Free Getting Over Garrett Delaney by Abby McDonald Page B

out to rearrange my hair. I bat her hand away. “I’m glad you’re finally growing those bangs out.”
    “Nope, I just forgot to trim them,” I tell her, taking a slice of leftover apple strudel from the fridge and then — at her expression — adding a real apple.
    “But they’ll be so cute longer.”
    “Cute is for six-year-olds,” I tell her as I nibble at my cold, delicious breakfast. “Cute is only one step away from
adorable.
”
    “And what’s wrong with that?”
    I sigh. If she had it her way, my mom would still be braiding my hair and tying satin bows on the ends, but there comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to take other things into consideration when it comes to her hairstyle choices. Male things. And so when I sat down to watch
Amélie
with Garrett back after we first met and he commented on how stylish she looked, I figured, why not? The blunt-cut bob works for me, kind of. It balances out this nose of mine, and on good days, I even look foreign and interesting.
    “We should get going,” I tell Mom before she can segue from my bangs to my clothing, demeanor, and general life choices. “I don’t want to be late for work.”
    No such luck. My mom can segue with the best of them. “Are you sure you want to serve coffee all summer?” She follows me out to the car. “It’s not too late to quit, and I still need an assistant for the Positivity Now! seminars next week.”
    “No, thanks,” I tell her carefully, rather than explaining why handing out name tags to a flock of lost souls in search of purpose via seven-step plans is pretty much my idea of hell. I’d rather wrestle with the Beast than hear how a simple organizational chart can save the world. “Anyway, there’s a whole literary tradition I’m following. Garrett says even Trotsky wrote in the coffeehouses of Vienna.”
    Mom doesn’t look convinced. “I can pay ten dollars an hour. And you’ll have free entry into all kinds of motivational talks.”
    Motivation enough to turn her down. “Thanks, but I’m having fun.”
    Lie.
    “And the people are great.”
    Well, some of the people. Now that I’m a vaguely competent employee, Dominique has exchanged disdain for icy detachment and doesn’t say a word to me aside from orders and occasional demands to go clean something. Josh is friendlier than her, thank God, but he’s still so goofy; it’s hard to get him to stop messing around long enough to have a straight conversation.
    I’m just starting to set up for the morning when he barrels through the door, carrying a fishing rod and a toolbox dangling with hooks. His nose is sunburned and peeling, and his brown hair is sticking up in wayward tufts.
    “You fish?” I ask, resisting the urge to pick pecans from the tops of the muffins as I lay out the day’s pastries. Oh, caramelized deliciousness! I turn to Josh before I break, like, five different health and safety laws. “I didn’t know you were the huntin’, shootin’ type.”
    “Sure.” He grins and unloads his gear with a loud clatter. “Birds, beasts, mammals, I’ll kill ’em all. There’s actually a couple of rodents out back if you’re feeling hungry… .”
    “Eww!”
    “What?” He laughs. “Nah, the fishing’s more my dad’s thing. He likes to drag me along sometimes. His idea of bonding, I guess.”
    “You’re lucky.” I sigh. “My mom’s idea of bonding is for us to sit down and fill out goal charts together. Or go for manicures. But, well …” I hold up my bitten nails as evidence of just how futile that cause is. “It’s cute, though, that your dad wants to bond.” Finished with the morning setup, I hoist myself onto the countertop. We haven’t officially opened yet, and the coffee shop is a quiet sea of neat tables and full sugar dispensers. The calm before the storm. “My dad and I kind of have the same thing. He’s always traveling,” I explain. “But whenever he’s in town, we always go to a show together, some band I