Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(15)

“Nah, it’s awesome.” He waves his hand. “You should be proud. Your parents are seventy years old and still getting jiggy with it in the big, bad Buick. They’ve officially won at life.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” I shrug. “How are your parents? I saw Ryan at the hospital but we only talked for a minute. How’s the rest of your family?”

“They’re good. Everyone’s pretty good. Connor’s getting divorced, but he got three boys out of the deal, so it’s still a win.”

“Three boys? Wow. Carrying on the great all-boys Daniels tradition, huh?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Ryan has two girls, so we know who got the weak sperm in the family.”

I roll my eyes, laughing. “Nice.”

“I’m just kidding—my nieces kick ass and take names. Yours do too from what I hear. Colleen’s oldest is a freshman this year, right?”

“Yeah. Emily. I’ve told her to get ready; high school is a whole new world.”

And it all feels so un-awkward. Seamless. Talking to Garrett, laughing with him. Like riding your favorite bike down a smooth, familiar road.

“Are you still in California?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m executive director of the Fountain Theater Company in San Diego.”

“No kidding?” Pride suffuses his tone. “That’s amazing. Good for you, Cal.”

“Thanks.” I gesture towards the football field behind the school building. “And you’re teaching here . . . and coaching? Head Coach Daniels?”

He nods. “That’s me.”

“You must love it. My sister says the team’s been outstanding the last few years.”

“Yeah, they are. But I’m their coach, so outstanding is to be expected.”

“Of course.” I smile.

Then there’s that quiet lull . . . comfortable . . . but still a lull, that always comes towards the end of a conversation.

I gesture towards my rental car. “Well, I should probably . . .”

“Yeah.” Garrett nods, staring down at my hands, like he’s looking for something.

Then his voice gets stronger—taking on that clear, decisive tone he always had, even when we were young.

“We should hang out, sometime. Since . . . you’re going to be in town for a while. And we’re going to be working together. We should catch up. Grab dinner or get a drink at Chubby’s . . . legally, for once. It’ll be fun.”

My eyes find his—the eyes I grew up loving. And my voice is quiet with sincerity.

“I would really like that.”

“Cool.” He holds out his hand. “Give me your phone. I’ll text mine, so you have the number. Let me know when you’re free.”

“Okay.”

I put my phone in his hand and he taps the buttons for a minute, then gives it back. I slip it into my purse. And then I stop and just look at him. Because there were so many times, so many days when I thought of him—when I’d wondered, and wanted the chance to look at him again, even just one more time.

My voice is gentle, breathy. “It’s . . . it’s so good to see you again, Garrett.”

And he’s looking back at me, watching me, just like the first time.

“Yeah. Yeah, Callie, it really is.”

We hold each other’s gazes for a moment, taking each other in, absorbing these new, older versions of ourselves.

Then he opens the car door for me—and I remember that too. He used to do this all the time, every time, because Irene Daniels’ boys were rowdy and rough and a little bit wild, but she raised them right—to be men. Gentlemen.

The feeling of being precious and protected and cared about warms my muscles as I climb into the car, the same way it always used to. Garrett closes the door behind me and taps on the hood. He gives me one last breathtaking smile and steps back.

Then he stands there, arms crossed, watching me pull out of the parking lot and drive safely away.

Later, once I’m parked in my parents’ driveway, I remember my phone. I take it out of my purse. And when I read what Garett texted to himself I laugh out loud, alone in the car:



Garrett, you’re even hotter than I remember.

I want to rip your clothes off with my teeth.

~Callie



Nope—Garrett Daniels hasn’t changed a bit.

And that’s a wonderful thing.





Garrett



“You called her name out the window and ran across the parking lot to talk to her? Jesus, did you hold a boom box over your head too?” Dean asks.

“Shut up, dickweed.”

“Why don't you borrow the pussy costume Merkle wore to the women's march last year?”

Merkle is Donna Merkle—the megafeminist art teacher at Lakeside.

I flip him off.

We’re sitting down at my dock later that day, fishing and drinking a few beers while I tell him about seeing Callie again, the story with her parents, and how she's going to be subbing at the school this year.

Dean shakes his head. “Just be careful with that, D.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I was here, dude. I remember how you were when you came back from California after you guys broke up. It was rough. And that’s being really fucking generous.”