Big Mistake Page 11

  Mom hands me a tissue, and Bri hands me another cookie. Typical. I laugh through my tears.

  “Do you want to be with him?” Bri asks.

  I shake my head. “He doesn’t want to be with me, and that’s how that is. But we can’t stay friends, and that hurts so much.”

  “You’ll be okay, you know,” my mom says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You’re so tough, sweetie. You kicked cancer’s ass. What’s a little heartbreak?”

  I smile at her, lean my head on her shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For saying that I’m tough. For seeing that I’m tough.” I wrap an arm around Bri for good measure. “I really am going to be okay. Because I’ve got you guys.”

  And I know it’s true. No matter what I’ve lost, I’m blessed to have these people, this life.

  Feeling more at peace, I pick my cookie press back up. Mom and Bri go back to their prep stations, and I squeeze out another star-shaped sugar cookie. Time to get on with my life.

  Chapter 17

  Rebecca

  The next week goes by quickly. I go to work, I hang out with Bri, I go to the movies with my dad. I miss Garrett, but I don’t talk about it much and I try not to think about it much, either. I remind myself that my life is pretty awesome and that eventually this whole thing won’t hurt at all.

  Most of the time, it works. I think about him, wonder what he’s doing, but I don’t feel that huge ache anymore, where I need to go back to how we were and can’t. It’s my new normal, and it’s working out okay.

  So here I am, Friday afternoon at KidFUN, and my phone rings. It’s the director, Eileen. “Can you come see me?” she asks.

  “Sure.” I hang up and sit for a moment, wondering what’s up. But of course I have no idea, and the best way to find out is to go see her like she asked. So I do.

  In Eileen’s office, she closes the door and gestures for me to sit. I’m not sure if I should be nervous—she and I are friendly, but I can’t remember her ever calling me into her office and closing the door.

  I choose the least rickety of her visitor chairs, and Eileen goes around to the other side of her desk and sits down. “Beck,” she says, “I want you to know, you’ve done great work this year.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling a flush of pleasure. It actually makes me feel better than she can imagine; I feel like I’ve been totally focused on all my personal shit, and really struggling to do my job well. Another thing to be mad at Garrett for.

  No. I’m not mad at Garrett. I’m getting over Garrett. And Eileen calling me in here to tell me I’m doing well at work is a good indication that I’m succeeding—or at least that I’m not the hot mess I feel like some days.

  “I know you said that you’ve applied to graduate school,” she continues. “Have you heard anything back from any of them?”

  I nod. “A couple. I’m waiting to see if I get any financial aid.”

  “What happens if you don’t get a good package?”

  “I’m sure I’ll get something. I just don’t know which school it will be. Colby already accepted me, but there’s not enough aid for me to go.”

  “Does that mean you’d be leaving the area for grad school?”

  I shrug. “I suppose so. I’ve been kind of trying not to think about it till all the letters have come back.”

  “Would Colby be your first choice, if they had come through with financial aid?”

  “Definitely,” I say. “I love it there, and it’s where my mom teaches. It’s a great school.” Why is she asking me all this? “But like I said, I didn’t get much aid from them, so I’ll have to go somewhere else.”

  Eileen smiles. “Well, I have an offer for you, if you’d like to hear it.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “The offer comes in two parts, so hear me out,” she says. “First, we’d like to offer you a full-time position in the financial offices of KidFUN. You could still work with the camp directly in the summer—but you’re good at the fundraising side, and that’s just as important as anything we do with the kids. Without our donors, we wouldn’t have anything for the kids.”

  “I don’t think I’m qualified—”

  “I’m not done. You’re right, the position requires an advanced degree.” She smiles. “But the right person is just as important as the right degree. Rather than lose you and take our chances on finding someone as competent as you are, we’re prepared to make a tuition assistance offer.”

  “I’ve never seen any reference to tuition assistance,” I say. “I didn’t think KidFUN offered that.”

  “We don’t, normally. But you’ve been with us for quite a while, and you are very good with the accounting department. You’ve been with us, in one way or another, since you started as a camp counselor a decade ago. That kind of thing really resonates with donors.” She opens a drawer in her desk and pulls out a folder. “It may sound extravagant, but it benefits KidFUN a lot, too. If it didn’t, this proposal wouldn’t have made it out of the last board meeting.”

  An idea snakes through my head—one that I don’t like. “Whose idea was this?”

  Her cheeks pink up a little. “Mine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She looks perplexed. ”Definitely,” she says. “I was dreading finding a way to replace you, and it came to me that I needed to find a way not to have to. So I figured out the costs, and the details, and then I went to the board.”

  “You did this for me?”

  “Yes, but I did it for KidFUN, too, Beck. You’re an outstanding employee, and I really have been upset over having to lose you. This way, I don’t have to let you go. It may also help you with your future goals.”

  I laugh. It does indeed help with my future goals. Working here, where I already love it? Getting help going to the grad school I wanted? “I guess I need to ask about salary and benefits and stuff.”

  “I would be severely disappointed if you didn’t,” she said, grinning. “Shall we negotiate?”

  “Yes, we shall.”

