his second season, he took a hit that shattered his knee and ended his career. I watched the replay on television only once, and then I threw up in the bathroom.
". . . I was taking US history. The first day of class, the professor--Malcom Forrester--walked in all serious and dignified, wearing a suit. He nodded to a few of us but didn't say a word, not until he stepped up to the podium to give his lecture. And when he did, it wasn't just a lecture, it was a speech--and it was mesmerizing. Like Abraham Lincoln was right there, talking to us. He made it so vivid, Cal, the battles, the politics, he made it so . . . interesting."
Garrett's own tone is mesmerizing, and it's like I can feel the excitement he felt then.
"I used to bring a recorder to class--this was before smartphones--so I could take notes from the lecture later, because when Professor Forrester was talking, I just wanted to listen. To absorb every word of history he was handing out." Garrett takes a drink of wine, his eyes finding mine. "And that's when I knew what I wanted to do. If I couldn't play football, I wanted to coach and I knew I wanted it to be at Lakeside. But almost just as much, I wanted to do what Professor Forrester did. I wanted to make the past come alive for the kids in my class, really teach them something. Something they can take with them, that'll make a difference in their lives." He shrugs. "And the rest is history."
I put my hand over his on the table.
"I'm sorry about your knee. It shouldn't have happened, not to you."
There's no pain in his eyes, no flinching--I know it must've been a deep wound for him, but I'm relieved to see that it's healed. That it didn't scar him, change him, not the part of him that matters.
"Life happens, Callie--sometimes it's good, sometimes it sucks hairy monkey balls. But, life happens to all of us."
"I sent you a card when you got hurt," I tell him quietly, like a confession. "I put my number in it, in case there was anything I could do. I don't know if you got it."
"Yeah, I got it."
"Oh. Why didn't you call me?"
He lifts one shoulder again. "I figured it was a pity-fuck card. That you felt sorry for me. I didn't want a pity-fuck card from you."
"It was not a pity-fuck card! I was devastated for you!"
I smack his arm.
Garrett grabs my hand, holding it between the two of his.
"Careful, you'll break your hand on that steel."
I snatch my hand back from the idiot, shaking my head.
"I thought about coming to see you, but I was still talking to Sydney then, and she said she'd heard you were dating someone new. I didn't want to complicate that for you. Make things harder than they already were. I sent the card so you'd know I cared. I wanted to cheer you up."
He smiles crookedly, and my chest feels light, breathless.
"Sydney heard wrong, I wasn't dating anyone seriously. I wish you would've visited me in the hospital. A blow job would've cheered me up--you were always really good at those."
I hit him again. "Jackass."
He just chuckles.
~
After dinner, washing the dishes is a team effort--Snoopy licks the plates, Garrett washes, and I dry. Once that's done, Garrett refills my wineglass and grabs a water for himself and we head back outside, sitting in the low, cushioned chairs beside the fire pit. The air is tinged with a hickory, smoky scent, and everything has that pretty, flamey, orange glow.
"Okay, Mr. Miyagi . . . Daniel-son me."
Garrett's smile is broad, and I feel that tingling, weak sensation in my knees. Then he clears his throat and begins to school me.
"The key to controlling your class, is figuring out what each kid wants or needs and giving it to them. But at the same time, letting them know, depending on the choices they make, you have the power to take it away. For some kids it's grades--that's easy. For others it's attention or approval--knowing that you give a shit, that you're watching them. For others, it's being a listener, an authority figure who's safe, someone they know they can go to if they've really fucked up. And some of them will."
"It sounds like you're talking about being a therapist."
He tilts his head. "I've been doing this for thirteen years, Callie. All teachers are therapists . . . and social workers, friends, wardens . . . confessors. Just depends on the day."
"I don't remember being this high maintenance when we were in high school. Teachers were teachers--some of them were barely checked into the job."
Garrett shakes his head. "These kids aren't us; they'll never be us. They're more like . . . young Lex Luthors. They've never known a world without the internet. Email. Text messaging. Social media. Likes and views are king, bullying dickheads are inescapable, and genuine social interaction can be almost completely avoided. It makes them really fucking smart technologically and really fucking stupid emotionally."
"Jesus, when you put it like that, I feel bad for them." I sigh. "Even for Bradley Baker, and he looked me in the face yesterday and told me to go fuck a goat."
"Bradley's a dipshit, a showoff. And it's okay to feel bad for them--Christ, I wouldn't change places with a single one of them for anything. Even if it meant I could play football again." Then his voice goes firmer, more insistent. "But don't feel too bad, don't let them walk on you. Our job isn't to protect them from their own dumb choices; it's to teach them to make better ones. Teach them how not to be a screw-up in a screwed up world."
I gaze at the fire, letting the stark, logical truth of his words sink deep into my mind. Then I take another sip of wine and glance over at the man beside me. In the glow of the flame, Garrett's brown eyes are glittering, gorgeous warm brandy and his face is a sculpture of handsome.
