Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(69)

I lift up on my elbow, gazing down at him, crying for him while I swear, “I love you, Garrett. I love you so much. And I’m never letting you go again. There is nowhere in this world I want to be, except next to you—wherever you are.”

Sadness strips away the extra—leaving only what’s important, only what matters. They’re not just words I say—they’re words I mean, to the depths of my soul. I want to share it all with Garrett—every joy, and every pain too. I want to walk through life with him at my side—face whatever comes with him.

We couldn’t do that when we were young. The love was there, but we weren’t ready . . . we couldn’t deal with the painful parts, the unexpected. We can now. We’re older, wiser—stronger together. We can be by each other’s sides, be each other’s solace, through the good and the bad.

Garrett raises his palm against mine, pressing our hands together, watching as our fingers fold and entwine together. He looks at my face, and brushes back my hair. “I love you too, Cal, so much. Everything else . . . is just details.”

I slide up and shift, so I’m on my back and Garrett’s head can rest against my breast. I hum softly, because he’s always loved my voice. And he lets me stroke his hair and hold him—we hold onto each other—all through the night.



~




Garrett



The first day after Snoopy dies is hard. The pain is still fresh and raw, a wound that’s still bleeding. On a logical level, it’s weird. My brain tells me that Snoopy was a dog—my pet—that he had a good run, that I’m lucky to have had him for so long. But my heart doesn’t get that message. It’s fucking wrecked . . . shattered . . . like I’ve lost a member of my family, almost like one of my brothers has died.

When my class shuffles in for third period, I know they already know. It’s in their subdued, somber demeanors as they take their seats—a sea of sympathetic expressions that can only briefly meet my eyes.

After the last, late bell rings, I close the door, and as I walk back to my desk, Nancy says quietly, “We heard about your dog. We’re sorry, Coach Daniels.”

I manage a tight smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s messed up,” Brad Reefer adds, in the back.

“It sucks, man.” Dugan shakes his head.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah. It does.”

“If there’s anything we can do,” DJ tells me from the front row, “tell us, okay?”

I clear my throat, their unusual kindness and empathy twisting my lungs into a knot.

“Thanks, guys.”

Then I focus on today’s lesson plan and get through it.

The second day is harder. I feel bruised all over when it settles in that Snoopy’s gone. I have these crazy, split-second moments when I expect him to come around the corner barking or jump on me when I walk in the front door. And every time I realize he’s not there . . . it hurts all over again.

Callie’s with me every day, almost every minute. Hugging me, loving me, keeping me busy, distracting me . . . making it all just a little bit easier because she’s her, and she’s here.

On the third day, I walk into third period, and my whole class is already there, in their seats. This is odd for them. There's a cardboard box in the middle of my desk and at first I think it could be a prank—a stink bomb or a paintball grenade.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you,” Skylar says.

And they’re all watching me . . . waiting . . . smiling like creepy clown children in a horror movie.

“O-kay,” I say suspiciously. Then I take the lid off the box.

And I stare.

At the sleeping ball of golden fur curled up in the corner.

It’s a puppy—a golden retriever puppy—about eight weeks old judging from his size. Gently, I pick him up, and hold him close to my face. His legs dangle loosely, and his snout stretches into a wide, sharp-toothed yawn. Then his black eyes creak open, and stare back at me.

The air punches from my lungs—all of it. Making my voice raspy and choked.

“You guys . . . you got me a dog?”

And they brought it to school—so much better than a rooster.

They nod.

And I’m completely knocked on my ass. My eyes burn—and my dick is big enough to admit, I may actually fucking cry.

“Do you like him?” Reefer asks.

“I . . . love him. It’s one of the best gifts anyone has ever given me.”

And it’s not just about the dog. It’s that it came from them—these selfish, short-sighted, amazing, awesome kids. That they were kind enough, giving enough to do this . . . it makes me feel like just maybe, I’m doing something right with them.

I shift him to the crook of my arm, and pet his soft fur and scratch behind his little ears. “How did you afford this?”

He looks like a purebreed—we’re talking eight-hundred dollars, easy.

Dugan raises his hand. “I wanted to steal him.”

“Don’t steal shit, Dugan.”

He tucks his shoulder-length hair behind his ear. “I wasn’t gonna get caught.”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter—don’t steal. It’ll mess up your life.”