  We spend the next thirty minutes deciding on salary and benefits. In the end, I walk away with a smaller salary than I might command in the private sector, but that was always going to happen. That’s how it is, working for a nonprofit. But I do get good health insurance, a retirement plan, and generous time off. I have to work for KidFUN for ten years, or pay the tuition assistance back, but I’m fine with that. This is where I want to be anyway.

  All in all, I’m ready to sign on the dotted line, but Eileen types up a statement with the official job offer, including the changes that we negotiated.

  “Take some time,” she says. “Talk to your parents, make sure this is what you want. Then, tomorrow, you can come back in and officially accept.”

  “You sound pretty sure that I will,” I say.

  “Definitely. But run it by your folks anyway.”

  I thank her and go back to my desk with the job offer in hand. I pack up my things and walk down the hall, headed for the side door and my car in the parking lot beyond.

  And, without even thinking about it, I pull out my phone to call Garrett.

  It hits me like a gut-punch. I can’t call Garrett. Something major just happened, and he doesn’t know, and he won’t know, because he’s gone. I hear myself make a soft, wheezing sound, and realize I’m going to cry. I pick up the pace and hurry out to my car, praying no one will try to stop me and talk to me.

  Fortunately, no one does. I make it to the car and drive away quickly, waiting until I’m out on 114 before I find a fast-food place and pull into the parking lot. I drive all the way to the back, park next to the dumpster, and have myself a good, long, self-indulgent cry.

  Then I dry my eyes and square my shoulders, and drive home. It’s okay to be sad. I’m allowed to be sad. And probably it’ll reach out and grab me from time to time—but I’ll go on. And knowing that is a comfort. A small comfort, but still.

  I pull into my driveway and
go inside, dumping my stuff in the breakfast nook. Mom’s not home yet, but Dad’s in his studio, sketching the bare bones of something on a pad set up on an easel near the window.

  I give him the good news, and he sets down his pencils and comes over to hug me.

  “Beck, that’s fantastic! Your mom’s been sad about the idea of you going away to school, and I’ve been worried about loans. This is great.”

  “Eileen wants me to take a day and think about it,” I tell him. “But I already know I’m going to take it.”

  We talk a bit about the benefits, and eventually Mom comes home and I have to tell the whole thing again. She’s as excited as Dad was.

  “I’m delighted.” She hugs me, really hard. “Congratulations, Beck. You earned this, putting in all those years with them when you could have gotten some desk job.”

  “I wondered at first if you had something to do with it, if you talked to her or something.”

  Dad ruffles my hair. “That’s just a lack of confidence talking. We had nothing to do with it, and if you think about everything you’ve done for them over the years, you’ll see that they made a smart choice. It’s a good offer for you, but it’s a good offer for them, too.”

  “That’s what Eileen said.”

  “Well, that clinches it,” Mom says. “Eileen’s a wise woman.”

  I laugh.

  “Should we go out to celebrate?” Dad asks. “Someplace fancy?”

  I shake my head. “I’m gonna call Bri and ask her to celebrate with me tomorrow, but you know what I’d like tonight?”

  “You name it,” he says.

  “Let’s just get some pizzas and watch a movie. Just the three of us.”

  My mom hugs me again. “I’d love that,” she says. “You call Bri, Dad can call for pizza, and I’ll pick a movie.”

  “How come you get to pick?” Dad says, poking her in the side with one finger. “You’re gonna pick a chick flick and—”

  “And you’re gonna like it,” she says.

  I smile and go back to the breakfast nook for my phone. I pull it out of my purse and dial Bri.

  Bri agrees to go to dinner, but wants to know why. “Is it to do with—”

  I know exactly what she’s going to ask, so I cut her off. To hell with Garrett.

  “You’ll never guess, so quit trying. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Hey, if you’re buying at Manetti’s, I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “That’s my girl,” I say. “I gotta run. Mom’s picking the movie and it’ll be You’ve Got Mail or something if I don’t intervene.”

  “I like You’ve Got Mail.”

  “That’s because you’re a cheeseball. I’m gonna try to talk her into Return of the Living Dead, for Dad’s sake if nothing else.”

  Bri laughs. “You are seriously one of a kind.”

  “I know,” I say, and the happiness in my voice is real. I’ve got amazing friends, an amazing family. I’m not going to be sad right now.

  If I have my way, I’ll never be sad again. I’m going to have an amazing life. This is just the beginning of it.

  Chapter 18

  Garrett

  I can’t believe how empty life feels without Beck. How cold.

  Even in that moment on the boat, when I realized I’m in love with her, I didn’t know how much I need her in my life. Every day. In all kinds of ways.

  I wake up every morning, and is there a message from Beck with a funny political meme, or an article about an interesting court case she thought I’d want to read? No, there isn’t. Does she call me just because she wants to chat? No.

  To say nothing of the fact that she doesn’t answer my calls, or that her parents pretty much told me to fuck directly off the one time I tried to go over there and see her. That was maybe worse than the lecture from my dad, because even though he was disappointed, my dad is always going to be my dad, and he has to like me. It’s in the parenting handbook or something.

