The Mistake: Chapter 20

As the first week of the semester comes to an end, I finally hear from Ramona again. And after months of ignoring her, I finally pick up the phone.

It’s time to see her in person. I’m not particularly enthusiastic about meeting for coffee, but I can’t freeze her out forever. There’s too much history between us, too many good memories I can’t pretend aren’t there. But this meet-up is for clearing-the-air purposes only, I assure myself as I walk across campus. We’re not going to be best buds again. I’m not sure we can be after what she did.

It’s not about her sext to Logan. It’s about what the sext indicates—her blatant disregard for my feelings and her coldhearted dismissal of our friendship. A real friend doesn’t proposition the guy who hurt her best friend. A real friend puts her own selfish desires aside and offers her support.

Thirty minutes after we get off the phone, I enter the Coffee Hut and join Ramona at a table near the window.

“Hi.” She greets me shyly. Fearfully, almost. She looks exactly the same as the last time I saw her, black hair loose around her shoulders, curvy body wrapped in tight clothing. When she notices my hair, her eyes widen. “You went blonde,” she squeaks.

“Yeah. My mom talked me into it.” I sink into the chair across from hers. A part of me is tempted to hug her, but I fight the urge.

“That’s for you.” She gestures to one of the coffees on the table. “I just got here, so it’s still hot.”

“Thanks.” I curl both hands around the cup, the heat of the Styrofoam rippling into my palms. I just hiked across campus in eighty-degree weather, but suddenly I feel cold. Nervous.

An awkward silence stretches between us.

“Grace…” Her throat dips with a visible gulp. “I’m sorry.”

I sigh. “I know.”

A sliver of hope peeks through the cloud of despair in her eyes. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

“No, it means I know you’re sorry.” I pop open the plastic lid and take a sip of the coffee, then make a face. She forgot the sugar. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, and yet it’s simply another sign that my best friend is attuned to nothing about me. Not my feelings, not even my coffee preferences.

I grab two sugar packets from the little plastic tray, tear them open, and dump their contents into the cup. As I use the skinny wooden stick to stir the hot liquid, I watch Ramona’s expression change from slightly hopeful to decidedly upset.

“I’m a shitty friend,” she whispers.

I offer no argument.

“I shouldn’t have sent him that message. I don’t even know why I did—” She stops abruptly, shame reddening her cheeks. “No, I do know why. Because I’m a jealous, insecure bitch.”

Again, no argument there.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” she blurts out when I remain silent. “Everything comes so easy for you. You get straight A’s without even trying, you land the hottest guy on campus without—”

“Easy?” I interrupt, an edge to my voice. “Yeah, I have the grades, but that’s because I study my ass off. And guys? Remember high school, Ramona? It’s not like I had a booming social calendar back then. Or now, for that matter.”

“Because you’re as insecure as I am. You let your nerves get the best of you, but even when you’re all nervous and babbly, people still like you. They like you from the moment they meet you. That doesn’t happen to me.” She bites her lower lip. “I have to work so hard for it. The only reason anyone even noticed me in high school was because I was the bad girl. I smoked weed and dressed slutty and guys knew that if they asked me out, they’d make it to at least second base.”

“You didn’t exactly try to discourage that.”

“No. Because I liked the attention.” Her teeth dig harder into her lip. “I didn’t care if it was good attention or bad attention—I just liked being noticed. And that makes me really fucking pathetic, huh?”

Sorrow climbs up my spine. Or maybe it’s pity. Ramona is the most confident person I’ve ever met, and hearing her rag on herself like this makes me want to cry.

“You’re not pathetic.”

“Well, I’m not a good friend, either,” she says woodenly. “I was so fucking jealous of you, Grace. I’ve always been the one who goes out with the hotties and asks for your advice, and suddenly you’re talking to me about having sex with John frickin’ Logan, and I was so consumed with jealousy I wanted to scream. And when the Logan thing exploded in your face…” Guilt flashes in her eyes. “It made me feel…relieved. And kind of smug, I guess. And then I got it into my head that if I was the one hooking up with him, there’s no way he would have rejected me, and…yeah, so I messaged him.”

Jesus. That last thing I said about her not being pathetic? Strike that from the record.

“I was stupid and selfish, and I’m so sorry, Gracie.” She implores me with her eyes. “Can you forgive me? Can we please start over?”

I take a long sip of coffee, eyeing her over the rim of my cup. Then I set it down and say, “I can’t do that right now.”

Distress lines her forehead. “Why not?”