"You know, that's really deep, Garrett. Grown-up you is deep."
He grins wickedly. "It turns you on, doesn't it?"
"I'm not gonna lie . . . it's pretty hot."
He stretches his arms above his head, flexing all those muscles. "Yeah, I know."
And that's how it goes for the next few hours. We tease and laugh, about teaching and about life.
"How do I make the kids think I'm the bomb-dot-com?"
"Never saying 'the bomb-dot-com' would be a good start."
I think back, remembering how I would roll my eyes every time my parents said "hip" or "far out" or "psychedelic." How ancient it made them seem. My face screws up as I try to guess the current teenage lingo.
"Rad?"
"Nope."
"Totally tubular?"
"Uh-uh."
"Bitchin'?"
Garrett cringes. "Jesus, no."
I laugh. "Okay, then what's the new cool word for 'cool'?"
He leans forward, legs spread, resting his e
lbows. "'Cool' is still cool. And if you really want to take it up a notch, throw in a 'dank.'"
I squint at him. "Dank doesn't sound cool."
"Don't overanalyze it . . . just trust me. Dank is cool."
I take a sip of wine and lean forward too--until our arms are just inches apart.
"What else?"
"Thick," Garrett says confidently.
"Thick is good?"
He nods. "Thick is very good. Try it in a sentence."
I tap into my inner dirty Dr. Seuss. "Garrett's dick is thick."
He gives me the thumbs-up.
"I approve of this message."
And we both laugh.
A little while later, Garrett asks, "Why aren't you married, yet?"
I snort, giving him the bitch-brow. "My sister's gotten to you, hasn't she?"
A chuckle rumbles in Garrett's throat.
I turn the tables back on him. "Why aren't you married yet?
"No hard and fast reason." He shrugs easily, the way he always did. "I just haven't met someone I wanted to marry. Or who wanted to marry me."
"Same."
"So, no serious relationships?"
Now it's my turn to shrug. "I've had relationships. I don't know if I'd call them serious."
"So . . . you're saying you still like me most of all? I'm still the number one boyfriend?"
"This matters to you?"
"You've known me since I was fifteen years old. When has being number one not mattered to me, Callie?"
I roll my eyes, evading the question. Because Garrett's cocky enough . . . and yes, he's still number one in my book.
~
And then, even later, we sit in our chairs, facing each other. The air is quieter and so are our voices. Snoopy sleeps on the ground between us as I pet him in long, slow strokes.
Garrett lifts his hand, drawing his thumb across my top lip, over the small white scar above it.
"That's new. What happened there? Wild night out with the girls?"
"No. I got mugged."
Garrett goes still and tense.
"What? When?"
I tilt my chin up towards the stars, remembering. "Mmm. It was my last year of graduate school. I was walking home from campus at night and this guy just blindsided me, punched me, split my lip open--took my bag, my computer."
Garrett frowns hard at the scar, like he wants to scare it away.
"It could've been worse. I only needed four stiches."
"Jesus fucking Christ, Callie."
And then I tell him something I never thought I would.
"I wanted to call you when it happened."
The words float between us for a quiet moment, heavy and meaningful.
"I didn't tell my parents or Colleen; they would've freaked out. But after it happened . . . I wanted to call you so bad. To hear your voice. I actually picked up my phone and started to dial your number."
Garrett's eyes drift intently across my face. And his voice is jagged but gentle.
"Why didn't you?"
I shake my head. "It'd been six years since we'd talked. I didn't know what you would say."
He swallows roughly, then clears his throat. "Do you want to know what I would've said?"
And it's like we're in a time machine bubble--like every version of ourselves, the past and the present, the young Callie and Garrett and the older, meld into one.
"Yes, tell me."
Garrett's thumb skims over the scar again, then down, brushing my chin.
"I would've asked you where you were. And then I would've gotten on a plane or a train or a boat, or I would've fucking walked to get to you, if I had to. And when I was with you, I would've wrapped you in my arms and promised that nothing, no one, would ever hurt you again. Not as long as I was there."
My eyes go warm and wet, but I don't cry. Emotion pierces my chest, that feeling of being cared for, protected, and wanted. And the bones in my rib cage go limp and liquid with all the tenderness I feel for him.
"You were always my girl, Callie, even after you weren't anymore. Do you know what I mean?"
I nod. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean."
We continue to talk about important and silly things. We fill in the cracks, the years, and all the missing pieces between where we were and where we are now.
And that's how we start. That's how we begin.
How we become us . . . again.
Chapter Nine
Garrett
I should've kissed her.
God damn it.
I wanted to, more than I wanted my next breath--and every one that would follow. And there was that moment, when I drove Callie home, and we looked at each other under the dim light of her parents' porch, when I know she wanted me to kiss her. I felt it, the pull--like the soft grasp of her hand.
But I fucking hesitated.
It's the greatest sin a quarterback can commit--the surest way to get sacked on your ass. Holding back. Debating. Pussing out.
