Getting Schooled

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."