Getting Over Garrett Delaney (21 page)

“It’s cool. I’m all about the mess.” I look around, disoriented to be so high off the road. “This is great,” I tell him as we head out of the parking lot. “It’s like you can crush everything in your path.”

Josh laughs. “Almost. Although, I had a run-in with an SUV last year, and we barely made it out unscathed. Isn’t that right, Dolly?” He pats the steering wheel affectionately.

“Dolly?” I laugh. “What kind of name is that?”

“A great one!” he protests, but when I keep giggling, he explains, “When I got her, the radio was jammed. She would only play this classic country station. I fixed it in the end, but the name stuck.”

“Dolly,” I repeat, amused. Such a feminine name for such a hulking great mass of metal — the total opposite of Garrett’s Vespa, Vera. “Why do guys do that?” I ask. “Name their vehicles.”

“Ownership.” He grins. I reach over and punch him lightly. “What?” he protests. “It’s true! And it gives us something to swear when we break down out in the middle of nowhere.” He grabs a cable hanging from the old-fashioned cassette player and plugs it into his iPod. “Ready to rock?”

“I don’t know about that.” I get comfortable, slipping off my sneakers and propping my bare feet on the dashboard. “But I could maybe manage a leisurely roll.”

He hands me his iPod. “Go crazy.”

I pick some old-school Springsteen, and we turn onto the highway, beginning to wind through the sprawling woodlands of the Pioneer Valley. I love this part of the country. Sure, western Massachusetts can be frustrating if you want entertainment — and live a painfully car-free existence — but when it comes to twilight filtering through the leafy canopy or dense, lush hillsides, we can’t be beat. Out past Sherman, the towns are farther apart: small, white clapboard hamlets buried in the woods, marked by church spires and town ponds, signs for homemade honey for sale along the side roads, and farm stands with fresh eggs and corn.

“So, your first hockey game didn’t turn out too great.”

It’s only when Josh speaks up that I realize I’ve zoned out, watching the world speed by in the soft evening light. “At least I tried it,” I say, trying to look on the bright side of bearing witness to three nosebleeds and one shattered cheekbone. “That was the point, right?”

“I guess.” He glances over at me. “How’s it working out for you, this trying new things kick?”

“Good,” I answer slowly, feeling self-conscious. He hasn’t been a part of my Getting Over Garrett squad, but he has to know what’s been going on. By now, even regular customers like Mr. Hartley must know what’s going on. “Do you think I’m crazy?” I suddenly ask. “It must seem weird, me running around with this plan of mine… .”

Josh thinks about it, which isn’t really reassuring, but then he shakes his head. “No more crazy than the rest of us. I mean, at least you know what you want, and you’re trying to get there.” He shrugs, shoulders rolling beneath his faded blue T-shirt. “Most people just sit around complaining.”

“Yeah, I did plenty of that.” I sigh at the thought. “A couple of years’ worth.”

“So, don’t worry about what people think,” he says, easy and relaxed. “As long as it works for you.”

“You’re right.” I smile back, relieved. “And it is working. Well, except for today,” I correct myself. “Note to self: no sports. Ever.”

Josh laughs. “Come on, I bet we can find something more your speed. Bocce, maybe. Or table tennis.”

“Right, because I’m in a retirement home.” I laugh, relaxing back into the old, faded bucket seat. My bare feet are up on the dashboard, the nails still painted with remnants of sparkly pink polish from Kayla’s sleepover. I’m struck suddenly with how much things have changed this summer. Changed, or grown from nothing at all. I’m riding here alongside a guy I didn’t even know a few weeks ago, my life filled with friendship and new adventures I’d never even considered.

Sure, I may have wound up huddled on the asphalt outside a major sporting event, fighting not to hurl, but I went. I showed up! Old Sadie wouldn’t have deigned to attend in a million years, not when she was locked so securely in her bubble of a world.

Maybe the path to that extraordinary life I wanted is just a lot more meandering than I figured.

“About this ‘tiny’ detour …” I say, a half hour into the drive. “I’m not complaining, I just think we should have a plan, you know, if you’re going to be transporting a minor across state lines.”

Josh laughs. “Not much farther now. I’m just seeing a guy about a thing.”

“Cryptic.” I fix him with a look, but he just shrugs.

“That’s me, international man of mystery.”

“You mean, the kitchen-boy act is just a ruse, and secretly you’re off fighting spies and evil scientists between shifts?”

“Gee, my cover is blown.” He turns off the road into a dirt parking lot, a series of buildings just visible through the trees. “Here we are.”

“Here being … ?”

Josh shakes his head. “I don’t want to jinx it. But if it works out, I’ll tell you everything, OK?”

“Deal.”

Josh arranges to meet me in twenty minutes, then disappears off on his mysterious mission. I don’t mind, because he’s deposited me at what might just be the cutest bookstore I’ve ever seen: nestled under the beams of an old converted mill, overlooking the falls. I haven’t been on a quest for used books since Garrett left, but this place feels like home right away, even without him. The sound of water rushing outside, the dusk light fading through the old paned windows … It’s pure bliss. There’s even a resident cat, strolling by occasionally, letting me tickle its chin.

I browse the stacks until I can’t carry any more choices, then settle in at the little coffee shop next door to whittle down my short list, surrounded by bearded college undergrads and burly biker types. I’m so deep in a collection of vintage kids’ ballet stories that I barely hear Josh’s voice. “Is that a cinnamon roll? Traitor.”

I look up as he folds himself into the chair opposite, a stern expression on his face. I hurry to swallow a mouthful of the offending pastry.

“Just keeping tabs on the competition,” I protest quickly. “And they’ve got nothing on you.”

He breaks into a smile. “I’m kidding. And, sure they don’t.”