  But the Lowells aren’t my parents, even if they’ve seemed like a second set of parents over the years. They don’t have to like me at all, and judging from the look on Mr. Lowell’s face when he told me I was no longer welcome in their home, they don’t.

  That hurt a lot. I didn’t just lose Beck with my stupidity; I lost this whole other family that I had taken for granted.

  My mom hasn’t said anything about the situation, although I know Dad must have filled her in. Dad asked me a few days ago if I’d spoken to Beck, and I told him she didn’t want to talk to me and I was respecting that. He looked sad but just nodded. And that was that. No help from that quarter. I thought about asking him to intervene with the Lowells, but what would be the point? The last thing Mr. Lowell said to me was, “If and when Beck wants to talk to you, she’ll let you know. Until then, you need to stay away.” That’s pretty clear.

  Basically, I’m a mess. And the terrible irony is, if Beck would just talk to me, I could tell her how I feel. I could see if maybe—just maybe—she feels the same way. Because I honestly think she must. Why else would she have seemed so taken aback at the double date invitation? Why else would she have been so mad at me on the boat? I didn’t understand those things at the time, but I’m real perceptive now that I’ve lost everything. Great timing, Garrett.

  So it’s been fourteen long, horrible days since the disastrous double date, and aside from time at work, I’ve spent most of those days sitting in my room feeling sorry for myself. In fact, I’m gearing up for another long day of self-recrimination when my phone dings with a message.

  I know full well it’s not Beck—at this point I’m fairly sure it’s never going to be Beck — but I rush to check anyway. It’s Levi.

  B-ball tonight. Come over?

  I don’t even know who’s playing, nor do I really care.

  I don’t know. Not really feeling it.

  The phone rings; the caller ID is Levi. He knows everything that happened, and he’s been trying to tempt me out of the house for the last few days, but I’ve been far too busy feeling sorry for myself. This is sure to be more of the same.

  I sigh, but I answer. “Hey.”

  “Dude,” he says without preamble. “Are you gonna just sit there in your room until you literally rot? Get your ass over here and watch some roundball.”

  “I’m not rotting.”

  “Not yet, but you will be. Seriously, come over. I’ll pick up the delivery tab.”

  “I’m not even hungry,” I tell him.

  “Are you eating, man?”

  “Are you my mom?”

  “Well, sooo-rry,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to mother you, just make sure you don’t starve to fucking death. Come over. I’ll get that stupid buffalo chicken pizza you like.”

  To my surprise, that actually sounds good. Nothing has in days, so it’s worth thinking about. “I could maybe eat,” I say.

  “Good,” he says. “You can also maybe pick up some beer on the way over, because they won’t deliver it. Get a couple six-packs of decent microbrew.”

  “Probably more expensive than the pizza,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “Why do you think I offered to pay for the pizza?”

  Then he hangs up.

  ***

  At first, I’m not so sure I made the right choice, leaving the house. We sit in Levi’s big leather La-Z-Boys and watch the game for a bit, not saying anything beyond some commentary on the plays, and I can’t tell if I’m glad to be here.

  But by the third beer, I’m glad I’m here. I miss Beck like crazy, but I’ve missed hanging with Levi, too. Levi’s right; I can’t just sit in my room and rot. I’ve got to get out here and start living. But how? What do I do?

  I take a big swallow of my beer, then look over at Levi. He’s intent on the game, munching on a piece of pizza.

  There’s a code for talking to your guy friends about girls—a right way and a wrong way. As dumb as it sounds, and as enlightened as guys today are supposed to be, some things never chang
e: you don’t want to sound like a pussy in front of your dudes.

  But Levi’s smart, and he really likes Beck. He’s been friends with both of us forever, and if I can’t be up-front with him, then with who? And I have to talk to someone—preferably someone with at least a chance of being neutral.

  Neutral, but also slightly on my side, by virtue of bro-code.

  “I’m going crazy,” I blurt out. “I miss her so much.”

  Levi turns to look at me. “Beck?”

  “No, Scarlett Johansson. She didn’t get near enough screen time in the last Avengers movie.”

  “Listen,” he says, setting his pizza down on the table between us, “it’s not my fault you’ve been a dumbass.”

  “I know, I know.” I swallow some more beer. “It’s just … I don’t know how to talk about this shit.”

  To my surprise, he picks up the remote and shuts off the TV. “Just talk.”

  “I … fuck, man, I don’t know. I fucked up.”

  “Yeah, I know. What are you gonna do about it?”

  “I don’t know, but I have to do something. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  “Okay.”

  “I keep seeing her, how she looked that night—”

  “You can keep that part to yourself,” he says, and cracks open another beer.

  “No, I mean … I don’t mean that part. I just mean, she was so beautiful, and I started to understand that she’d been there my whole life, and I wanted her to keep being there.”

  “She was always gonna be there, Garrett. She was your best friend.”

  I shake my head. “Not like that. I wanted her to be more—I didn’t even admit it to myself. I snarled at those guys who wanted to be with her, and I told myself it was because I was her big brother, and I was taking care of her. But that was a lie. I was just trying to keep them away from her because I wanted her for myself.” I set my beer down. “I think I’ve wanted her for a long time, man.”