It's not sexual, but . . . intimate. Comforting someone in their grief is an act of love, being allowed to do it is a gift of trust. To see someone at their most vulnerable, to know their bare, unhidden pain.
Garrett lies back on the pillow, folding it in half beneath his head, tucking his arm under it, staring at the ceiling. His eyes are still wet, shiny in the dim moonlight that reverberates off the lake and through the window. I strip off my sweater and step out of my black leggings. I unhook my bra and slide it off my arms. I place Garrett's clothes and mine on the corner chair, and then I slide under the cool sheets with him. Our bodies are aligned, every inch touching, and my arm is draped across his waist.
Words scrape up Garrett's throat. "This sucks."
Fresh tears spring into my eyes. I stroke his chest and curve my leg around his hip, weaving myself around him.
"I know."
His fingers brush my shoulder and his arm tugs me even closer.
"I'm glad you're here. It makes it better."
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."
He shrugs.
"We all chipped in," Nancy tells me. "All your classes."
"And the football team too," DJ says.
Nancy nods. "We remembered when you'd bring Snoopy to school sometimes."
"And to practice," DJ adds.
"And we knew it wasn't right that you didn't have a dog anymore," Skylar says.
"And we wanted to do something for you," Nancy finishes.
I choke out a laugh, shaking my head. "I can't believe you guys bought me a dog. Thank you, for real, this is . . . it's incredible. It means the world to me."
"What are you going to name him?" DJ asks, grinning broadly.
"Good question." I look down at the little guy in my arms--already asleep again. Then I get the best idea ever.
I jerk my head towards the door. "Let's go. Class trip. Way before any of your times, Miss Carpenter named Snoopy. Seems only right that she comes up with something for this bad boy too."
I throw my jacket over the puppy, in case Miss McCarthy is patrolling the halls, and lead my class down to the auditorium. Callie stands up from the front row, crossing her delicate arms, somehow looking even hotter now than when we left my house this morning.
"Coach Daniels. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I lift the jacket, revealing the bundle of adorable in my arms. And any illusion of professionalism goes out the window.
"Oh my God!" She coos and squeals. "Who is this?"
I hand the little guy over and gesture to my class.
"A present from the kids."
She meets my eyes and her face goes soft. Because she knows--she knows what this means to me. She knows me, through and through.
"What should we call him?" I ask Callie.
And for a second, when our eyes meet, it's like we're the only two people in the room.
She gazes at the puppy, her forehead scrunching, thinking it over. Then she looks back at me.
"Woodstock. With this beautiful yellow coat . . . d
efinitely Woodstock. And we can call him Woody for short."
I laugh, nodding.
"You pick the best names. It's perfect. Woody--awesome."
"Can I hold him?" Nancy asks.
I nod, and Callie hands him over. The kids swell in around Nancy as she sits down, drifting far enough away from us for Callie to whisper so they can't hear, "I really, really want to kiss you right now."
And I smirk, because--fuck yeah.
I point at Nancy, using my coaching voice--the one that's always followed. "Keep an eye on Woody. There's an issue Miss Carpenter and I have to deal with backstage."
If they're quick enough to pick up on what we're doing, they don't show it. I lead Callie up the side stage steps, and brush the heavy curtain aside. We step behind it and then, just in case, I tug her into a dark little alcove to the right of the stage. It's like this place was designed for making out--those naughty theater people.
I lean back against the wall, lifting my hands, gazing down at my girl.
"Have at me, babe. I'm all yours."
Callie reaches up, tugging at my shirt, bringing my mouth closer to hers. "Yeah . . . you really are."
Then she presses those sweet lips against mine and kisses the hell out of me.
Chapter Twenty-One
Garrett
On the first Friday night in May, I'm wearing my gray suit, leaning against the wall outside my downstairs hall bathroom. I hear the water running inside, then silence. And a few seconds later, Callie comes out.
Her skin is a mixture of pale white and green--like mint chocolate chip ice cream, minus the chips.
"Did you puke?"
The question brings a little pink to her cheeks.
"Yeah. But just the one time." She tucks a tiny pouch, with a miniature toothbrush and toothpaste inside, into her purse.
Athletes have rituals before games. Callie has a ritual before a performance--she pukes up a lung. She always did, even back in high school. And apparently that ritual now extends to her students performing too.
Because tonight is the opening night of Little Shop of Horrors by the newly christened Lakeside Players Group, at Lakeside High School.
In spite of the recent heave-ho-hurl, Callie looks stunning in a cream-colored skirt and jacket, with her hair pulled back in a low, loose bun that manages to be elegant and sexy as fuck. It makes me want to bite her neck, suck on it . . . preferably while she's riding me.
But--the happy times will have to wait until later. It's almost show time.
I call Woody into his crate and he trots in happily.
"Be good, Wood--we'll be home in a little while."
He attacks the rubber goose chew toy Callie got for him last week, with a vengeance. The pain of losing Snoopy still lingers--we kept his ashes and they sit in a simple silver urn on the fireplace mantle. But like the grief of all losses, time and good memories make it easier to bear.
I hold out my hand to Callie and she slides hers into it. Then I kiss her cheek.
"Let's go, sweetheart. Time for you to break a leg."
~
A few weeks ago, David Burke's plea deal was finalized. Me and Callie and Jerry Dorfman wrote letters to the prosecutor on his behalf. And they were literary masterpieces if I do say so myself, because the prosecutor agreed to let David plead as a youthful offender. If he stays out of trouble for the next two years, completes his probation and community service, his record will be expunged.
He was also allowed to come back home and return to school . . . contingent on the active participation and supervision of a legal guardian he could live with.
Anda oh man--he got a doozy of a foster parent.
