Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(5)

Before we head back to my house, we make a pit stop at ShopRite so Garrett can pick up diapers for his and Callie’s one-year-old daughter, Charlotte. Their three-year-old, Will, kissed the pull-ups goodbye last month.

In a small town like Lakeside, the ShopRite parking lot is kind of like the town square—you’re almost guaranteed to run into someone you know. The four of us are just about to enter the store when Michelle McCarthy and her foster son David Burke come walking out, pushing a cart full of groceries.

Miss McCarthy is the principal of Lakeside High School. She was the principal when I went there—she’ll probably be the principal when my grandkids go there—zipping around the halls on a mobility scooter, beeping and scowling at the teachers and telling the sagging-jeans-wearing kids to put on a goddamn belt.

“Hey, Miss McCarthy; hey, David,” my brother greats them. David was a student of Garrett’s. “How’s Rutgers going?”

“It’s good.” The young man nods, his ash-blond hair falling over his forehead.

“Still majoring in English?”

“Yep.”

“And education,” Miss McCarthy adds smugly. “He’s getting his teaching certificate.”

“She’s making me,” David informs us in a tone that says this is an ongoing debate that he’s resigned himself to losing. “I want to be a writer.”

“You’re an English major,” Miss McCarthy shoots back. “Do you know what English majors become? English teachers. You can write the great American novel over summer break. Plus, with your juvenile delinquent record you’ll have street cred—the kids will love you.”

Before David went to live with Miss McCarthy, he did a stint in juvie for setting fire to a local playground.

Garrett chuckles. “Well, having a Plan B is always a solid idea. I mean, look at me—one minute I’m on track to play pro ball and the next I’m the greatest teacher and football coach in the history of Lakeside.”

When God was passing out confidence, he gave Garrett extra.

But if you’ve got a big head, Michelle McCarthy can always be relied on to deflate that sucker down to size.

“Let’s not push it. You could be the best vice principal in the history of Lakeside, but you prefer to stagnate in mediocrity.”

She’s been on Garrett’s ass to take the vice principal position for a while now. But he likes the classroom—he likes connecting with the kids.

Miss McCarthy turns to me and her voice shifts from harsh to hushed in a New Jersey minute.

“Connor . . . how are you?”

It’s how a lot of the locals talk to me now—like somebody fucking died. Such is life in a small town. Everyone knows everyone’s business, so they heard the divorce wasn’t exactly my idea. Poor Connor Daniels.

Oh, the humanity.

“I’m doing all right, Miss McCarthy. Can’t complain.”

“You were always my favorite Daniels, Connor.”

Garrett puts his hand over his heart.

“That hurts.”

Ryan pipes up from behind me, “I thought I was your favorite Daniels, Miss McCarthy.”

She glowers at him, her full, firm cheeks pulling downward.

“You weren’t, Ryan James.”

Miss McCarthy is the only person on earth outside of my parents who automatically tacks on Ryan’s middle name. There’s a backstory there.

Today, Ryan’s a respected, well-liked Lakeside police officer with an impeccable service record. But back in his teen years he was a jackass. And I don’t mean your run-of-the-mill, clueless adolescent kind of jackass. I’m talking hardcore obnoxious, noogies to freshman skulls, cherry bombs in the toilets, mooning the opposing football team across the field at halftime type of jackass.

Until junior year, when a curly-haired, Brooklyn-born girl named Angela Caravusio moved to Lakeside and started dating him.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The day Angy stood in our living room in front of my parents and brothers and told Ryan in that Carmela Soprano–ringer of an accent, “I’m not goin’ out with a frigging jackass, Ryan. Grow up!”

I think that was the day my brother fell in love with her. It was the day we all kind of fell in love with her.

Because that was the day Ryan stopped being a jackass.

“All right—my ice cream is melting; we gotta get going,” Miss McCarthy says. “Garrett, I’ll see you Monday, bright and early. Connor . . . ” and her tone drops back to funeral-lite, “Keep your chin up. Being single has its benefits. Just look at me.”

Yep. Super. Living the dream.

“Thanks, Miss McCarthy. That’s comforting.”

After we go inside and grab diapers for Charlotte, a just-in-case-they-need-it gallon of milk for Ryan, and a pack of protein bars Tim has been dying to try, we check out and head back toward my truck.

When we step outside, the sun’s at that low, dipped angle that feels like it’s aiming its blinding orange light directly into your pupils. So it takes a second for my vision to clear.

But when it does, I see someone. Someone I know.

A few feet away, pushing her cart across the parking lot toward her powder-blue Volkswagen Beetle convertible in denim cut-off shorts and a tiny white T-shirt. Her chocolate-brown hair is in a high, long ponytail—the soft, wavy strands lifting gently in the spring breeze.