Getting Over Garrett Delaney (30 page)

He looks back at me. “Oh … I mean, I didn’t come to Sherman. It was just a crazy road-trip thing.” Garrett pats my knee. “Hey, look — they’re starting.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he turns his chair to face the front. The lights get even dimmer, and the Russian army coat guy takes to the small stage.

“Hey, everyone. Welcome to our open mic night. We’ve got some great artists lined up, so let’s get things started with Malachi and his poem in sixteen parts: ‘The Decay of Being.’”

I blink. He can’t be serious?

But he is. There’s applause, and then one of the goateed guys walks slowly onstage. He’s dressed all in black, except for a square of red handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “Thanks, Logan.” He nods solemnly, unfolds a thick wedge of pages, and reaches for the mic. “I wrote this poem about my breakup with my girlfriend.” He pauses and squints out into the audience. “Luna, I hope you feel my pain.”

And thus begins my torture.

After sixteen verses, five haiku, and three more epic odes to love unfulfilled, the last reader finally lopes offstage, and I let out a long sigh of relief. Have my prayers to the Gods of Terrible Amateur Poetry finally been answered?

“Don’t worry — we’re not finished!” Logan bounds back, dashing my hopes beneath his battered army boots. “We’ll be right back after a short break. Feel free to discuss the work and chat with the writers!”

The lights go back up.

Garrett turns to me. “Wasn’t that first one provocative?”

“You mean, the one where he imagines his ex-girlfriend’s bloody death?” I venture, blinking.

“Right, the imagery was so powerful.”

The rest of the group murmurs in assent, besides Charlotte, of course. “Typical,” she spits. “Another example of shock-machismo torture, literally silencing women through death.”

Garrett ignores her. “You know, you should read here sometime,” he tells me. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve been working on this summer.”

“Um, actually I haven’t done much writing,” I admit. “Any, really.”

“Sadie! You have to be disciplined,” Garrett scolds. “I got up at dawn every morning and worked for an hour, just freewriting. My professor told me about it, you really get the creative muscles working.”

Another guy with ratty dreadlocks nods. “If you don’t take it seriously, you can’t call yourself a real writer.”

“True artists have to live, breathe,
bleed
for their art,” Charlotte agrees solemnly.

I let out a snort of laughter. I try and cover it with a cough, but clearly, my drama skills are about as good as Malachi’s self-editing skills, because when I look up, they’re all staring at me.

“You find that funny?” Charlotte asks archly.

“Well, I —” I start to speak, but Garrett interrupts me.

“Sadie’s starting out,” he says to them apologetically. He pats me on the knee again. “She’s just a sophomore.”

I stop.

“Her work shows a lot of promise,” he adds. “She didn’t get in to the program this time, but maybe next year. Right, Sadie?” He gives me a smile — full of encouragement — but I just stare at him, confused. Garrett’s support always meant the world to me, but now I can’t help wonder if he was always so … patronizing.

Dreadlock guy laughs. “Man, I wish I could be young and naive again.”

“Right,” Garrett agrees. “Trust me, Sadie. You’ll learn soon enough that you have to suffer for your art.” He looks past me to the stage area. “Oh, great, they’re starting again.”

The rest of them all turn eagerly to hear the next round of poets, but something in Garrett’s expression makes me stop.

He looked past me. The whole time he was talking about me — talking
to
me — he never once really looked at me.

How many times has that happened? I find myself wondering. How many times have I sat, waiting, while he catches up with somebody else, somebody more important?

I feel a shiver, cold on my spine.

“Garrett,” I murmur. He doesn’t turn. “Garrett.” My voice is louder this time, and he tears his focus from the stage. “I think I’m going to get out of here,” I whisper, reaching for my purse.

Garrett frowns. “What? But Sadie —”

“Stay if you want,” I tell him softly. “I can call my mom for a ride.”

I slip away, hurrying up the stairs and emerging back onto the street, lit with the neon glow of streetlights in old-fashioned lamps. I don’t know why I need to leave so fast, but something in me is itching, uncomfortable, and I can’t stay in that place — with those people — a moment longer.

“Sadie, wait!”

I turn. Garrett jogs down the street and comes to a stop a few steps from me. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling OK?”

“Sure, I’m fine,” I tell him, confused. He’s staring at me with such concern, I wonder if I’ve got it all wrong. As if reading my mind, Garrett moves closer and reaches out to touch my arm.

“I’m sorry I got distracted with those guys,” he says, giving me an apologetic smile. “I promise, the rest of the night, it’s just you and me.”

I pause. “Oh. You don’t have to …”

“Sure, I do! What do you want? Name anything.” Garrett makes a sweeping gesture, full of theatrics. He backs down the sidewalk, calling out, “The world is ours! Well, western Massachusetts, anyway.” He beckons me after him, but I don’t follow.

He stops. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“I —”

“Because I’ll make it up to you — I promise. Tonight, and tomorrow too, the whole day, we can do whatever you want.” Garrett smiles at me again, as charming as he’s always been. “I’ll even let you take me to another one of those alien invasion movies. And I won’t complain, not once!”

I stare at him, lost. This is what I wanted, isn’t it: for Garrett to choose me over his other friends? But just as quickly as that thought comes, it’s replaced with another, louder question.

Why am I doing this all over again?

Waiting for him to choose me. Getting swayed by all his charm and focus. This is exactly why I wanted to get over him, to feel like we were partners, instead of just Garrett and his desperate, pining friend. I spent my summer carefully cutting out my feelings for him, tracing around the outline of my heart because I was so desperate to keep our friendship together, the same as before.

But it can’t be. And more than that, I don’t want it to. Not if “the same” means waiting around for him, having him treat me like the girl I used to be instead of the person I am today.

