Fifty First Times

  “I am not going with pink poof at my wedding.” I snatch back the muffin he’d just swiped from my plate. “And I’m not certainly planning my wedding with Zach.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Garrett moves quickly, grabbing a chunk of the muffin before settling back again as though the conversation’s over, but I see it.

  That shoulder roll.

  I’d seen it a hundred times before, but for the first time I’m wondering what it means.

  “What are we working on today?” he asks.

  “Well, seeing as you were absent all of last week . . .”

  I want him to explain.

  He doesn’t.

  “While you were out, I and Monday and Wednesday shift guys finished up all the name tags. Now it’s just the last-minute stuff. Table assignments, finding work-study students to do setup and takedown, things like that.”

  He nods, and lets me pass off the table assignments to his side of the desk while I go through the list of vendors Mrs. Ramirez gave me and call to make sure that everyone’s still got us on the calendar for the second.

  The next two hours pass in the old familiar routine of bicker and teamwork, bicker and teamwork, until I’m surprised to see that our shift’s up.

  And surprised to realize that I feel . . . bummed.

  Talk to him, Annie. Ask about that night. . .

  But before I can grab on to the half second of courage, I realize that we’re no longer alone.

  “Katelyn!” he says, turning toward the newcomer. “What are you doing here?”

  The cute little brunette standing in the doorway blushes. “I, um, brought you a sandwich?”

  It’d be tough to say who looks more stupefied by the paper bag she’s holding out, me or Garrett. But he recovers faster. “Thanks!”

  The poor girl still looks embarrassed. “Sorry if I overstepped. That text you sent before your shift said you didn’t have time to eat before your boring-ass job . . .”

  I snap my head around to glare at him. Boring-ass job? It hadn’t felt boring fifteen minutes earlier when he’d held the stapler above my head until I told him my middle name (Elinor. Remember, my mom and Sense and Sensibility). It hadn’t felt boring when his body had pressed against mine, just for a flash of a second.

  “Nah, this is great. Thanks,” he says to Katelyn, grabbing the bag and his coat at the same time.

  She looks at me a little uncertainly, because Garrett the heathen didn’t bother to introduce us, and I give an awkward wave. “Annie. Partner in the boring-ass job.”

  “Ah. Well, nice to meet you, Annie,” Katelyn says before flicking her thick dark hair over her tiny shoulder. How did she even get in here? Admittedly the president of Fordham didn’t have Secret Service, but since when had any peppy little coed been able to just wander in . . .

  Oh God.

  God. Am I jealous?

  I’m not. I quickly stuff my water bottle and notebook into my bag and throw the strap over my shoulder. I glance up just in time to see Garrett looking at me, but he glances away the second our gazes meet, and he lets Katelyn hook her arm in his.

  Then he walks away.

  I stand perfectly still for several seconds before I remember that Garrett is not my almost-boyfriend. Zach is. Zach, who’s . . .

  Damn it. Why can’t I think of at least one good Zach-quality right now? Anything.

  I’m saved from myself by my cell phone, only it’s a whole other kind of hell on the other end. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, sweetie! I just thought I’d call to catch up since we missed you on Sunday. Sorry about that, but we’ve offered to help fill in at the youth group at church on Sunday since the Morrises just had their baby . . .”

  “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . .”

  I let my mom ramble on for a while as I exit the administration building and settle on a bench. It’s still cold as crap, but sunny, and the biting fresh air feels good on my hot cheeks.

  Garrett and Katelyn. Are they together? And since when?

  “And did I tell you what I heard about Julia Morbacher . . . ?” my mother says in her I-shouldn’t-be-gossiping-but-I’m-doing-it-anyway voice.

  “Nope.” I hope my voice inflects that I don’t care about Julia Morbacher, who is the daughter of one of my dad’s coworkers and someone I’d met all of three times.

  “Her parents found out that she’d filled up their vodka bottle with water . . .”

  Le scandal!

  “And of course, she didn’t think it through, and since water freezes and alcohol doesn’t . . .”

