Something flashes on his face—a memory. Guilt.
“Oh my God! Did you screw Sydney too?”
Garrett shakes his head. “No! No . . . there was this one night when we ran into each other at the bar. And we talked—talked about you, actually—and it was late and we were drunk and there was this one moment when it seemed like . . . but nothing happened.”
I tear my hands through my hair and yell, “Jesus Christ, Garrett!”
Then Garrett is yelling back. “Nothing happened! Why are you being like this?”
“Because, every single time we were together, it was beautiful and it meant something to me. And to know, that after I left you just spread that around and became this . . . whore . . . that kills me!”
He points his finger at me. “You don’t get to do that! You don’t get to call me a whore because of what I did to fix what you broke.”
My anger makes me jump up and down. “That’s a line from Grey’s Anatomy!”
“It’s a good show!” Garrett shouts. Then he shakes his head. “Except for how Derek went out—that was fucked up. It’ll never be okay.”
And a part of me inside wants to laugh. But I can’t.
“Don’t be cute,” I tell him harshly. “Not now.”
Garrett’s shoulders go loose, slumping. “What do you want me to do here, Cal? I can’t go back and undo it. How do I fix this?”
The air rushes from my nose, like I’m a scorned dragon.
“Was she the first girl you were with after we broke up?”
Garrett nods, stiff and tight, and the knife in my stomach twists in a little bit deeper.
“When? Where? Where did it happen?”
He grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “I’m not doing this with you—I’m not doing a play-by-play recap. It’s useless and it’ll only hurt you. It was after California, after we broke up. If I could go back and change it, I would, but I can’t. The end.”
I let out a shuddery breath. And I know he’s right; I know I’m being crazy.
I close my eyes and breathe, my voice coming out small and thin. “It hurts that it was her.”
“I’m sorry, Callie.”
“Anyone else I could . . . but why did it have to be Becca?”
His brow furrows and his voice is tight. Pained.
“Because she was there.”
I shake my head at him. “You’re you—lots of girls would’ve been there for you. Why did you sleep with her? Did you . . . was it . . . to get back at me?”
His brow furrows, like he’s only now considering the question for the first time.
“Maybe. Yeah.”
“But why? Our breakup was mutual.”
He laughs then . . . and it sounds bitter.
“No, Callie . . . it wasn’t. Nothing about it was mutual.”
The moments replay in my head. That morning in my dorm room in California, when Garrett and I said goodbye.
“I don’t understand. We talked about it. You agreed—you said the distance was too hard. That we’d grown apart.”
“What else was I supposed to say? What was I supposed to do? Cry? Beg? I wanted to—I could see you dumping me from a mile away. But I was an eighteen-year-old kid; I had some fucking pride.”
Then Garrett touches my face, his hand cupping my jaw. “When I came out to California to see you, you were happy. It was the first time I’d seen your smile—your real smile—in months. And I couldn’t . . . I wasn’t going to take that away from you. Not for anything. So, I lied, said it was better if we broke up—that it was okay for you to move on without me. And I’d do it again.”
When I left Lakeside for college I was depressed. I had been for a while. I didn’t know it then, but now, as an adult, looking back, I can see the signs. And I had my reasons. Reasons that Garrett and I didn’t talk about then. But we need to do it now—there are things I need to say. So I look up into his eyes and rip off the scab.
“I wanted the baby. I wanted it so much . . . and I couldn’t tell you that.”
“You could’ve told me anything.”
I got pregnant in January of our senior year. We didn’t tell anyone—not Dean or Sydney, not our parents or Coach Saber, not Colleen or any of Garrett’s brothers.
It was ours. Our secret . . . and then, just a few weeks later . . . our loss.
“No. I couldn’t tell you that. Not after we lost it . . . and you were happy.”
“I wasn’t happy, Callie.” Garrett shakes his head, his jaw grinding.
“Yes, you were.”
“No, I—”
“I remember, Garrett! I remember what you said, in your room that day.” I close my eyes, and I’m right there again. “I remember what the rain smelled like.”