“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.