  I close my eyes and let my mom finish her gossipy story, which ends with the usual refrain: “I know I’ve told you this a thousand times, but I’ll tell you again: Your father and I feel so fortunate that you’ve never so much as ruffled a single feather—well, other than when you sprang a coed college on us—but you’ve never so much as caused us a worry, or stepped a toe out of line. And we’re so glad that you’re good and kind and smart, but we were just laughing last night that you have the best quality of all . . . predictable, and . . .”

  My eyes fly open.

  Predictable.

  Predictable.

  Is that what I am? Yes. Yes, it absolutely is what I am. Nobody is every surprised by anything I do, ever.

  And suddenly it hits me.

  All of those good girls gone wrong? It’s not that they got tired of being good.

  It’s that they got tired of being only that.

  Sticking to the straight and narrow? That I could get behind. It’s who I am.

  But being predictable?

  That is supposed to be my identity?

  And yet, it’s completely true.

  Planning on law school because it’s safe? Check. Eating a salad with low-fat ranch every single day for lunch because it’s healthy (ish)? Check. Going out with the nice guy with the glasses who thinks I’m a nice girl. Check.

  I hear a loud giggle, and look over to see none other than Garrett and too-cute Katelyn, who halfheartedly resists letting him pull her into a puddle. She squeals as he jumps in beside her, splattering them both with what has to be freezing, muddy water.

  It’s irresponsible, and stupid, and . . .

  I want that.

  I want to be the girl that gets pulled into mud puddles and can laugh about it, because hey, it’s just mud. I want to be the girl who makes out with the guy who I’m pretty damn sure is Trouble with a capital T.

  Even more than that, I want to be the girl that drives a guy so crazy that he pins me up against a wall and kisses me because he can’t help himself. I want to be so absorbed with a guy that I forget I’m in public so that someone shouts, Get a room!

  I want to feel sexy and wanted, and be able to say whatever I want whenever I think it.

  But the problem is not what I want to be. It’s what I don’t want to be.

  I don’t want to be Zach Harrison’s perfect, nice-girl rebound. The girl his parents want him to date.

  His words float back to me, as though from a distance. I like that I could introduce you to my mom someday without sweating like a pig, and I like that you make me want to be better. . .

  They were nice words. Sweet words. Perfect words, actually.

  But they’re words for another girl, at another time.

  They weren’t perfect words for me. I didn’t want to be the path to someone else’s perfect. I wanted to be me.

  I wanted to be the me I am around only one single person. The me that’s free to be cynical, a little testy, and who’s not always worried about saying just the right thing.

  My eyes have never left Garrett, who’s brushing mud off Katelyn’s cheek.

  I know exactly who that me wants to be with.

  And I’m too late.

  Five

  I’VE BEEN MENTALLY preparing for this dumb President’s Gala for months, but somehow I’d always imagined that by then, Zach and I would be an item, and that I’d proudly have him by my
side.

  Instead, I’m alone.

  Two nights ago, I gave Zach my let’s-break-up-before-we’re-even-together speech. I’d been as honest as I could without spilling my guts about my newly realized feelings for Garrett. The two guys had a class together after all, and I couldn’t bear the thought of Zach saying anything to Garrett. Not that he would, but just in case, I’d left that bit out.

  Instead I explained that while he is the greatest guy—and seriously, he is the greatest guy—there’s just that elusive “something” missing. He’d nodded. And because he is, well, perfect, he even looked a little upset about the whole breakup thing, which was oddly refreshing. I’d been expecting him to take the chivalrous high road, all “Best of luck to you, Annie, here’s a kiss on the cheek.”

  Instead he’d given sort of a rough nod of his hand, plowed his fingers through his hair, and said “Christ. This sucks.”

  Then he’d walked away. And that had sucked.

  But I’d seen him a handful of times in the weeks that had passed, and while he hadn’t quite been friendly, he’d been civil. Maybe someday we could be friends, but I won’t blame him if not.