“Because I think we need a break. We’ve spent every waking hour together since the first grade, Ramona.” Frustration clenches inside me. “But we’re in university now. We should be branching out and forming connections with new people. And honestly, I can’t do that when you’re around.”

“We can do it together,” she protests.

“No, we can’t. The only friends I made last year were Jess and Maya, and I don’t even like them. I just need space, okay? I’m not saying we’re never going to talk again. You were a huge part of my life for so long, and I don’t know if I want to throw all that away over a stupid text message. But I also can’t go back to the way things used to be.”

She goes quiet, chewing so hard on her lip I’m surprised it doesn’t start spurting blood. I can tell she wants to argue, to force a reconciliation, push her friendship on me, but for once in her life, Ramona defers to me.

“Can we still…I don’t know, text? Have coffee sometime?” She sounds like a little girl who’s just been told the cherished family dog has been taken to “the farm.”

After a beat, I nod. “I’m okay with that. Starting off slowly.”

Her hopeful expression returns in full-force. “How about coffee, then? We can meet here again.”

Despite my lingering resistance, I offer another nod.

Relief floods her face. “You won’t regret this. I promise you, I’m not going to take you for granted ever again.”

I’ll believe it when I see it. For now, I’ve made all the inroads I’m willing to make with her.

We exchange a brief and incredibly awkward hug, and then she leaves, saying she needs to get to class.

I’m too sad to move, so I simply sit there, absently stirring the stick in my coffee. I feel as if I’ve just broken up with someone. In a sense, I did.

But I meant every word—I do need a break from her. She was holding me back last year. Freshman Grace was a confined bird that only got to soar when Ramona decided to let her out of the cage.

Well, Sophomore Grace is going to fly all over the place.

The sadness in my chest disperses, replaced by a twinge of excitement. I already feel like I’m soaring. I love my new roommate, I’m enjoying my classes so far, and I’m looking forward to my new job at the campus radio station. Morris, the junior who runs it, gave me the producing job on the spot when Daisy and I came in at the beginning of the week, and as of next Monday, I’ll be working on an advice show hosted by a frat boy/sorority girl team who I’ve been warned are “dumb as posts.” Daisy’s words, not mine.

Also, that Morris guy seems pretty fucking cool. And he’s ridiculously hot—that delicious factoid certainly didn’t escape me when I met with him.

The bell over the door dings loudly, and my head involuntarily swivels toward it, then immediately swivels back. I hunch over, hoping my hair will shield my face from view of the newcomers.

The newcomers being Logan and four of his friends.

Crap.

Maybe he won’t notice me. Maybe I can sneak out before he does.

I don’t want to draw any attention to myself, so I don’t get up right away. Logan and his buddies approach the order counter, and every gaze in the coffee house hangs on their every move. Something about these guys changes the air in the room on a molecular level. They’re larger than life, and not just because they’re all tall, strapping hockey players. It’s the confidence with which they walk, the good-natured insults they toss back and forth, the easy grins they flash to people.

I know I should be skulking off, but I can’t look away. It’s almost criminal how attractive he is. Granted, I’m only looking at the back of his head, but it’s a very sexy back of the head. And it’s so easy to pick him out as an athlete. The long limbs and toned muscles beneath his cargo pants and snug T-shirt create a drool-worthy package that my fingers itch to unwrap.

Argh. I need to drag my head out of the gutter. Lusting over him is too close to liking him, and I’m not ready to open that door yet. If ever.

But common sense comes too late, because Logan is now moving away from the counter and marching in my direction.

“Hey, gorgeous.” He slides in the seat across from me and places a chocolate-chip muffin on the table. “I got you a muffin.”

Damn it, I guess he’d noticed me right when he’d walked in.

“Why?” I ask in suspicion, and without saying hi.

“’Cause I wanted to get you something, and you already have coffee. Ergo, muffin.”

I raise one eyebrow. “Are you trying to buy your way into my good graces?”

“Yup. And excellent pun, by the way.”

“I wasn’t punning. My name just happens to be a homonym.”

His blue eyes gleam as he downright smolders at me. “I love it when you talk homonyms to me.”

“Uh-huh.” I choke back a laugh. “I appreciate the gesture, but do you really think a muffin is going to wow me?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll buy you an entire meal when we’re out on our date.” He winks. “Anything you want off the menu.”

Damn him and his seductive winking powers.

“Speaking of that, when should we do it?”

I eye him warily. “Do what?”

