Chapter Five
Callie
I was fourteen the first time Garrett Daniels spoke to me. I remember every detail—I could close my eyes and it’s like I’m right there again.
It was after school, a week into my freshman year, TLC was singing “Waterfalls” from the radio on the floor next to me. I was sitting on the bench outside the school theater when I saw his black dress shoes first, because football players wore suits on game days. His suit was dark blue, his shirt white, his tie a deep burgundy. I looked up, and those gorgeous brown eyes, with long “pretty” lashes that should’ve been given to a girl, gazed back at me. His mouth was full and soft looking and smiled so easily. His hair was thick and fell over his forehead in that dark, cool, careless way that made my fingers twitch to brush it back.
Then he uttered the smoothest opening line in the history of forever.
Do you have a quarter I could borrow? I was gonna get a soda from the vending machine but I’m short.
I did, in fact, have a quarter and I handed it to him. But he didn’t go to get his soda—he stayed right where he was and asked me my name.
Callaway.
I’d mentally cursed myself immediately for using my full name because of its weirdness.
But Mr. Confident didn’t think it was weird.
That’s a really pretty name. I’m Garrett.
I’d already known that—I’d heard a lot about Garrett Daniels. He was a popular “middle school” boy because he’d gone to Lakeside public schools, as opposed to me, who was a “St. Bart’s” girl because I’d spent grades one through eight at the only Catholic school in town. He was a freshman, already playing on the varsity team, because he was just that good. Garrett was the third of the Daniels boys. Rumor had it he’d had sex in eighth grade with his then-girlfriend, though I would come to find out later that that was just the middle-school gossip mill run amuck.
Are you going to the game tonight?
He asked, and seemed genuinely interested in my answer.
I glanced at my theater friend, Sydney, who was watching the whole exchange in wide-eyed, open-mouthed silence. Then I shrugged.
Maybe.
He nodded slowly, staring at my face, like he couldn’t look away. Like he didn’t want to stop watching me. And I was perfectly happy to watch him right back.
Until a group of varsity jackets called his name from the end of the hallway. And Garrett started walking backwards towards them, eyes still on me.
You should come to my house after the game—to the party.
There was always a party after a home game, usually at an upperclassman’s house. That week, word around the school hallway was the party was at Ryan Daniels’ house.
Technically, it’s my brother’s party, but I can invite people. You should come, Callaway.
Another flash of devastating smile.
It’ll be fun.
I went to the game. And the party.
Although my sister didn’t exactly run in the same circle as Ryan, she had some friends on the cheerleading squad and had already planned on going.
We were there a few minutes, in the basement, with Bruce Springsteen playing on the stereo, when Garrett walked up to me. He handed me a red plastic cup of beer that was mostly foam and kept another for himself. It was loud in his basement, teenagers shoulder to shoulder and wall to wall, so we ended up in his backyard, just the two of us. We sat on the rusty swing set and talked about silly things. Our classes, what teachers we had, the star constellations we could see and name, why a quarterback was called a quarterback.
And that’s how we started. That’s how we began.
That’s how we became us.
“Callie!”
Although I haven’t seen Garrett in years, I would know his voice anywhere—I hear it in my head all the time. So when my name bounces off the parking lot pavement in that rich, steady tone, I know right away who’s calling it.
“Hey—Callie!”
Garrett’s leaning out of a first-floor window on the east side of the high school. I wave, and my smile is instant and genuine.
He points at me. “Wait there.”
I wait. His head disappears from the window and a few moments later, he emerges from the door, jogging over to me with those long strides I remember so well, but on a fuller, more mature frame. My eyes recognize him, and so does my heart. It speeds up as he comes closer, pounding out a happy greeting inside my chest.
He’s smiling when he reaches me, that same, easy smile. Then he hugs me, envelops me in a warm, friendly embrace. His arms are bigger than I remember, but we fit together perfectly.
We always did.
My nose presses against the gray cotton of his Lakeside Lions T-shirt . . . and he smells the same.
Exactly the same.
I’ve dated many men through the years, artists and actors and businessmen, but not one of them ever smelled as fantastic as Garrett: a hint of cologne, and that clean, male, ocean scent.
