Getting Over Garrett Delaney (27 page)

“So you knocked her out just to avoid physical activity?” Josh jokes. I manage a smile.

“You know me so well.”

He peers at her. “Is she going to be OK?”

“I don’t know — I’ve never inhaled half a bottle of tequila.” I exhale, worn out. “Thanks again for coming. LuAnn was drinking, and we have to be back before curfew.”

“No problem.” He shrugs again, as if I haven’t dragged him out of bed and into the back of beyond. “Where are the others?”

“Looking for Dom’s purse and keys.”

“Then I guess it’s time to get her in the truck.” Josh assesses her quickly. “Which end do you want: top or bottom?”

“Just take an arm and drag. That’s what we’ve been doing.”

We manage to hoist Dominique into an upright position. “Wha … ?” she murmurs, squinting as we carefully maneuver her down the steps. “Stop spinning.”

I meet Josh’s eyes over her head. “Remind me to never drink. Ever.”

We manage to get her down the path to his truck with no more than a few minor bumps. Sliding her into the backseat is a bit trickier, but Josh is surprisingly strong; he lifts her all on his own and gently sets her down on the bench seat. She slumps, unmoving, and begins to snore. It would almost be cute, if there wasn’t drool dribbling down her chin.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize again. “I had no idea she’d let loose like this.”

“What happened, anyway?”

“I don’t know. It was like she was possessed. A completely different person.” I sigh, leaning against the truck. “She’s usually so controlled.”

“Those are the ones you have to watch for,” Josh says. “I knew this math whiz in high school — never says a word all year, then downs ten beers at a party and starts yelling the value of pi to fifty places.”

“Those math guys, they know how to party.”

We wait in the dark, the lights and noise from the party drifting out to us in faded bursts — the sound of people having the time of their lives. I sigh. “I guess nothing turned out the way I expected tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I thought it would be a fun, girl-bonding thing. No boys allowed — I know, right?” I laugh at my foolish optimism. “And then Dom decides to stage her one-girl strip show, and I tried flirting with this guy… . They all say I need to move on,” I explain quickly.

He raises an eyebrow. “How’s that working out for you?”

“It’s not. The flirting, I mean. The moving on is fine. Good, even.” I laugh, self-conscious. “Sorry, I’m kind of incoherent. It’s been a long night.”

There’s the light of a cell phone glow through the trees, then Kayla and LuAnn arrive.

“Angel!” LuAnn launches herself at Josh in a hug. “Sweetheart! Darling! You’re a doll, helping us out like this.”

He laughs. “Yes, yes I am. Feel free to reward me with massages and undying devotion.”

“You know, I might just do that. You’re saving our asses here. Or rather, these two cute underage asses,” LuAnn corrects herself. “I only had a couple of beers, so I’m going to wait here a while, then drive Dom’s car back. Can you take Dom home with you tonight?” She directs that last one at me.

I nod reluctantly. “I can stash her in my bedroom and try to sneak her out when Mom’s at Pilates.”

“Then we have a plan.” LuAnn claps. “It’s been a blast, ladies.”

There’s a groan from inside the truck, then Dominique sticks her head out the door and vomits onto the ground.

“And there’s my cue.” LuAnn backs away. “Laters!”

We stay until Dominique has evacuated the entire contents of her stomach, then head home. We pull into our street with minutes to spare before Kayla’s curfew. “Sorry I can’t help,” she apologizes, leaping out of the front seat. “I’ll call tomorrow, OK?”

We watch her sprint up to her door, the lights all on.

“What about you?” Josh asks, turning to look at me in the backseat, with Dominique’s head on my lap. “How do you want to work this?”

“Um … Can you try and get her in the back door while I distract my mom up front?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I gently shake Dom awake. “Come on, hon, we need to go inside now.”

“Then bed?” she yawns.

“Yup. Well, my floor,” I correct myself. “But it’s comfy — I promise. You just need to help us get you inside.”

Josh opens the back door. “You go ahead. I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?” I glance toward the house. It’s dark except for the lights in my mom’s study. With any luck she’ll be deep in project work still, or even sleeping in her chair like she does sometimes after a long day. “The stairs are right next to the kitchen, then my room is first down the hall.”

Josh nods. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, Dom?”

“Meugh.”

“See?” Josh grins. “We’ll launch evasive maneuvers while you get on with phase one: distraction.”

“Yes, sir!” I salute. “Go in T minus five?”

“T?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “They just always say it in the movies.”

“Then T minus five it is.” Josh salutes back. “Over and out.”

I leave him to hustle Dominique into a standing position while I let myself in the front door.

“Hey, Mom!” I yell loudly. “I’m home!”

I go to the kitchen and unlock the back door, then hurry straight to her office before she can come out to see me for herself. She’s working at her desk, the radio playing on low. “See?” I present myself in the doorway. “Right on time, like I promised.”

She smiles. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yup.” I nod quickly. “It was fun.” I sneak a look back toward the kitchen. Josh is in the hallway, guiding Dominique toward the stairs. There’s a thump, and a faint “Ow” as she stumbles against the wall. I leap forward. “Ooh, I like this song.” I turn it up loud.

“You like the Bee Gees?”

“Sure!” I grin, frantic. “Seventies stuff is totally in right now. They’re so uncool, they’re cool again.”

“I remember when they were just plain cool.”

“Five million years ago,” I add. “So what have you been doing?”

“Just some accounting stuff.” Mom makes a face. “I always put it off until the last minute.”

