Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(28)

“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!”