The Mistake

My dad hasn’t arrived yet when I walk into the Coffee Hut, so I order a green tea at the counter and find us two comfy chairs in the corner of the room. It’s Saturday morning, and the coffeehouse is deserted. I have a feeling most people are probably nursing hangovers from Friday night.

As I settle on the plush armchair, the bell over the door chimes and my father enters the room. He’s wearing his trademark brown blazer and starched khaki pants, an outfit my mom refers to as his “serious professor” look.

“Hi, honey,” he greets me. “Let me grab a coffee.”

A minute later, he joins me in the corner, looking more harried than usual. “I’m sorry I’m late. I stopped by the office to pick up some papers and got cornered by a student. She wanted to discuss her term paper.”

“It’s okay. I just got here.” I pop open the lid of my cup and steam rises up to my face. I blow on the hot liquid for a moment, then take a quick sip. “How was your week?”

“Chaotic. I was concerned with the quality of the papers that were being turned in, so I extended office hours for the students who had questions about the exam. I’ve been on campus until ten o’clock every night.”

I frown. “You know you have a TA, right? Can’t he help out?”

“He does, but you know I enjoy interacting with my students.”

Yep, I do know that, and I’m sure that’s why all his students love him so much. Dad teaches graduate-level molecular biology at Briar, a course you wouldn’t think would be all that popular, and yet there’s actually a waiting list to get into his class. I’ve sat in on a few of his lectures over the years, and I have to admit, he does have a way of making the ridiculously boring material seem interesting.

Dad sips his coffee, eyeing me over the rim. “So, I made reservations at Ferro’s for Friday at six-thirty. Does that work for the birthday girl?”

I roll my eyes. I am so not a birthday person. I prefer low-key celebrations, or—in a perfect world—no celebrations at all, but my mom is a birthday fiend. Surprise parties, gag gifts, forcing waiters to sing in restaurants…she’s all about inflicting the greatest amount of torture possible. I think she gets a kick out of embarrassing her only daughter. But since she moved to Paris three years ago, I haven’t been able to spend my birthday with her, so she’s recruited my dad into taking over humiliation duties.

“The birthday girl will only agree to go if you can promise nobody will sing to her.”

He blanches. “Lord, do you think I want to sit through that? No way, honey. We’ll have a nice, quiet dinner, and when you talk to your mom about it afterward, you can tell her a mariachi band came over to the table and sang for you.”

“Deal.”

“Are you sure you’re okay that we’re not having dinner on your actual birthday? If you want to celebrate on Wednesday night, I can cancel office hours.”

“Friday is fine,” I assure him.

“All right, then it’s a date. Oh, and I spoke to your mom again last night,” he adds. “She asked if you’ve reconsidered changing your flight to May. She’d love to see you for three months instead of two.”

I hesitate. I’m excited to visit Mom this summer, but for three months? Even two is pushing it—that’s why I insisted on coming back the first week of August, even though the semester doesn’t start until the end of the month. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my mother. She’s fun and spontaneous, and so bubbly and encouraging it’s like having your own personal cheerleader following you around waving her pom-poms. But she’s also…exhausting. She’s a little girl in a grown woman’s body, acting on her every whim without stopping to consider the consequences.

“Let me think about it,” I answer. “I need to decide if I have the energy to keep up with her.”

Dad chuckles. “Well, we both know the answer to that is no. Nobody has the energy to keep up with your mom, honey.”

He certainly hadn’t, but luckily, their divorce had been one hundred percent amicable. I think when Mom told him she wanted out, Dad was more relieved than upset. And when she decided to move to Paris in order to “find herself” and “reconnect with her art”, he’d been nothing but supportive.

“I’ll let you know this weekend, okay?” I reach for my tea, but my hand freezes when the bell rings again.

A dark-haired guy in a Briar hockey jacket strolls in, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think it’s Logan.

But nope. It’s someone else. Shorter, bulkier, and not as devastatingly gorgeous.

Disappointment flutters through me, but I force it away. Even if Logan had walked through that door, what would I really expect to happen? He’d come over and kiss me? Ask me out?

Riiiight. I made the guy come last night and he didn’t even stick around long enough to kiss me goodbye. So yeah, I have to face the facts: I’m just another girl on a long list of John Logan’s conquests.

And honestly? I’m totally cool with that. As underwhelming as it may have been, getting, um…conquered by Logan is hands-down the highlight of my freshman year.

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