The Mistake(11)

What the hell does it take to get an “I’D LOVE TO!” from this chick?

“Okay. Cool.” I gulp. “I guess I’ll call you, then.”

She doesn’t say anything, and in the ensuing silence, I’m overcome with a wave of discomfort.

Then I dip down and do the stupidest thing ever. Which says a lot, because I’ve dabbled in my share of stupidity over the years.

I kiss her forehead.

Not her lips. Not her cheek. Her fucking forehead.

Real smooth, bro.

She looks up at me in amusement, but I don’t give her the chance to comment on my dumbass move.

“I’ll call you,” I mumble.

And for the second time in three days, I leave Grace’s dorm feeling like a jackass.

*

Grace

My psychology lecture is three hours long, and I can honestly say I didn’t hear a word the professor said. Not one single word.

For one hundred and eighty minutes, all I did was run through every incredible second of every incredible thing Logan did to me this morning.

Can you nominate anyone for sainthood, or are there eligibility requirements?

Can you nominate someone’s tongue for sainthood? Or maybe there’s an orgasm-giving award that the Department of Sexuality hands out?

If so, Logan deserves to win it.

I’m still flummoxed that he showed up at my door and pretty much demanded I let him give me an orgasm. I guess his ego is as sensitive as that Cosmo article said it would be, but you know what? I found it kind of charming. And oddly satisfying that someone as confident as John Logan was actually doubting his sexual prowess.

It’s funny. Less than a week ago I was bemoaning the lack of excitement in my life, and now look at me—sexy hockey players showing up at my door to excite the hell out of me.

Fuck it. I’m giving myself the award.

Logan continues to dominate my thoughts as I meet Ramona and the girls for lunch, joining them at our usual table against the back wall of the cavernous dining hall.

Carver Hall is my favorite place on campus. Whoever constructed it must not have paid attention to the rest of the buildings on campus, though, because Carver has a rustic chalet-style feel to it. High ceilings, wood paneled walls, and ornate light fixtures that cast a soft yellow glow over the room instead of the fluorescent lighting you find in the other meal halls. And it’s only two minutes from my dorm, which means I get to bask in its splendor on a daily basis.

I set my tray on the table and pop open the tab of my root beer as I sit in an empty chair. “Hey,” I greet everyone. “What are we talking about?”

Ramona, Jess, and Maya instantly clam up, their expressions taking on secretive gleams that tell me precisely what they were talking about.

Me.

I narrow my eyes. “What’s going on?”

Ramona glances over sheepishly. “Okay, so don’t be mad…but I told them about Logan.”

Annoyance spirals through me, but it’s mostly directed at myself. I don’t know why I bother telling Ramona private things anymore. Asking her to keep a secret is like throwing a ball and asking a dog not to chase it. Well, I threw the damn ball, and now Ramona’s scampering back with it. And this year she happened to meet and become BFFs with two girls who gossip even more than she does. Jess and Maya spend so much time dissecting other people’s lives they should create a website and give Perez Hilton some competition.

“So is it true?” Jess demands. “Did you seriously hook up with him?”

I feel uncomfortable discussing Logan with them, but I know these girls, and they won’t let up until I give them something. Trying to appear casual, I twirl some fettuccine around my fork and take a bite. Then I glance at Jess and say, “Yep.”

“That’s it? Yep?” She looks aghast. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“I told you guys, she’s being super hush-hush about it.” Ramona grins. “Obviously we need to remind Grace about the number one rule of friendship. AKA not skimping on details when you made out with the hottest guy on campus.”

I chew my pasta. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Maya speaks up, a mocking note in her voice. “You know, considering the complete lack of details, one might think it didn’t even happen at all.”

One might think?

My head swivels toward Ramona. Unbelievable. Is she spreading that around now? Letting people believe I’m some crazy pathological liar?

Ramona is quick to defend herself against my unspoken accusation. “Hey, we cleared that up, remember? I totally believe that you fooled around with him, babe.”