“What?” I act shocked. “Ms. Organization lets things slide?”

She laughs. “I’m still human, honey.”

“So you claim.” I check the hall again. Josh is creeping back out. He gives me a thumbs-up, then slips out the back door. All clear. I exhale, relieved.

Mom moves her papers to one side. “There was actually something I wanted to talk about… .”

“Tomorrow!” I tell her, already backing away. Lord knows if Dominique is busy vomiting all over my bedroom floor right this instant. “I’m super tired. I just need to crash.”

“All right, then. ’Night, sweetie.” Mom smiles. “I’m glad you had fun.”

I scoot upstairs, praying to the Gods of Trusting Motherhood and Obedient Drunk Girls that Dominique keeps quiet. Having to explain why there’s a wasted girl — well, woman — in my room would take powers of persuasion way above my level and probably get me grounded for life with a side helping of lectures about bad influence and peer pressure.

I crack open my door. Dominique is sitting on the bed, sipping a glass of water.

“Hey,” I whisper. “You’re awake.”

She grimaces. “Barely. My head hurts.”

“Just keep hydrating. I’ll get you some blankets.” I cross to the closet. “The floor is actually pretty comfy once you’re down there.”

She stays quiet while I arrange pillows and my sleeping bag into a cozy little nest, but when I look up, I find she’s kicked off her shoes and snuggled up under my comforter.

I guess I’m the one on the floor.

I turn out the lights and try to get comfortable, shifting around on the pile of quilts, but just when I find a halfway decent position and prepare to slip into blissful unconsciousness, Dominique’s voice comes, quiet from the other side of the room.

“I’m sorry. I … I know I wrecked everything.”

“No, it’s fine.” I sigh, rolling over. “Are you going to be OK? There’s a wastebasket there, if you need to … you know.”

“Thanks.” She’s silent for a moment. “Listen, about Carlos …”

“I haven’t said anything,” I reassure her quickly. “I mean, I don’t really know what’s going on. It’s none of my business.”

“Thanks.” Then her voice twists. “It’s not serious or anything.”

I don’t know what she wants me to say, so I don’t say anything at all.

“I mean, what am I supposed to do — stay in this town with him and serve coffee for the rest of my life?” She sounds wrung out, miserable. “I didn’t work this hard just to give it all up. I have a plan!”

There’s another long silence. Slowly, her breathing gets even, and I roll back over, ready to sleep. Then she whispers again.

“But I love him.”

The plaintive note in her voice haunts me even as I listen to the sound of my mom’s footsteps on the stairs. My heart stops for a moment as they pause outside my door, but then they head onward to her room, and I slowly exhale.

But even though the immediate danger has passed, I find I can’t sleep. My head is whirling with thoughts about Kayla and Blake, LuAnn and her ex, Dominique and Carlos, and, yes, even my wretched history with Garrett. Now that everything’s quiet — except for Dominique’s gentle snores from across the room — I keep coming back to it all. But no matter which way I look at everything, I can’t get past this strange contradiction that seems to lurk behind everything we do. Because no matter what, or who, we end up choosing, all of us feel like we’ve failed somehow.

Kayla feels guilty for planning for a future with Blake; Dominique feels guilty that she won’t with Carlos. LuAnn dropped everything to make it work with her guy, and I’m filled with shame every time I think about how I did the same thing, building my life around Garrett without even realizing it and then working just as hard to take that version of my life apart, piece by piece.

So how are we supposed to win? On the one hand, the world tells us that capital-
L
Love is epic, and all-conquering, and the meaning of everything, but on the other, it drills us with this message that we shouldn’t make any sacrifice or effort to pursue it, because that would make us weak, unempowered, desperate, silly girls.

But it’s not silly to want that connection, and it doesn’t mean that we’re weak just because we want to share our lives with someone. I didn’t even lose my mind over Garrett — no giggling or blushing or writing his name in my notebooks — it’s not that simple. Everything I did, I thought I was doing it my way: being independent and grown-up, getting by in school, living my life.

I just wanted him to love me, too.

I exhale, worn out. I thought it would be easy once I was done with the plan: no urge to check my messages, no obsessing over what he’s doing and with whom. But the problem won’t just disappear now that I’m over Garrett. I realize that now. This isn’t about him; it’s something deeper than that. It’s about who I am with him. With anyone.

What happens with the next guy?

I’m going to want to be loved by someone else one day; I’m going to long for him the same way I did for Garrett. More, maybe. So what’s stopping me from doing the exact same thing — molding myself around him without even realizing because I’m so desperate for that connection? It won’t change just because I’ll get older; LuAnn and Dominique are proof of that. They still feel that pull to subsume themselves in somebody else’s life, to go all or nothing for the sake of a relationship. And if they do, then they risk losing themselves, but if they don’t, well, they lose him instead. But it can’t be that simple a choice, can it? There has to be some middle way where I stay myself, in the world I choose, but get love, too.

There must be.

So, you’re officially over
him
— finally free from romantic agony, loose from the clutches of miserable, lonely woe. You did it. And doesn’t it feel wonderful?

But even though you deserve a party — a celebratory circus, a ticker-tape parade — for your awesome achievement, be warned. The specter of unrequited love can strike at any time, reducing even the most fearless, independent woman to a weepy wreck.

Don’t let it happen again. You were strong enough to strike it down before; you’ll be smart enough to avoid it the next time around.

Love isn’t pain. Heartbreak isn’t noble or romantic. You deserve better, so don’t ever forget.