Page 78 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
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.