I feel a rush of calm, cool and easy in my veins. “You know what? I’m beat,” I tell him. “Can you just take me home?”

Garrett’s face falls. “But, are you sure … ?”

“Another time, maybe.” I try to smile. “It’s been a long week.”

“There was something I wanted to say,” he begins. “This wasn’t exactly how I pictured saying it, but —”

“Can it wait?” I ask, turning to head back to the parking lot, but before I even have time to think, he closes the distance between us, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me.

This can’t be happening.

I stay frozen in place, his lips on mine, trying to make sense of the impossibility. Garrett moves a hand to my waist and pulls me closer against him. Dazed and reeling, I go. His lips are soft on mine, his skin faintly rough and unfamiliar against my cheek, and for one blissful moment, I sink into it.

Everything I’ve been waiting for — all those sleepless nights imagining this very moment — has come to this. Now. Here.

The kiss deepens, slow and sweet. I barely move. I barely even breathe.
This is Garrett,
I tell myself, giddy.
This is Garrett, kissing me.
My heart swells with triumph.

I finally made him love me.

At last, Garrett pulls away. “Hey,” he whispers, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. He smiles down at me. “I’ve been waiting forever to do that.”

“What … ?” I’m dizzy, clutching the front of his shirt for balance. “I mean … Why?” Garrett’s still smiling at me, that special smile I’ve longed for for two entire years. The one that says, “You’re the only girl in the world.” The one I’ve seen given to Beth, to Julie, to a parade of other girls, but never to me.

Until now.

“Don’t you know?” He pushes his hair back in a nervous gesture, almost bashful. “I love you, Sadie. I think I always have,” he adds earnestly. “But I was just too stupid to see it. I didn’t realize …”

Love. He said he loved me. I stare at him in amazement. But for some reason, the words dance just out of reach, like a language I can’t quite understand.

What does that word even mean to him?

“What?” I ask again, stronger this time. “What didn’t you realize?”

“Well, how great you are.” Garrett laughs. “And how great we could be together.” He traces my lips with his fingertip, then kisses me again. We’re closer than we’ve ever been before, so close I can feel his breath, taste the faint bitterness of coffee from his mouth. But for some reason, Garrett suddenly feels like a stranger to me, a foreign body pressed against mine.

I stay frozen in place on the sidewalk, aware of everything around me. Farther up the street, a group of people emerge from a bar, laughing; couples wait in line outside an Italian restaurant; a boy with scruffy long hair plays guitar on the corner, the faint strains of Jeff Buckley drifting down to us. And Garrett, here against me, but feeling farther away than any of them.

I pull away, that first blissful swoon I felt dissolving now, leaving something else — something cooler, more solid — in its place. A simple question. “What happened with Rhiannon?” I ask softly.

Garrett frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What went wrong?” I take another step back, watching him carefully. The haze is clearing; I can see things for what they are now. “It was only a couple of weeks ago that you were in love with her. You said she was the one. And now, you love me?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not like that. I mean, yes, we were together,” he says, stumbling. “But when she ended things, it made me see what had been right in front of me all along!”

I exhale, disappointment washing over me. “She broke up with you.” In the two years that I’ve known him, Garrett is almost never the dumpee. He’s always the one in control.

Garrett flushes guiltily. “No. I mean, yes, she did, but then I realized, you know — what we have. How special it is. You never let me down, Sadie; you’re always there.” He takes my hands in his, full of emotion. “Don’t you see? We’re meant to be together!”

I stare back at him, his words hitting me with painful force. I never let him down. I was always there for him. And he’s right: I was.

But not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, pulling my hands away. “It’s too late. I can’t do this.”

The smile slips from Garrett’s face. “I don’t understand.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“You’re not in love with me, not really,” I explain, realizing it for myself even as the words slip out. “You just love the way I always made you feel. Like you were the center of my world. Because you were.” I shrug, helpless. “I would have done anything for you.”

“I’d do anything for you, too!” Garrett says, confused. “That’s why this is meant to be!”

“No,” I say, understanding for the first time the great distance between who I used to be and who I am today. “I don’t love you. I did,” I add. “God, I loved you so much. But it’s over. I’m not that girl anymore.”

“Sadie …” He trails off, speechless. There’s nothing for him to say.

“It’s OK.” I smile faintly. “You’ll be fine. But I have to go now.”

I reach up on tiptoes and press a kiss to his forehead, feeling one last pang of regret. However it turned out, Garrett was my first love, my best friend. But it’s over now. All of it. The scene down there at the poetry slam proved it for sure. He sees me as some kind of adoring acolyte, a fan. But I’m more than that now.

“Take care,” I tell him, and then I turn and walk away.

It’s late by the time Mom pulls in to our driveway, but I don’t feel tired at all. I’m still buzzing with a strange adrenaline, a mix of relief and pride and exhilaration all in one. Something ended tonight. Something finally finished for good.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” my mom asks at last. She managed to show amazing self-control all during the drive home, but now she finally breaks. She looks over with concern. “Are you OK?”

I nod. “I’m fine. No, I’m better than fine,” I correct myself, feeling a smile creep across my face. “I’m good.”

“Oh.” Mom is clearly thrown. She waits while we go inside and then broaches the subject again as she crosses the kitchen to the kettle for her ever-present cup of herbal tea. “And is everything all right with Garrett?”

“Not really.” I give her a smile, slinging my purse on the kitchen table. “But that’s OK, too.”

She looks confused, so I reluctantly continue. “I just can’t do it anymore. Being friends with him, or more than friends… .” I shrug. “I’ve spent enough of my life revolving around him. I had to stop.”

“Oh, Sadie.” Mom comes over and pulls me into a hug: swift and strong. “I’m proud of you, sweetie. I know how much he meant to you.”