She's showing him how to tie his necktie right now . . . or trying to strangle him with it.
"No, Burke, the rabbit goes in the motherfucking hole! In!" Miss McCarthy yells at him. "Jesus, are you deaf?"
Yep, David lives with her now. It's better than jail . . . though I bet some days he wonders.
He makes eye contact with me across the lobby outside the high school auditorium. And mouths help me over Miss McCarthy's bent head.
I give him the thumbs-up.
"Pay attention, god damn it!"
The little punk rolls his eyes . . . and then he straightens up and pays attention.
~
After Callie heads backstage, I jog out to the Jeep and grab a few things from the back. Then I find David heading towards his seat in the auditorium. I grab his arm and pull him to the side. And I smack a bouquet of roses against his chest.
"Rule number one--when your girl's in a play, you get her flowers. Every night. Got it?"
David looks down at the flowers. "Layla's . . . not my girl."
"Do you want her to be?"
Over the last few months, while David was in the Boy's Home, Layla told Callie he would sneak out of his room to the pay phones, to call her after lights out.
Frigging stupid? Epically so.
Romantic? To a teenage girl . . . absolutely.
He glances at the still-curtained stage, like he half-expects Layla to be there. "Yeah, I do want her to be."
I nod. "Flowers are a good start to making that happen. Keeping yourself the hell out of jail will go a long way too."
He grins, rolling his eyes again, and taking the flowers. "Got it. Thanks, Coach D."
"Anytime."
David lifts his chin towards the other bouquet of roses in my hand. "Those for Miss Carpenter?"
I nod. "Damn straight."
~
The show is fantastic--and I'm not just saying that because I'm doing the theater teacher. It's genuinely good. The sets, the songs, the kids--they're all so energetic . . . so awesome. By the time they take their curtain call, everyone in the auditorium is on their feet, clapping. When Callie appears center stage the applause get louder, I press my fingers to my lips and whistle.
She shines on that stage--looking so lovely--she was born to be there. And standing amongst the kids who gaze at her with adulation in their eyes, it's even more true.
Afterwards, backstage, it's all chatter and laughter as the kids change out of their costumes and take off their stage makeup. They talk about the cast party, make final plans on where they're meeting up and what they're going to do. Back in the day Callie and her theater friends used to drive down to the beach after a show, to watch the sun rise. She must've told them about it, because the kids' plans tonight are the same.
"Don't be idiots!" Callie calls after them, as the big, heavy school door closes behind the last one.
After he sweeps the stage, Callie sends Ray, the janitor, home, promising to lock up. And then it's just the two of us--here, together, where it all began.
The auditorium lights are dark, and the overhead stage lights are dim--a soft, golden glow. It's all quiet, peaceful, and still.
I hold out my hand to her. "Come on."
Callie grasps the roses I gave her in one hand and takes my hand with the other. I lead her onto the stage, our shoes clicking on the old oak floor. My fingers slide across my phone, and I find the song I'm looking for. "Perfect" by Ed Sheeran pours clear and distinct from the speaker, filling the silence with the strumming guitar and meaningful words. Words about finding love when you're just a kid, and not really realizing what you have until the second time around.
I set my phone on the stage and look up at Callie. "I heard this the other day, and it reminded me of us. I figured it could be our new song--officially."
Her pink lips stretch into a smile and her eyes shine on me. "I love it."
I stand up and hold out my hands. "Dance with me, Callie."
She comes quickly, eagerly, stepping into the circle of my arms, threading her hands behind my neck. We press close and rock together, turning slowly in the halo of the stage lights over our heads.
I gaze down into her eyes, breathing slow. "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous," she teases.
"Sexy," I tease back, making her smile gr
ow.
And then I basically crack open my chest and let her see my heart. The one that beat for her when we were kids, the soul that breathed just for her--and now does again.
"I know you'll never ask me--so I'm just going to tell you. At the end of the year, when you go back to San Diego . . . I'm coming with you."
She breathes in quickly, gasping.
"I'll sell the house," I tell her. "I'll put my resume together . . . find a teaching job in San Diego."
Her face is all soft and tender. Her fingers toy with the hair at the back of my neck, and she swallows. "Garrett . . . you don't have to do that."
I touch her cheek, stroking down her jaw, as we rock together to the music.
"I've thought about it, turned it around in my head, trying to figure out a way that this will work. This is how. I don't want to live across the country from you, Callie. And there's no fucking way I'm letting you go . . ."
Slowly, she shakes her head, tears rising in her voice and her beautiful green eyes.
"You love this town."
I nod softly. "Yeah, I do."
"You love coaching this football team."
"That's true."
One lone tear slips down her cheek.
"You love this school, these kids . . ."
"Also true." I catch her tear with my thumb, wiping it away. "But you know what else is true?"
A hiccup shudders in her chest.
"What?"
"I love you more than all those things. That's what I've realized this year, Callie--I can live in another town, teach at another school . . . I can live without coaching football if I have to." I dip my head, leaning in closer. "I can't live without you. Not anymore . . . not ever again."
Callie's face crumples, because my girl's a crier. But I know, this time, they're happy tears. She presses her forehead to mine.
"I didn't want you to have to give up anything for me."
"I'm not, baby. It doesn't feel like I'm giving up a damn thing. I'm getting you . . . I'm getting the chance to build a life with you . . . and that's all I really want."
I kiss her lips, tasting the warm salt of her tears. My arms squeeze tighter and her hands grasp my shoulders, clasping us together.
"The way I see it, I've been living my dream job for the last thirteen years. But you're just getting your shot at yours. And I want you to take it, Callie. I want to watch you and love you and be there, while all your dreams come true."