“Go out.” His head tilts in a thoughtful pose. “I’m free tonight. Or any night, really. My schedule is wide open.”

God, this guy is incorrigible. And too damn gorgeous for his own good. His chiseled jaw is covered with scruff, as if he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and my tongue tingles with the urge to lick a path along the strong line of his chin. This is the first time I’ve ever wanted to lick a guy’s stubble. What is the matter with me?

“Congrats on your wide-open schedule,” I grumble. “But I’m not going out with you.”

Logan grins. “Tonight, or in general?”

“Both.”

We’re interrupted by the arrival of one of his friends. “Ready?” the guy asks Logan as he flips the top of his coffee cup.

“Go away, G. I’m wooing.”

His friend snickers, then turns to me. “Hey, I’m Garrett.”

Right. As if I don’t know who he is. Garrett Graham is a legend at this school, for fuck’s sake. He’s also incredibly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that brings a blush to my cheeks despite the fact I’m not even interested in the guy.

“I’m Grace,” I answer politely.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He edges away, a barely restrained smile on his lips. “I’ll wait outside so my boy can keep, ah, wooing.”

“No need. We’re all done here.” I scrape my chair back and hop to my feet.

“We most certainly are not,” Logan mutters.

Amused, Garrett glances from me to Logan. “I took a mandatory conflict resolution seminar back in high school. Do you guys need a mediator?”

I pick up my coffee. “Well, the stenographer who follows me around is on a lunch break, but I can catch you up no problem. Logan asked me out, and I solved the conflict by respectfully declining. There. I did all the work for you.”

Garrett laughs loud enough to attract the attention of everyone around us, including the three hockey players who wander over from the counter.

“What’s so funny?” Dean asks curiously. He notices me and offers a delighted smile. “Grace. Long time. I’m loving the hair.”

I’m surprised he even remembers my name. “Thanks.” I inch closer to the door. “I’ve gotta go. See you around, Logan. And, uh, you too, Logan’s friends.”

I’m halfway out the door when I hear him call, “You forgot your muffin.”

“No, I didn’t,” I answer without turning around.

Male laughter tickles my spine as the door closes behind me.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do. Pick up a bottle of wine, invite him over to your place, and make sure some old-school Usher is playing when he walks in. Then, you take off all your clothes and—you know what, baby girl?” Pace Dawson drawls into the microphone on Friday afternoon. “Forget the wine and Usher. Just be naked when he shows up and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll be ready to go to the bone zone.”

Pace’s co-host, Evelyn Winthrop, pipes up in agreement. “Naked never fails. Guys like it when you’re naked.”

In the privacy of the producer booth, I do my best not to gag. Through the glass that separates my booth from the main one, I see Pace and Evelyn grinning at each other as if they’ve just dispensed Dr. Phil-worthy advice to the freshman who’d called in for “seduction” tips.

It’s my first week at the station, and the second segment of “Whatcha Need” that I’ve heard Pace and Evelyn host. So far, I’m not blown away by the caliber of wisdom they’re handing out, but according to Daisy, the bi-weekly advice show gets more listeners than all the other student shows combined.

“All right, next caller,” Evelyn announces.

Which is my cue to take the caller off hold and put him on the air. One of my other tasks is screening the calls to ensure the people calling in have real questions and/or aren’t cuckoo-bananas.

“Hey, caller,” Pace says. “Tell us whatcha need.”

The sophomore who’s been waiting on the line wastes no time getting down to business. “Pace, my man,” he greets the host. “I wanted to hear your thoughts about manscaping.”

In his plush seat, the rugby-shirt-wearing frat boy snorts. “Dude, totally against it. Downstairs grooming is for chicks and sissies.”

Evelyn speaks up as if she’s leaving a comment on a blog post. “Strongly disagree.”

As the hosts start bickering about the pros and cons of male pubic hair, I choke down laughter and concentrate on monitoring the time. Each caller is allowed five minutes, tops. This one still has four left in the allotted five.

My gaze drifts to the other window in the booth, and I watch as Morris organizes a stack of CDs in front of the massive wall of music. Shelf after shelf holds hundreds and hundreds of albums, which is a strange sight to behold. I can’t remember the last time I listened to an actual CD—I figured they were as obsolete as VCRs and cassette tapes by now. But the station is old school and so is Morris. He’s already confessed to having a record player and a rare Underwood typewriter in his dorm room, and he’s also rocking a retro fashion sense I find sexy as hell. Part hipster, part newsie, part punk, part—I could go on forever, actually. There’s a little bit of everything in the guy’s style.

