The Mistake(17)

“Seriously, Grace, don’t stress. You know what they say—haters be hating, and bitches be bitching.”

I laugh again. “That’s going to be my new motto.”

“Good. It should be.”

We pass the sky-blue sign with the words “Welcome to Hastings!” sprawled across it, and I peer out the window again. “I grew up around the corner,” I tell him.

He sounds surprised. “You’re from Hastings?”

“Yep. My dad’s been a professor at Briar for twenty years. I’ve spent my whole life here.”

Rather than head for the downtown core, Logan veers off in the direction of the highway. We don’t stay on it for long, though. A few exits pass and then he gets off at the sign for Munsen, the next town over.

An uneasy feeling washes over me. It’s so strange how a quaint, middle-class town like Hastings is equal in distance to both the campus of an Ivy League university and a town that my father, a man who doesn’t curse if he can help it, refers to as a “shit box.”

Munsen consists of shabby buildings in desperate need of repairs, a handful of strip malls, and rundown bungalows with unkempt lawns. The general store we pass boasts a flickering neon sign with half the letters burnt out, and the one building I see that isn’t dilapidated is a small brick church with a sign of its own—huge block letters that spell out “GOD PUNISHES THE SINNERS.”

The people of Munsen really know how to roll out a welcome mat.

“This is where I grew up,” Logan says gruffly.

My head swivels toward him. “Really? I didn’t know you were local, too.”

“Yup.” He gives me a self-deprecating look before focusing on the pothole-ridden road ahead of us. “It’s not much to look at, is it? Trust me, it’s even uglier in the daylight.”

The pickup bounces as we drive over a particularly deep pothole. Logan slows down, extending a hand toward my side of the windshield. “My dad’s shop is one street over. He’s a mechanic.”

“That’s cool. Did he teach you a lot about cars?”

“Yup.” He taps the dashboard in pride. “You hear that sexy purr coming out of this baby? I rebuilt the engine myself last summer.”

I’m genuinely impressed. And kinda turned on, because I appreciate a man who works with his hands. No, who actually knows how to use his hands. Last week, the guy who lives down the hall from me knocked on my door and asked me to help him change a light bulb. I’m not saying I’m Handy McHanderson or anything, but I’m capable of changing a frickin’ light bulb.

As we drive through a residential area, a burst of apprehension goes off inside me. Is he taking me to his childhood home? Because I’m not sure I’m ready for—

Nope, we’re on another dirt road now, driving away from town. Another five minutes, and we reach a large clearing. There’s a water tower in the distance, with the town name etched on its side, and it seems to glow in the moonlight, a stark white beacon standing out amidst the dark landscape.

Logan parks fifty yards from the tower, and my pulse speeds up when I realize that’s where we’re going. My hands shake as I follow him toward a steel ladder that starts at the base of the tower and extends upward, so high I can’t see where it ends.

“Are we going up there?” I blurt out. “If so…no thank you. I’m terrified of heights.”

“Ah, shit. I forgot.” He bites his lip for a second, before giving me an earnest look. “Face your fear for me? I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

I stare at the ladder, and I can feel all the color draining from my face. “Uh…”

“Come on,” he coaxes. “You can climb up first. I’ll stand down here the whole time and catch you if you fall. Scout’s honor.”

“Fall?” I screech. “I wasn’t even thinking about falling. Oh my God, what if I fall?”

He chuckles softly. “You won’t. But like I said, I’ll be here to catch you on the off, off chance it happens.” He flexes both arms as if he’s a bodybuilder who just won the crown. “Look at these guns, gorgeous. You really think I can’t catch all ninety pounds of you?”

“One hundred and twenty pounds, thank you very much.”

“Ha. I lift that in my sleep.”

My gaze drifts back to the ladder. Some of the rungs are covered with rust, but when I step closer and curl my fingers around one, it seems sturdy enough. I take a calming breath. Okay. It’s a water tower, not the Empire State Building. And I had promised myself I’d try new things before my freshman year was over.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But God help me, if I fall and you don’t catch me, and by some miracle I survive and still have the use of my arms? I will beat you to death.”

