Push. Pull. Hot. Cold. One moment, I imagine rising to my tiptoes and wrapping my arms around his neck to press myself against him and lean into how much I suspect we could fit together. Then, there are moments like this where I know deepin my bones that Garrett and I aren’t even friends—not really. That my crush on him is just another symptom of my fucked up head about men. That I have my own bullshit that I need to deal with.
“Let me take you home,” he says.
6
MILE SIX
YOU RUN A MARATHON?
Groaning, I toss my hair up into a messy bun. It’s barely six thirty in the morning, and after a night of too little sleep, I’m exhausted. Besides a grunted “Good Night,” Garrett drove me home in complete silence last night. A chainsaw may not have been able to cut through the tension during the five-minute drive from his place to mine.
After everything last night, I am a shaken-up soda can of emotions. It doesn’t help that I checked my messages after Garrett dropped me off, and found a text from Miles saying,Hope you got home safely, Jenny luv. Twelve hours ago, when I was pre-ditched, my stomach would have impersonated a gymnast. Instead, my belly was tied up in knots—still is—between Miles deserting me at the bar, and the strange night with Garrett.
Garrett revealed so much about himself last night, yet he remains a puzzle, missing just enough pieces to leave you guessing what the image may be. The one thing clear about everything is that my romantic picker is broken. It may not have ever worked considering my checkered relationship past.
“Relationships… That’s a bold statement,” I mumble to myself, tossing the hairbrush onto the counter before shuffling out of the bathroom.
Every man I have liked has been a mistake. This includes Garrett. Everything that happened last night reinforces that. This isn’tPride and Prejudice. He’s not my Mr. Darcy, and I am certainly not his Miss Bennett. In fact, I may need to put myself on a moratorium on my annual rewatch of both the Colin Firth and Keira Knightley versions that I do each holiday season.
“Miss Austen, what have you done to me?” I whine, flopping onto the couch to scoop up my phone and text Catherine.
My bestie is meeting us for breakfast at Bread before Garrett takes Anker and me to the airport. It takes away the tiny pebble of guilt about texting barely past sunrise. With her first class at ten a.m., Catherine doesn’t have to arrive on campus before nine on most days.
Me: Men suck!
Catherine: Duh. I do not envy you heterosexual girlypops. Is this a general suck or a specific one?
Despite my phone’s robotic voiceover program reading out the message, I can almost hear Catherine’s lyrical voice. On top of being one of my favorite humans, she has this vocal profile that reminds me of the smooth timbre of a cello.
Me: Specific.
It all spills out of me with the chaotic fury of a waterfall. The argument with Garrett at the bar. Me thinking last night I’d move Miles and my situationship to the next level. Perfect Kayla. Getting ditched. Val. Then my second spat with Garrett. And all of it within a four-hour period. It all vomits out of me until I deflate into my sofa’s cushions.
Catherine: This is a lot to process at 6:38 a.m.
Me: I know! The ride home last night was awkward enough. Now I have to sit through breakfast with him and then LAX traffic.
Catherine: Should I call in a favor from that parking enforcement officer I went on a date with last week, and have her put a boot on Garrett’s SUV, so he can’t drive you?
Laughter tugs my lips into a broad smile. After years of my only real friend being my brother or parents, Catherine is almost too good to be true. Lucky for me, she is both one hundred percent real and mine. Four years ago, we became each other’s people after bonding over our shared love of seasonal lattes at the campus coffee shop. What started off as just random chats in line each morning turned into sporadic lunch dates and morphed into a real friendship. Clearly one where she’s not above calling in favors from her recent hookup.
As unlucky in love as I am, my bestie has the pick. Only she doesn’t want anything serious at the moment, and is leaning into her easy, breezy single woman era.
Me: No favor needed. I’ll survive.
Catherine: Should I plot Miles’s downfall? Remember, I’m a Brontë scholar. Those gothic romances have all kinds of twisty forms of vengeance.
Me: As tempting as that is, let’s hold off on locking him in the attic of your manor house for now.
Catherine: I’m ready at the stead to plot vengeance against him or any other future asshole.
My mouth drags down. Catherine’s comment isn’t a dig. I know that, but I can’t help to worry that if I keep running this course, I’m going to end up with another Miles.
Me: I think I’m going to go on a romantic sabbatical.
Catherine: Like no dating? At all?
Me: Not until I can figure out why I keep falling for the same type of man.