It suits his quirky personality, though. I’ve only known him a week, but I’m quickly discovering that Morris can’t go an hour without making a dry quip, a dirty joke, or at least one groan-worthy pun.

I’m also fairly certain he has a thing for me, if his constant flirting and readily available compliments are any indication.

I think I’d be open to it if he asked me out, but every time I consider it, a part of me raises a protest and encourages me to go out with Logan instead. I won’t lie—that muffin stunt had been…charming. Presumptuous, sure, but adorable enough that I couldn’t stop smiling during the entire walk back to my dorm.

But that doesn’t mean I’m giving him a second chance.

I shift my gaze back to the main booth and force myself to concentrate on the radio show. For the next thirty-five minutes, I fight hard not to laugh as I listen to quite possibly the two dumbest people on the planet give advice. Seriously, if their combined IQ is in the double digits, I’ll eat my hat. Proverbial hat, of course, since I can’t for the life of me pull off hats. My head refuses to look good in them.

Once the hosts sign off, I switch on the rap mix Morris gave me to use as a placeholder while the next deejay sets up. His name is Kamal, and he’s a rabid hip hop fan who plays obscure tracks that almost no one has ever heard of, myself included.

When I leave the booth and step into the main room, Morris wanders over with a lopsided grin. “Were you listening to that manscaping call?”

“How could I not? It was one of the most ridiculous debates I’ve ever heard.” I pause, then grin back. “But I did enjoy when Evelyn said that if she wanted to see foliage, she’d take up hiking or gardening.”

He laughs and rakes a hand through his hair, drawing my gaze to those unruly dark strands.

He’s got the most interesting appearance. Honeyed skin, jet black hair, golden brown eyes. I honestly have no idea what his background is. Asian maybe? Mixed with…no clue. Like his fashion style, his features are a collection of unique elements that I find incredibly attractive.

“You’re staring at me.” His lips twitch with humor. “Is there something in my teeth?”

“No.” My cheeks warm up. “I was just wondering about your ethnic background. Sorry. You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

He looks highly amused by the question. “My face is like a melting pot of ethnic goodness, huh? Don’t worry, I get asked that all the time. My family is like the United frickin’ Nations. My mother was born in Zambia—her mom was black, her dad was a white doctor who ran a clinic there. And my father is half-Japanese, half-Italian.”

“Wow, that is a lot of culture.”

“What about you?”

“Not as interesting. The Ivers family practically founded Massachusetts, and we’ve got some Scottish and Irish roots, I think.”

A high-pitched giggle sounds from behind us, and we turn to see Pace and Evelyn making out against the wall. On my first day here, I asked Evelyn how long they’ve been dating, and she looked at me as if I’d just gotten off a spaceship, then informed me that they only make out at the station because “radio is so boring.”

As Morris and I exchange amused looks, Pace catches sight of us and grins over Evelyn’s slender shoulder.

“Yo, Morrison,” he calls out, even as the blonde continues to nibble on his neck. “Kegger at Sigma tonight. Fat Ted has a new game he wants you to try to beat. You should come too, Gretchen.”

Even if I’d wanted to correct him, Pace is no longer paying attention to us, because his tongue is in Evelyn’s mouth again.

“Why does he call you Morrison, and who on earth is Fat Ted?” I inquire in a dry voice.

Morris chuckles. “He calls me Morrison because he thinks that’s my name, no matter how many times I tell him it’s not. And Fat Ted is one of his frat brothers. He’s a hardcore gamer, and we sorta have this competition going on. Whenever one of us gets a new game and beats it, we pass it off to the other one and see if they could do it better. Ted’s awesome—you’ll meet him at the party tonight.”

I have to laugh. “Who says ‘Gretchen’ is even going to that party?”

“Morrison says so. He’s wanted to ask Gretchen out since he met her.”

I blush at the impish smile he shoots me. “So this will be a date?” I ask slowly.

“If you want it to be. If not, then it’ll be two friends going to a party together. Morrison and Gretchen, taking on the world.” He cocks a brow. “Take your pick. Date or friend-hang. The choice is yours.”

Logan’s face flashes in my head, making me hesitate. Except then it makes me mad, because Logan shouldn’t be part of the equation. We’re not together. We weren’t together before. And Morris is a really cool guy.

“What do you say, Gretch?”

His mischievous voice summons a laugh from me. I meet his twinkling dark eyes and say, “Let’s make it a date.”