It's not like me. I operate on instinct--on and off the field--and my instincts are never wrong. I act . . . because even a bad play is better than no play at all.
But not last night.
Last night, I waited--overthought it--and the moment was gone.
Fuck.
It bugs the hell out of me the next day, all of Sunday morning. It buzzes in my brain like an annoying mosquito during my run. It distracts me at The Bagel Shop, while I shoot the shit with the guys, and it replays in my head over breakfast in my mother's kitchen.
The full, soft pink berry of Callie's mouth--just waiting for me to take a taste. I wonder if she tastes as good as she used to. I bet she does.
I bet she tastes even better.
Double fuck.
Later in the afternoon, I make myself stop thinking about it. I don't really have a choice, because I have a driving lesson and this student requires my full attention.
Old Mrs. Jenkins.
And when I say old, I mean her great-grandkids pitched in and bought her lessons for her ninety-second birthday.
Mrs. Jenkins has never had a driver's license--Mr. Jenkins was the sole driver in their house, until he passed away last year. And there aren't any age restrictions for licenses in New Jersey. As long as you can pass the eye exam, they'll put that laminated little card in your hand and make you a road warrior. It's a terrifying thought I try not to dwell on.
"Hello, Connor. Nice day for a drive, isn't it?"
Yeah, this is our sixth lesson and she still thinks I'm my brother. I corrected her the first dozen times . . . now I just go with it.
"Hey, Mrs. Jenkins."
I open the driver's side door of her shiny, dark-green Lincoln Town Car and Mrs. Jenkins puts her pillow on the seat--the one she needs to see over the steering wheel. Usually, I take my students out in the company car, the one with double pedals and steering wheels, that's emblazoned with "Student Driver" in bright, screaming yellow along the sides.
But . . . Mrs. Jenkins and the great-grandkids thought it'd be safer for her to learn on the car she'll actually be driving, so she won't get confused. I thought it was a valid point. Besides, she's not a speed demon.
After we're both buckled in, Mrs. Jenkins turns on the radio. That's another thing--according to her, background music helps her concentrate. She doesn't play with the buttons while she drives; she picks one station beforehand and sticks with it. Today it's an '80s channel with Jefferson Starship singing about how they built this city on rock'n'roll.
And then we're off.
"That's it, Mrs. Jenkins, you want to turn your blinker on about a hundred feet before the turn. Good."
I make a note on my clipboard that she's good on the signaling, and then I have to hold back from making the sign of the cross. Because we're about to hang a right onto the entrance ramp to New Jersey Parkway--home to the biggest assholes and most dickish drivers in the country. As we merge into the right-hand lane, traffic is light--only two other cars are in our vicinity.
And the speedometer holds steady at 35.
"You're going to have to go a little faster, Mrs. Jenkins."
We reach 40 . . . 42 . . . if there was a car behind us, they'd be laying on their horn right now.
"A little bit faster. Speed limit's fifty-five."
Over in the left lane, a car flies by, doing about 80. But Old Mrs. Jenkins doesn't get rattled--she's like the turtle in "The Turtle and The Hare" . . . slow and steady, humming along to "Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money on the radio.
We make it to 57.
"There you go, Mrs. J! You got this."
She smiles, her wrinkled face pleased and proud.
But it only lasts a second--and then her expression goes blank--her mouth open, eyes wide and her skin gray.
"Oh dear!"
Because there's something in the road straight ahead of us. It's a goose with a few tiny goslings behind it--dead center in the middle of our lane. Before I can give her a direction, or grab the wheel, Mrs. Jenkins jerks us to the left sharply, sending us careening across the middle and left lane of the fucking parkway.
"Brakes, Mrs. Jenkins! Hit the brake--the one on the left!"
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear . . ."
We fly across the median, with green and brown grass clipping, bursting around us and clinging to the windshield. And then we're on the northbound side, heading the wrong way into three lanes of oncoming traffic.
Holy shit, I'm gonna die . . . .to an Eddie Money song.
How fucked up is that?
I'm not ready to go. There's too much I didn't get to do.
And at the very top of that list is: kiss Callie Carpenter again.
Not just once, but dozens, hundreds of more times. Touching her again. Holding her. Telling her . . . there's so many fucking things I want to tell her.
If I don't make it out of here alive . . . that will be my biggest regret.
In a hail of screeching brake pads and swerving tires we make it across the highway without being smashed to smithereens by another car. We dip and bounce jarringly over the grassy gully beyond the shoulder and finally roll to a stop in a thick line of bushes.
I breathe hard, looking around--fucking floored that we didn't die.
Well . . . I didn't die. Holy shit, did Old Mrs. Jenkins die?
I turn towards her hoping she's not spiraling into a stroke or heart attack. "Are you all right?"
With almost Zen-like calm, she pats my hand on her shoulder. "Yes, Connor, I'm all right." Then she shakes her head, thoroughly disgusted. "God damn geese."