And just like that, I’m sucked back to being seventeen again—standing in this parking lot after school. How many times did he hug me right here in this spot? How many times did he kiss me—sometimes quick and fleeting, sometimes slow, with longing, cradling my face in his large hands?
“Wow. Callie Carpenter. It’s good to see you.”
I tilt my head, gazing up into those same gorgeous eyes with the same pretty lashes.
It’s a strange sensation standing in front of someone you’ve loved deeply—someone who, once upon a time, you couldn’t imagine not seeing, not talking to every day. Someone who used to be the center of your whole world . . . that you just don’t know anymore.
It’s kind of like when I was eight and my Grandma Bella died. I stood next to her casket and thought, it’s her, Grandma, she’s right there. But the part of her that I knew, the part that made her who she was to me . . . that wasn’t there anymore.
That was forever changed. Forever gone.
I know a version of Garrett intimately, as well as I know myself. But do those intimate details still apply? Does he still like room-temperature soda with no ice? Does he still talk to the television when he watches a football game—like the players can hear him? Does he still fold his pillow in half when he sleeps?
“Garrett Daniels. It’s good to see you too. It’s been a long time.”
“Yeah.” He nods, his gaze drifting over my face. Then he smirks devilishly. “You just couldn’t stay away from me any longer, huh?”
I laugh out loud—we both do—because there he is.
That’s him . . . that’s the sweet, cocky boy I know.
“You look great.”
And, God, does he ever. Garrett was always cute, handsome, the kind of good-looking that would make teenage girls and middle-aged moms alike drool while watching him play football or mow the lawn shirtless.
But here, now—Man-Garrett? Oh, mama. There’s no comparison.
His jaw is stronger, more prominent and chiseled with a dusting of dark stubble. There are tiny, faint lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth that weren’t there before—but they only add to his handsomeness, making him look even more capable and adventurous. His shoulders and chest are broad, solid, and the muscles under his short-sleeved T-shirt are rippled and sculpted. His waist is tight, not an inch of bulge to be seen. His hips are taut and his legs powerful. The way he carries himself, the way he stands—head high, back straight and proud—it radiates that effortless confidence, the unwavering self-assurance of a man who takes charge.
Grown-up Garrett is knee-weakeningly, panty-incineratingly, H-O-T, double-fuck, hot.
“You look great too, Cal, as beautiful as ever. What’s going on? What are you doing here?”
I gesture in the direction of the principal’s office and stumble over my words, because I still can’t wrap my mind around it.
“I’m . . . getting a . . . job. Here. At Lakeside. I just met with Miss McCarthy . . . she really hasn’t changed at all, has she?”
“Nope. Still bat-shit crazy.”
“Yeah.” The wind picks up, whipping at my hair. I tuck the blond strands behind my ear. “So . . . I’m subbing for Julie Shriver—teaching her theater class. I’m staying with my parents for the year while they recuperate.”
His forehead furrows. “What happened to your parents?”
“Oh, God . . . You’re not going to believe it.”
“Try me.”
I feel my cheeks go pink and warm. But . . . it’s Garrett, so only the truth will do.
“My mother was giving my father a blow job on the way home from AC. He crashed into a ditch—breaking both their legs. One each.”
Garrett tilts his head back and chuckles. His laugh is smooth and deep. Then he sobers to a smartass grin. “Yeah, my brother already told me—I just wanted to hear you say it out loud.”
“Jerk.” I push at his chest, and it feels like warm stone beneath my fingers. “It’s so embarrassing.”
“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.”
I reach down to where Snoopy is lying on the dock and scratch his belly. He rolls over to give me full access, the shameless bastard.
“That was years ago; we were kids. We’re adults now. We can be friends.”
He shakes his head again. “See, it doesn't work like that, man. Like, take me and Lizzy Appleguard. We were neighbors, friends—borrowing cups of sugar, I helped her hang her TV, shit like that. We screwed for a few weeks and it was good while it lasted. And then, we went back to being friends. I was an usher in her wedding. You and Tara, same thing—you knew each other in high school, passed each other in the halls, you bumped uglies for a few months, now you’re friends again, passing each other in the grocery store, “Hey, how you doing? What's up?”
Dean reels in his line, giving his fishing pole a little tug. “But you and Callie . . . I remember how you two were back in the day. It was intense. A ton of heat, and there was love . . . but I don't remember a single day when you two were anything close to friends.”