Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(52)

Becca is Coach Saber’s daughter—she was in the same grade as us, and the splinter under Callie’s fingernail all through high school. She was on my dick like white on rice, and not subtle about it. She’d drop by the locker room after practice, always making sure I knew she was available and up for anything. She got off on doing it in front of Callie. I told her to cut it out, that I wasn’t remotely interested, but that didn’t stop her from trying over and over.

And Callie . . . pretty much just sucked it up, let it go, ignored it, and kept her mouth shut. For me.

To not cause problems between me and the football coach I idolized, who thought his daughter was an angel straight from heaven.

“That would be a different story.” Callie shrugs, still smiling.

I open my mouth to tell her, because—like I’ve said before—a guy gets to a point in his life when he knows that straight-up, brutal honesty is simpler. The best way to go.

Except . . . when it’s not.

I look over at Callie again—and she’s so happy—gazing at me with the perfect combination of playfulness, tenderness, and heat.

Here, where we are now, really is good. And it could all go away at the end of the year when Callie goes back to San Diego. Distance was the reason we ended the first time . . . one of the reasons anyway. And if history is bound to repeat itself . . . well, fuck . . . this could be all the time I get with her. The only time I get.

I think about what I tell my kids every Friday . . . “Don’t be idiots.” And I take my own advice. Because only an idiot would waste a minute—a second—with Callie explaining and rehashing shit that happened years ago. That shouldn’t affect us at all here, now, in this moment.

So I nod. “Yeah, totally different story.”

Then I put my arm around her, kiss the top of her head, and we head off together to the frozen food section.





Chapter Sixteen


Garrett





Mrs. Carpenter, with Colleen and Callie’s help, has decided to cook up an epic spread for Thanksgiving. Callie’s friends from San Diego, Bruce and Cheryl, are coming to Lakeside for the holiday. The day before Thanksgiving, I drive Callie to Newark to pick them up from the airport.

We’re waiting near the baggage claim when a piercing war cry rings out and a blur of beige sweater and dark-red hair comes streaking around the corner—all but tackling Callie.

“Girlfriend!” The blur squeals. “I’ve missed you! Damn, you look great—the Jersey air agrees with you.”

This must be Cheryl. Callie’s told me about her—the loud, quirky bookkeeper of the theater company Callie will be returning to at the end of the year.

She bounces with delight in her tall friend’s arms, hugging her back. Then she introduces me to Cheryl and I get a hug slammed into me too—knocking me back a step. Cheryl would’ve made a great lineman.

Then the redhead pumps my arm in a vigorous handshake. “It’s so great to finally meet you, Garrett! Callie’s been telling me all about you.” She does a double-take. “Wow, you really are handsome, aren’t you? Hello, Mr. Adonis.”

I like Cheryl already.

Bruce the Deuce, on the other hand—the tall, blond guy in the navy sport coat and beige ascot, who walks up beside Cheryl . . . not so much. I admit it—I’m not as mature about Callie’s dating history as she seems to be about mine. I’m a guy—it’s my god damn prerogative to want to rip the dick off of any other man that’s come within striking distance of my girl.

Callie and Bruce hug—a calmer, gentler hug than the smack-downs Cheryl’s giving out. According to Callie, Bruce is an actor—and yeah, it bugs the shit out of me, in a totally unreasonable way, that they share a common love of the theater. Callie said they dated briefly, but didn’t have sex—so I guess I’ll let him live. I’ll even be nice to him, for Cal’s sake—but I won’t ever fucking like him.

Cheryl brings Callie’s attention back to her. “So, before we get the bags, I have news!”

She claps her hands, vibrating in her black boots.

“What’s up?” Callie asks.

Cheryl holds out her left hand—the one with a big, sparkly diamond on the ring finger.

“We’re engaged!”

And it’s like Callie’s brain short-circuits. Confusion mars her pretty features as her eyes dance between her two smiling friends.

“Engaged to who?”

Bruce laughs and loops his arm around Cheryl’s broad shoulders.

“Each other.”

“Wait . . . whaaat?” Callie points her finger at them. “You and Bruce? Cheryl and you?”

The happy couple nods in unison.

“Do you guys even like each other?”

Bruce grins. “Turns out my penis loves her vagina and the feeling is mutual. Once those crazy kids got together, our hearts went along for the ride.”

“Wow. I am . . .” She runs her hands through her hair, pushing it back. “. . . so confused. When did this happen?”

“It happened while we were boxing up your stuff to ship here,” Cheryl says. “One minute we were arguing about whether to use Bubble Wrap or newspaper to pack your shoes . . . and the next minute we were tearing each other’s clothes off. And it was glorious—just like a romance novel!”