  So here I am, dateless at a gala that I really don’t want to be at.

  Mrs. Ramirez and the rest of the staff at the president’s office had made it sound like the highest honor that their student employees were allowed to attend, but we knew better. We’re still on the clock, just in fancier clothes.

  In my case, “fancy clothes” involves a navy sheath dress that Corrie had talked me into buying with the spending money I’d made from work. I told myself that the dress was an investment. Navy was classic, right?

  But really, I like the way the dress gives me curves that I don’t really have, and makes my blue eyes look a little mysterious instead of wide-eyed-little-girl-plays-dress-up.

  More than that, I want someone else to notice those things too, but I’m not getting my hopes up. Garrett and I hadn’t talked about anything important at our last shift, but I’d seen the final name tags. We were each allowed one guest, and he has one.

  Katelyn Day.

  So they’re a thing.

  I haven’t seen them yet, and that’s just fine by me. Instead, I’m sitting with the other students, picking through the food I’d piled up from the fancy buffet. I’d intentionally sat next to Maggie, who works the shift before Garrett and me, because the girl is a talker and doesn’t really care if her listener is active or not. Because I’m not listening. I’m too bracing for . . .

  “What’s up, Anners?”

  He’s wearing a tie. And Garrett Reed wears his skinny blue tie really, really well.

  “You know I don’t like that nickname, right?” I say without heat.

  “Of course. Why do you think I persist?” he asks, as he kicks out the chair next to me and plops down. There was another kid sitting there just a minute ago . . . DJ something or other, but he went to the bathroom, I don’t bother to tell Garrett to move. I don’t want him to move.

  “Where’s Katelyn?” I make myself ask.

  He says nothing for several moments, and at first I think he’s not going to respond. Then that damn shoulder roll. “What can I say, Gilmore? She isn’t the one.”

  I press my lips together, trying to play it cool. “Well . . . it is fairly soon after Leah.”

  His lips twist. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  We fall silent for a moment, and I realize that Maggie’s never stopped talking, and is still in the middle of a story about this one time that her mom accidentally put potatoes in a pie instead of apples, but it was oddly kind of good, and . . . yawn. And then she launches into another story, this time about a runaway rooster, and . . .

  “Dance?” Garrett asks out of nowhere.

  “Dance?”

  He nods toward the center of the room, where there is a dance floor, although hardly anybody on it.

  “I don’t really dance,” I say, my palms suddenly sweaty.

  “Great, because the old folks aren’t really dancing either. All we have to do is just sort of sway.”

  No, we have to sway while touching. There is a big difference.

  But then he stands and holds out his hand for mine, and what can I say, I’m a sucker for old-school gestures like that, especially when the band moves into a slower-paced Frank Sinatra song.

  Garrett’s fingers are warm on mine as he leads me toward the makeshift dance floor, and I try to tell myself that it means nothing . . . that it’s just a convenient excuse to get away from Maggie’s god-awful stories. But when he turns toward me and slides a hand down to my waist and pulls me close, I let myself think it’s more.

  “I love this song,” I murmur as my hand tentatively finds his shoulder.

  He doesn’t respond.

  And he’s right. It is sort of like swaying, only . . . nicer.

  I see Mrs. Ramirez and her husband dancing a few feet away and she gives me a wide grin and a little wave. She says something to her husband, which I imagine to be something along the lines of Isn’t that so cute, my two little worker bees are dancing.

  “So,” he says, his head tilting down toward mine since he’s a good foot taller than me. “No Zach tonight.”

  My fingers tighten reflexively on his. “No Zach.”

  He nods once, and I think I feel his palm shift on my back, pulling me imperceptibly closer, but I don’t want to be wrong.

  I glance up to find him watching me. “What?” I ask, “No snarky comment about my failed attempt at Operation Get-a-Boyfriend?”

  He grins his old Garrett grin then, and I’ve got honest-to-God butterflies just at the sight of his smile. Things were so much simpler when I wasn’t so dang aware of the guy.