“Twice.” The confession slips out before I can stop it. Damn it.

Ramona’s jaw falls open. “What you mean twice?”

I shrug. “He came over again this morning.”

That gets me two gasps, followed by two high-pitched squeals—from Jess and Maya. Ramona remains strangely quiet, but when I study her expression, it’s impossible to decipher.

“Oh my God. He did?” Jess exclaims.

“When was this?” Ramona asks.

Her tone is way too polite to not raise my hackles. “Right after you left for class. He didn’t stay long, though.”

Her dark eyes stay shuttered. “Did you at least get his number this time?”

“No,” I admit. “But he has mine now.”

“So you still have no way of reaching him.” It’s not a question. It’s not even a particularly pleasant statement. There’s an edge to her voice, and when I glance across the table, there’s no missing the smirk on Maya’s face.

They don’t believe me.

Ramona can deny it until she’s blue in the face and backpedal until she’s in another state, but my best friend still thinks I’m making it up. And now she’s recruiting our friends into doubting me too.

Our friends?

The scornful voice raises a good point, and as I think it over, I suddenly can’t think of a single person I’ve hung out with this year that Ramona didn’t introduce me to. The one time I invited a few girls from my English Lit class to come over, Ramona laughed and chatted with them all night, told them what a fabulous time she had, and then, after they left, informed me they were boring and that I wasn’t allowed to bring them over when she was around.

Damn it, why do I let her dictate my life like that? I tolerated it in high school because…hell, I don’t even know why I tolerated it. But we’re not in high school anymore. This is college, and I should be able to spend time with whoever I want without worrying about what Ramona will think about them.

“No,” I answer through clenched teeth. “I have no way of reaching him. But don’t worry, I’m sure my imaginary hook-up partner will get in touch with me sooner or later.”

She frowns. “Grace—”

“I’m heading back to the dorm to work on my paper.” My appetite has disappeared. I pick up my half-eaten dinner tray and rise to my feet. “I’ll see you later.”

Maybe I’m naive, but I thought college would be different. I thought all the gossiping and backstabbing and bullshit ceased to exist once you left high school, but I guess mean girls can be found at any level of the education system. It’s like visiting a farm—if you go there not expecting to see piles of cow shit everywhere, then you’re in for a rude awakening. And there’s a good SAT question for you. SCHOOL is to MEAN GIRLS as FARMS are to _______.

Shit. The answer to that is shit.

Ramona catches up to me the moment I burst outside, her heels clicking on the limestone entrance as she hurries toward me.

“Grace, wait.”

My jaw tenses as I turn around. “What now?”

Panic lights her eyes. “Please don’t be pissed at me. I hate it when you’re pissed at me.”

“Gee, I’m so sorry you’re upset, Ramona. What can I do to make you feel better?”

Her bottom lip quivers. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I came out here to apologize.”

For fuck’s sake, if she launches into her whole crocodile-tears act, I might actually lose my shit.

“I’m not having this conversation with you again,” I say in a cold voice. “I don’t care if you think I’m lying. I know I’m not, and that’s all that matters to me, okay? Just know that I find it incredibly insulting that my best friend since I was six years old believes I—”

“I’m jealous,” she blurts out.

I stop talking. “What?”

Her face collapses as our gazes lock. She lowers her voice, then repeats herself. “I’m jealous, all right?”

Hell must have frozen over. There’s no other explanation for what I’m hearing. Because in thirteen years of friendship, Ramona has never admitted to being jealous of me.

“I’ve been trying to get with Dean all year,” she laments. “All fucking year and he doesn’t know I exist, and you just hook up with his best friend without even trying.” An oddly vulnerable look softens her features. “I’ve been acting like a total bitch and I’m so sorry. I was insecure and I took it out on you and that wasn’t fair, but please don’t be angry with me. It’s your birthday on Wednesday. I want to celebrate with you, and I want us to be good again, and I—”

I interrupt with a sigh. “We’re good, Ramona.”