The Mistake

I texted him an hour ago asking him to come over, and Ramona has already agreed to let me have the room for the night. Despite the fact that she’s still hung-over from yesterday, she’s promised to stay out until midnight. It’s only seven now, which gives Logan and me plenty of time to hang out. And maybe have sex. Or maybe not have sex. I’ve decided to play it by ear.

“Grace?”

I snap out of my thoughts. “Yeah, I guess I want to sleep with him. If the moment is right.”

“Then you’ve got to separate yourself from the crowd.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Meaning what?”

“Oh, come on, do you realize how many girls he’s slept with? A frickin’ harem. And he’s John Logan, babe—I bet he’s got crazy moves. You don’t want to be just another chick he bats those baby-blues at and screws silly. You want to be confident and sexy and take control. Show him he’s met his match.”

I bite my lip. Confident and sexy isn’t my style. And taking control? I’ve always been more comfortable sitting in the passenger side while someone else takes the wheel.

“Oh, and you need to show him how kinky you are. That you’re up for anything.”

Nervous laughter tickles my throat. “Uh-huh. How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. Stick your finger in his ass when you’re blowing him.”

I almost choke on my tongue. “What?”

Ramona flashes a cheeky smile. “Oh God, you really are a virgin, huh? Ass play can be a lot of fun.”

“I don’t want anyone near my ass, thank you very much. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want me near his.”

“Ha. You have no idea how hard a guy gets off from a good prostate massage. Seriously, he’ll be coming like nobody’s business.”

“I’m not giving him a prostate massage,” I say primly.

We stare at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing, and it feels good to laugh with her again. I don’t even care anymore that she planted the seed that Maya and Piper then used to grow a tree of bullshit. Ramona is my best friend, and I’ve known her since we were six years old. Is she selfish sometimes? Yes. Does she gossip too much? Absolutely. But she’s also sweet and loyal, and she’s always there for me when I need her.

“All right, don’t finger his ass,” she relents. “But I’m serious about the confidence thing. It’ll drive him wild.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She narrows her eyes, giving my outfit a thorough once-over. “You’re changing before he gets here, right?”

I glance at my tight jeans and skimpy white tank top. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? Actually, don’t answer that. I’m comfy, and I’m not going to change the way I dress because of a guy.”

“Fine, but ditch the bra.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Then he’ll be able to see your nips through your shirt and he’ll be hot and bothered from the word go.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

Ramona smacks a kiss on my cheek, then lets out a little squeal. “Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re going to have sex for the first time tonight.”

“If the moment is right,” I remind her.

“Babe, it’s John Logan,” she says with a grin. “There’s nothing wrong about it.”

*

Logan

Come over tonight?

I’ve been staring at Grace’s text message ever since I got out of the shower. Which was, oh, thirty-eight minutes ago. Wait—I look at the alarm clock. Make that thirty-nine minutes.

I really ought to message back. I haven’t spoken to her since Thursday. Granted, that isn’t an obscene amount of time considering it’s Saturday and she had dinner plans with her father yesterday. So technically, I’ve only been avoiding her for a day and a half.

She doesn’t know I’m avoiding her, though. If she did, she wouldn’t have invited me over.

The way I see it, I have three options.

Option 1: Ignore the invitation.

And if she texts again, ignore that too. And then keep ignoring her until she gets the message that I’m not interested. Which is a whopping lie, because I am interested. I have fun with her, and if I weren’t so fucked in the head about this Hannah thing, I’d absolutely keep seeing Grace.

Christ, I shouldn’t have allowed Thursday’s impromptu date to happen. It’s not fair to lead her on like this.

Which brings me to option 2: Message back, decline the invitation, and tell her I can’t see her again because of (insert bullshit excuse here).

Except…well, I’ve been brushed off via text before and it fucking sucks.

So that leaves option 3: Go over there and talk to her in person. That’s the mature course of action, the one I should definitely take. But the thought of glimpsing even a shred of hurt or disappointment in her eyes makes me sick to my stomach.

Man up already.

Fuck. I guess it’s time to pull up my big boy pants. Be a man, rub some dirt in it and all that shit. After our night at the water tower, Grace deserves a helluva lot more than a text brush-off.

Stifling a sigh, I drop the towel I’ve been wearing for the last…forty-two minutes now. I grab a pair of clean boxers and jeans, zip up, and throw on a black sweater my mom got me for Christmas. It’s tighter than the shirts I normally wear, but it’s the first thing I find in my dresser and I’m in too much of a hurry to change.

I swipe my phone off the bed and text Grace.