  “Nah. I don’t want you to get all weepy on me. Besides, that’s old news.”

  “You knew?”

  “Sure. And I have a class with Zach.”

  My footsteps falter. “He told you?”

  Garrett shrugs. “I asked.”

  Why? “Why?” I ask, deciding to be bold for once in my life. “Why did you ask?”

  This time it’s not my imagination—his hand definitely moves on my back, his fingers widening slightly, setting my skin on fire even through the fabric of my dress.

  “Christ, Gilmore,” he says, sounding annoyed, his chin brushing against my hair. “You really have no clue, do you?”

  My heart is hammering now, and my hand is definitely sweaty in his, and there’s this almost painful knot of hope in my throat, but if I’m wrong . . .

  The song isn’t over yet, but apparently our dance is, because all of a sudden I’m being pulled across the dance floor. “Where’s your coat?” he asks, shooting me a glance over his shoulder with unreadable eyes as we approach a side door.

  “My coat?”

  “Never mind,” he grumbles, already shrugging out of his suit coat and dropping it over my shoulder even as he ushers me none too gently out the door and into the cold.

  “Garrett, it’s snowing,” I say, glancing around at the smattering of snowflakes. “You don’t have a coat, you’ll freeze—”

  “This will take just a minute,” he says, walking in a crazed circle, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’s wearing only a white button-down shirt in New York in the middle of winter.

  I pull his jacket more tightly around me and watch him nervously.

  He stops his pacing and looks at me, his expression miserable through the thickening snowflakes. “You make me laugh, Anners.”

  Well. Okay. That’s . . . random.

  “You’re the only girl that’s ever done that,” he continues. “I mean really makes me laugh. And you never flirt with me. Ever. The very first day of work back in September, you called me an obnoxious egomaniac, do you remember that?”

  I blush. “Sorry,” I mutter, “It’s just that you were so—”

  He kisses me.

  Not a slow, dreamy sort of kiss, but the hot, urgent kind that a guy plants on a girl to
get her to stop talking . . . or because he can’t help himself. His hand holds my head still as he deepens the kiss, but just as I let my fingers sink into his shirt, he lifts his head.

  For a second I think he’s going to pull away—call it a mistake—but then his hands slide down to grip my arms, and his eyes get a little urgent. “I loved that you called me out on my shit. Maybe that makes me a masochist, but being around a girl that didn’t seem to care one way or another whether I liked her . . . it’s refreshing. You’re refreshing.”

  I shake my head a little, trying to follow him. “So all this time . . .”

  His eyes are locked on mine. “Our first day back from Christmas break. Do you remember what you asked me?”

  I bite my lip, thinking back. “Um, something about waxing your chest?”

  He smiles then, just a flash, before he goes serious again. “So you remember our conversations in detail, too? Good. But no, not that question. The one that came after that. The important one.”

  I go still, and he takes another step toward me. “Ask me again, Annie.”

  I’m frozen, and not just because it’s thirty degrees outside. “I asked you if Leah dumped you,” I say softly.

  “That’s the one,” he says gruffly. “And the answer is no. I broke up with her, Gilmore. I told you it was typical long-distance stuff, and it was. I suffered that all-too-common affliction of falling for someone else. That damn shoulder roll you notice? It’s been my way of trying to stop feeling that way, but I can’t.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. So this is what dying of happiness feels like.

  His hand moves to cup one of my cheeks and my eyes close. “You wanted to know why I asked Zach about you,” he says quietly. “Ask me that again too.”

  I open my eyes, letting them do the asking, and he lifts his other hand to my face in answer.

  “Last one,” he says softly. “You asked what happened with me and Katelyn. Care to take a guess?”

  My hands curl into his shirt in silent response.

  He moves even closer, and I let him press me into the brick wall behind me as I search his eyes. “Once Zach told me that you two weren’t a thing . . . I couldn’t stand the thought of bringing another girl knowing that you were available, Annie.”