The Mistake

“Nope.”

“Okeydokey. I’ll keep being the question-asker then.”

“Did you just say okeydokey?”

“Yup. Was that adorable enough to change your mind about that date?”

Her lips twitch, but the laugh I’m waiting for doesn’t come. Instead, she falls silent again. And walks even faster.

We’re on a street parallel to Hastings’ downtown core, passing several quaint storefronts before the area goes from commercial to residential. I patiently wait for Grace to get tired of the silence and say something, but she’s more stubborn than I thought.

“So what’s with the hair? Not that I don’t like the new color. It suits you.”

“Also my mother’s doing,” Grace mutters. “She decided I needed a makeover.”

“Well, you look great.” I shoot her a sidelong look. Christ, she looks more than great. I’ve been walking with a semi since we left the park, unable to stop admiring the way her dress flutters around her thighs with each step she takes.

We reach a stop sign and she veers to the right, her pace quickening as we turn onto a wide street lined with towering oak trees. Damn it. Her house must be close.

“One date,” I urge softly. “Please, Grace. Give me a chance to show you I’m not a total dick.”

She gazes at me, incredulous. “You humiliated me.”

Four months’ worth of guilt slams into me. “I know.”

“I was ready to have sex with you, and you didn’t just reject me—you told me you were using me as a distraction. So you wouldn’t have to think about the person you actually wanted to have sex with!” Her cheeks turn bright red. “Why would I ever want to go out with you after that?”

She’s right. There’s absolutely no reason for her to give me another chance.

My stomach hurts as she brushes past me. She heads for the front lawn of a pretty house with a white clapboard exterior and wraparound porch, and I feel even queasier when I notice a gray-haired man on the porch. He’s sitting on a white wicker chair, a newspaper on his lap as he watches us from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Shit, that’s probably Grace’s father. Groveling in front of an audience is bad enough, but doing it in front of her father? Fucking brutal.

“What about everything before that?” I call out after her.

She turns to face me. “What?”

“Before that night.” I lower my voice when I catch up to her. “When we went to the movies. And the water tower. I know you liked me then.”

Grace releases a tired-sounding breath. “Yeah. I did.”

“So let’s focus on that,” I say roughly. “On the good parts. I fucked up, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I don’t want anyone else. All I want is another chance.”

She doesn’t answer, and an ache of desperation seizes my chest. At this point I’d be thrilled to receive a “yeah, sure” from her. The silence wrecks me, chipping away at the confidence boost she gave me when she admitted to liking me before V-Night.

“Sorry, but no,” she says, and the last scrap of my confidence takes a nosedive. “Look, if you want forgiveness, then sure, you’ve got it. That night was embarrassing as hell, but I had the whole summer to get over it. I don’t hold grudges, okay? If we bump into each other on campus, I’m not going to run screaming in the other direction. Maybe we’ll even grab a coffee one day. But I don’t want to go out with you, at least not right now.”

Fuck. I really thought she’d say yes.

Defeat crushes down on my chest, followed by a surge of hope, because technically, she didn’t say no.

She said “not right now.”

I can absolutely work with that.

19

Grace

It’s the first semester of my sophomore year. Which means I’m Sophomore Grace now. Freshman Grace, God rest her soul, let her best friend make decisions for her and guys walk all over her, but Sophomore Grace? She will do no such thing. She will not be Ramona’s doormat or Logan’s distraction. Nope. Sophomore Grace is the carefree nineteen-year-old who spent the summer gallivanting around France.

Does it still count as gallivanting when you do it with your mother?

Sure it does, I assure myself. Gallivanting is gallivanting no matter who you’re with.

Either way, a new year equals a new me.

Or rather, an improved version of the old me.

At the moment, new/old me is making the bed in my new dorm room and desperately hoping that my roommate won’t be a bitch, a psycho, or a psycho-bitch. I tried convincing the woman in the housing office to give me a single, but those are reserved for upperclassmen, so I’m stuck doubling up with someone named Daisy.

When my father helped me move my stuff to Hartford House yesterday, Daisy’s side of the room had been empty, but I got back from lunch today to find boxes and suitcases all over the place. So now I’m waiting for her to show up because I want to get the awkward nice-to-meet-you’s out of the way.

The fact that I’m getting a new roommate brings an unwelcome pang of sorrow. I haven’t spoken to Ramona since April, when I informed her I was done. Maybe we’ll sit down and talk one of these days, but right now, I’m looking forward to starting my sophomore year without her.

As exasperating as my mom’s ambush makeovers were, she taught me several valuable lessons this summer. First and foremost—be confident. Second—be spontaneous. Third—the only opinion that matters is your own.