“Modest,” I tease. “Anyway, no more delays.” I push my plate aside. “I can’t stand the suspense. What’s the big secret? Did everything work out?”

Josh suddenly looks bashful. In fact, if the light wasn’t already rosy from the stained-glass panels in the window, I would swear he’s blushing. He reaches for a sugar packet and begins to tear it open. “I, uh, came to talk to the guy next door. Did you take a look around?” I shake my head. “Right, I forgot, the books. Anyway, he’s got this great restaurant. Nothing fancy, just simple, fresh stuff. They even grow a bunch of the produce on a farm nearby — the whole local-food movement.”

“That’s cool,” I say, even though I don’t really follow.

Josh makes tiny circles in the sugar crystals with his fingertips. “So … I came to see about working here. An apprenticeship,” he explains. “Not just the stuff I do at work, but real training.” He stops, and then a huge grin spreads across his face, as if he just can’t hold it back. “And … he said yes. I got the job.”

“Josh!” I leap up. “That’s amazing! Congratulations!” I hug him across the table. “So you’re going to be a chef, for real?”

“Maybe. We’ll see. It doesn’t pay much, and I’ll be working crazy hours, but … I don’t know, I think I could be good at it.” Josh looks at me, hopeful, as if he’s waiting for agreement.

“Of course you will,” I insist. “We’ll miss you, though. When do you start?”

“Not for another couple of weeks. His summer intern goes back to culinary school in the fall.”

“Is that something you’ll need to do, then?” I ask, curious. “Go to cooking school?”

“I don’t know. I’m not thinking that far ahead.” He’s still grinning, clearly thrilled. “For now, I’ll just see how this works out.”

“It will be great,” I declare. “I can just see you in one of those floppy white hats, whipping up amazing meals and yelling at all your kitchen underlings.”

He snorts. “I think I’ll be the one getting yelled at for now. And I won’t be anywhere near the real food — just chopping stuff and cleaning up.”

“But it’s a start,” I insist. “You’ll be winning Michelin stars in no time. That’s the award, right?” I check. “That all the fancy restaurants have?”

He nods. “But I want to be more of a James Beard guy. It’s the award they give for the best chefs in America,” he explains. “The ones who really push the boundaries and put a whole modern spin on things.”

I’m amazed. “You never said you were into this stuff. You always complain about being stuck in the kitchen back at work.”

Josh shrugs again. “Sure, because I’m grilling sandwiches for the millionth time. This is different. Will — the guy in the restaurant — he’s doing amazing stuff with meats and herbs and —” He seems to catch himself, stopping with a shy smile. “Sorry, I get kind of carried away when it comes to cooking.”

“No, it’s great.” I look at him, at the energy in his expression. The casual act is gone, and instead, there’s something focused and full of excitement. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

Josh coughs, and suddenly that goofy smile is back. “There I go, ruining my bad reputation.”

“Sure, you’re a regular rebel without a cause.” I laugh. “Now, how about we get something to toast this news of yours?”

There’s a reason you didn’t block off contact with him entirely. And that reason is friendship — or at least, the dream of a happy, healthy friendship, unencumbered by the crippling weight of unrequited love. The utopia of BFFs, the (ahem) platonic ideal of emotional maturity. It’s getting closer every day, but the question is, are you ready for it?

I don’t mean kind of, almost, nearly ready. I’m talking immune-to-his-charms, cool-and-collected, ready-to-hang-up-in-a-heartbeat kind of ready. Because you haven’t done all this work just to turn around and hurl yourself at his feet again, pleading, “Love me! Love me!”

Asphalt hurts. But not as much as abandoning your dignity.

“I’m bored.” Kayla collapses next to me after Sunny Dayze lets out. I’m perched on the bench in front of Totally Wired on my break, peeling an orange and watching people on Main Street meander past. There’s a soothing calm to it, I’ve found: the slow strolling and absent errands that used to fill me with disdain and frustration are now kind of charming, after a manic morning serving coffees in the café.

“That’s new.” I offer her an orange segment. “Usually you’re exhausted and/or homicidal. Which, you know, isn’t the best thing when you’re working with kids.”

“But they’re so inane.” She sighs. “It’s all, ‘Kayla, look at my crayons!’ and, ‘Kayla, I made you a bracelet!’ Please. Come back when you can pee on your own.”

I laugh. “And somehow, every mom in town thinks you’re God’s gift to child care.”

Kayla bats her eyelashes at me. “As long as they tip at the end of summer!”

We sit side by side in the sun, enjoying the last orange sections. “Fall’s coming,” Kayla says. “I can feel it in the air.”

“You lie,” I tell her. “Fall isn’t coming, because if it does, that means winter’s on the way, and I refuse.”

“You refuse?”

“Yup. I’m not allowing it this year,” I declare, folding my arms. “Wet mittens and runny noses and ugly snow boots, and waiting in the cold for the bus. It’s just not going to happen. I forbid it. It’s staying summer forever.”

Kayla giggles. “Good luck with that, holding back the seasons.”

“Hey, they’re always telling us we don’t know what we can achieve if we set our minds to it.” I shrug. “So, I’m setting my mind to this.”

“Aww, I like winter,” she muses. “Fires and hot chocolate and snuggling up with … well”— she stops —“snuggling in general.”

I shoot her a sympathetic look, but Kayla fixes a smile on her face. “Anyway, you won’t be standing around in the cold in the mornings, you’ll be riding in with me.”

“Well, in that case, winter is allowed this year,” I decide. “Just for you.”

LuAnn’s peeling red Civic screeches into a spot just across from us. She hops out, dressed in a crazy polka-dot dress, with ballet slippers tied crisscross all the way up her calves. “Hey!” She waves over to us, walking straight out into the street. A minivan slams on its brakes and blares its horn, but LuAnn just bounces over to us, beaming.