Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(26)

Garrett’s own tone is mesmerizing, and it’s like I can feel the excitement he felt then.

“I used to bring a recorder to class—this was before smartphones—so I could take notes from the lecture later, because when Professor Forrester was talking, I just wanted to listen. To absorb every word of history he was handing out.” Garrett takes a drink of wine, his eyes finding mine. “And that’s when I knew what I wanted to do. If I couldn’t play football, I wanted to coach and I knew I wanted it to be at Lakeside. But almost just as much, I wanted to do what Professor Forrester did. I wanted to make the past come alive for the kids in my class, really teach them something. Something they can take with them, that’ll make a difference in their lives.” He shrugs. “And the rest is history.”

I put my hand over his on the table.

“I’m sorry about your knee. It shouldn’t have happened, not to you.”

There’s no pain in his eyes, no flinching—I know it must’ve been a deep wound for him, but I’m relieved to see that it’s healed. That it didn’t scar him, change him, not the part of him that matters.

“Life happens, Callie—sometimes it’s good, sometimes it sucks hairy monkey balls. But, life happens to all of us.”

“I sent you a card when you got hurt,” I tell him quietly, like a confession. “I put my number in it, in case there was anything I could do. I don’t know if you got it.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you call me?”

He lifts one shoulder again. “I figured it was a pity-fuck card. That you felt sorry for me. I didn’t want a pity-fuck card from you.”

“It was not a pity-fuck card! I was devastated for you!”

I smack his arm.

Garrett grabs my hand, holding it between the two of his.

“Careful, you’ll break your hand on that steel.”

I snatch my hand back from the idiot, shaking my head.

“I thought about coming to see you, but I was still talking to Sydney then, and she said she’d heard you were dating someone new. I didn’t want to complicate that for you. Make things harder than they already were. I sent the card so you’d know I cared. I wanted to cheer you up.”

He smiles crookedly, and my chest feels light, breathless.

“Sydney heard wrong, I wasn’t dating anyone seriously. I wish you would’ve visited me in the hospital. A blow job would’ve cheered me up—you were always really good at those.”

I hit him again. “Jackass.”

He just chuckles.



~



After dinner, washing the dishes is a team effort—Snoopy licks the plates, Garrett washes, and I dry. Once that’s done, Garrett refills my wineglass and grabs a water for himself and we head back outside, sitting in the low, cushioned chairs beside the fire pit. The air is tinged with a hickory, smoky scent, and everything has that pretty, flamey, orange glow.

“Okay, Mr. Miyagi . . . Daniel-son me.”

Garrett’s smile is broad, and I feel that tingling, weak sensation in my knees. Then he clears his throat and begins to school me.

“The key to controlling your class, is figuring out what each kid wants or needs and giving it to them. But at the same time, letting them know, depending on the choices they make, you have the power to take it away. For some kids it’s grades—that’s easy. For others it’s attention or approval—knowing that you give a shit, that you’re watching them. For others, it’s being a listener, an authority figure who’s safe, someone they know they can go to if they’ve really fucked up. And some of them will.”

“It sounds like you’re talking about being a therapist.”

He tilts his head. “I’ve been doing this for thirteen years, Callie. All teachers are therapists . . . and social workers, friends, wardens . . . confessors. Just depends on the day.”

“I don’t remember being this high maintenance when we were in high school. Teachers were teachers—some of them were barely checked into the job.”

Garrett shakes his head. “These kids aren’t us; they’ll never be us. They’re more like . . . young Lex Luthors. They’ve never known a world without the internet. Email. Text messaging. Social media. Likes and views are king, bullying dickheads are inescapable, and genuine social interaction can be almost completely avoided. It makes them really fucking smart technologically and really fucking stupid emotionally.”

“Jesus, when you put it like that, I feel bad for them.” I sigh. “Even for Bradley Baker, and he looked me in the face yesterday and told me to go fuck a goat.”

“Bradley’s a dipshit, a showoff. And it’s okay to feel bad for them—Christ, I wouldn’t change places with a single one of them for anything. Even if it meant I could play football again.” Then his voice goes firmer, more insistent. “But don’t feel too bad, don’t let them walk on you. Our job isn’t to protect them from their own dumb choices; it’s to teach them to make better ones. Teach them how not to be a screw-up in a screwed up world.”

I gaze at the fire, letting the stark, logical truth of his words sink deep into my mind. Then I take another sip of wine and glance over at the man beside me. In the glow of the flame, Garrett’s brown eyes are glittering, gorgeous warm brandy and his face is a sculpture of handsome.