His lips twitch. “Deal.”

I inhale another wobbly breath, and then I start to climb. One foot after the other. One foot after the other. I can totally do this. It’s just a teeny little water tower. Just a—my stomach drops when I make the mistake of peering down when I near the halfway mark. Logan waits patiently below. A shard of moonlight emphasizes the encouragement gleaming in his blue eyes.

“You’ve got this, Grace. You’re doing great.”

I keep going. One foot after the other, one foot after the other. When I reach the platform, relief sweeps through me. Holy shit. I’m still alive.

“You good?” he shouts from the ground.

“Yeah,” I shout back.

Unlike me, Logan scales the ladder in a matter of seconds. He joins me on the platform, then takes my hand and leads me farther down to where the metal walkway widens, offering a nice—and safe. Safe!—place to sit. He flops down and lets his legs dangle over the edge, grinning at my very obvious reluctance to do the same.

“Aw, don’t chicken out now. You’ve already come this far…”

Ignoring the queasy churning of my stomach, I sit beside him and gingerly position my legs like his. As he slings an arm around my shoulder, I desperately nestle closer to him, trying not to look down. Or up. Or anywhere, for that matter.

“You okay?”

“Mmm-hmmm. As long as I keep staring at my hands then I don’t have to think about plummeting two hundred feet to my death.”

“This tower definitely isn’t two hundred feet tall.”

“Well, it’s tall enough that my head will crack like a watermelon when it hits the ground.”

“Jeez. You really need to work on your romance technique.”

I gape at him. “This is supposed to be romantic? Wait, do you have a fetish for girls throwing up on you?”

He bursts out laughing. “You’re not going to throw up.” But much to my relief, he tightens his grip around my shoulder.

The warmth of his body is a nice distraction from my current predicament. So is his aftershave. Or is it cologne? His natural scent? Holy Moses, if it’s his natural scent, then he needs to bottle that spicy fragrance up, call it Orgasm, and sell it to the masses.

“See that pond over there?” he asks.

“No.” I’ve squeezed my eyes shut, so all I can see is the inside of my eyelids.

He pokes me in the ribs. “It would help if you opened your eyes. Come on, look.”

I pry my eyes open and follow the tip of his finger to where he’s pointing. “That’s a pond? It looks like a mud swamp.”

“Yeah, it gets muddy in the spring. But in the summer, there’s actually water in there. And in the winter, it freezes over and everyone comes here to skate on it.” He pauses. “My friends and I played hockey there when I was a kid.”

“Was it safe to skate on?”

“Oh yeah, the ice is solid. Nobody’s ever fallen through it, as far as I know.” There’s another pause, longer, and fraught with tension. “I loved coming here. It’s weird, though. It seemed so much bigger when I was a kid. Like I was skating on an ocean. Then when I got older, I realized how fucking small it actually is. I can skate from one end to the other in five seconds. I timed it.”

“Things always look bigger to a kid.”

“I guess.” He shifts so that he can see my face. “Did you have a place like that in Hastings? Somewhere you escaped to when you were younger?”

“Sure. Do you know that park behind the farmer’s market? The one with the pretty gazebo?”

He nods.

“I used to go there all the time and read. Or to talk to people, if anyone was around.”

“The only people I’ve ever seen in that park are the old folks from the retirement home around the corner.”

I laugh. “Yeah, most of the ones I met were over sixty. They told the coolest stories about the ‘olden days.’” I chew on the inside of my cheek as a few not-so-cool stories come to mind. “Actually, sometimes the stories were incredibly sad. They talked a lot about their families never coming to visit.”

“That’s really depressing.”

“Yeah,” I murmur.

He lets out a ragged breath. “I’d be one of them.”

“You mean, not getting visits from your family? Aw, I don’t believe that.”

“No, I’d be the family member who doesn’t visit,” he answers in a strained voice. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I’d definitely visit my mom. But if my dad was in a home? I probably wouldn’t step foot in there.”