“Want a drag?” Garrett asked, holding the roach out for me to take.
I curled my lip at him, hating that I had been suckered, however briefly, into thinking he was anything but a stoned out loser. “I’d rather keep my brain cells, thanks,” I responded, turning away from him. But not before I saw the cold set to his eyes. He was making a point here. To show everyone in the room that there was nothing to see here. Look away folks, it’s just the same ol’ shit.
And I hated that guy with as much passion as I was starting to like the other Garrett. The one who could play me a song on the guitar and tell me I was beautiful and mean it.
A few of the guys around us ooh’d at my rejection, taunting Garrett by my obvious dismissal.
“You’d better keep those, babe. Cause they’re all you’ve got going for you,” he responded hatefully, earning him a riot of laughter from his friends. Garrett looked away and I saw a tiny sliver of regret on his face as though he wished he could take his words back. Well sorry buddy, words stick but I sure as hell wasn’t.
Without saying a word, I walked away. And I was left feeling oddly bereft. Maybe it was for not getting the last word in. Maybe it was for wasting a chance at insulting him back.
Or maybe it was for losing sight of the man I had glimpsed for only a few seconds. A man I could find myself actually wanting to be around.
The weeks passed and my life fell into the complacency of routine. Between school, working my shifts at Barton’s, and my internship I had little time for anything else and that was good for me. I liked keeping busy. I had a clear picture of my future and I was steadfastly plodding toward it. No one could ever accuse me of being unsure.
Just call me Slow and Steady Riley. On second thought, don’t you dare.
My parents had always joked that my serious focus was a result of some mutation of the genes. Because they were the most laid back people on the planet (excluding a certain doped out guitarist I knew of course). My father and mother had met at a commune in upstate New York in the early eighties. It had been love at first sight. Or it could have been the copious amount of psychedelic mushrooms they had just ingested. Whatever the cause for their instant connection, it brought about a quickie marriage after dating for less than two weeks.
And yet after all these years and three children later, they were still going strong. Hell, I hoped to be with someone I could remotely stand after that amount of time. I couldn’t imagine sharing a space with anyone that long and not wanting to inflict bodily harm. Who could stand hair in the sink and the toilet seat being left up for more than a month? Not me, that’s for sure.
But my parents were made of different stuff. Because I grew up in a home filled with love and laughter and all that Hallmark crap. I was the baby of the family, born almost sixteen years after my sister. I was the “oops” child. The result of a weekend getaway to Maine for my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. So I was raised essentially as an only child, both of my much older siblings having flown the roost while I was still a toddler.
My brother, Gavin, was a schoolteacher, my sister, Felicity, a stay at home mom to my two nieces. Gavin still lived in Maryland, ten minutes from parents. Fliss was in Pennsylvania. Then there was me.