The Mistake

She snorts.

“What, you’re too intimidated by all this masculine beauty?” He slaps a hand over his tight six-pack.

“You know what?” she says sweetly. “I would love to touch your abs.”

In the blink of an eye, Hannah scoots down and grabs something from the planter next to the garage. A handful of dirt. Which she proceeds to smear on him, leaving a line from his belly button to the top of his waistband. And since it’s hot as hell outside and Dean is already sweaty, the dirt cakes to his skin like a mud mask.

“Ready?” she chirps.

Dean glowers at her. “I know you think I’ll go inside and wipe that off. But guess what—I won’t.”

“Oh really? You’re going to run through town looking like that?” She tips her head in challenge. “No way. You’re far too vain.”

I snicker, but I happen to know she’s not giving Dean enough credit. As much as his ego probably hates that his pristine abs have been soiled, Dean also happens to be a stubborn-as-fuck hockey player who’s not going to allow a tiny ballbuster like Hannah get to him.

“Nuh-uh, baby doll. I’m wearing this dirt as a badge of honor.”

He stares at her. Gloating.

She stares back. Annoyed.

I clear my throat. “Are we running or what?”

They snap out of their stare-down and the three of us take off in a brisk pace down the sidewalk. “We usually run the same route,” Dean tells me. “Down to the park, hit the trail there, then come back the other way.”

Knowing they’ve been running together often enough to have a “route” brings a strange pang of jealousy. I miss my friends, damn it. I hate how isolated I’ve been in Munsen, with nobody to talk to but Jeff and my perpetually inebriated father.

We’ve only been running for a few minutes when Hannah starts humming. Softly at first, but eventually it turns into full-on singing. Her voice is beautiful, sweet and melodic with a throaty pitch that Garrett says gives him goose bumps. As she sings Hozier’s “Take Me to Church”, I can’t help but turn to grin at Dean.

“She sings when she’s running,” he says with a sigh. “Seriously. She does it the whole time. Garrett and I tried explaining that it messes with your breath control, but—”

“I swear to God,” she interrupts, “if I have to hear one more lecture about my breath control, I will punch you. All of you. I like to sing when I run. Deal with it.”

I actually don’t mind it. Her voice is a nice soundtrack to the thuds of our sneakers pounding the pavement, even if her choice of songs is slightly depressing.

When we reach the entrance of the park, I notice the roof of the gazebo peeking through the trees, and I’m suddenly reminded of the night at the water tower with Grace. She’d told me this was her childhood spot.

My shoulders tense, almost as if I’m anticipating to find Grace in the gazebo. Which is stupid, because of course she’s not—

Holy shit, she is. I see a girl on the steps. A long braid and…disappointment surges through me. Wait. It’s not Grace. It’s a blonde in a green sundress, and the afternoon sunlight catches in her golden braid as she bends her head to read the book in her lap.

Then her head lifts, and holy shit again, because I was right the first time—it is her.

I stumble to a stop, completely forgetting about Dean and Hannah, who keep running. From her perch on the steps, Grace looks in my direction, and although thirty or so yards separate us, I know she recognizes me.

Our gazes lock, and a frown mars her lips.

Shit, maybe Dean’s onto something. Maybe I shouldn’t be wearing a shirt right now. Chicks are much more amenable when they’re looking at a ripped chest, right?

Jesus, and that’s just sad, thinking the sight of my bare chest will make her forget everything that went down between us.

“Logan. Yo, what the hell? Keep up, bro.”

My friends have finally noticed I’m not with them, and they come jogging back. Hannah follows my gaze, then gasps. “Oh. Is that Grace?”

For a second, I’m surprised she knows her name, until I realize that Garrett must have told her. Shocker.

Beside me, Dean squints at the gazebo to get a better look. “Naah, that’s not her. Your freshman is a brunette. And she doesn’t have legs that go on and on and—fuck, those legs are hot. ’Scuse me, I think I’ll go over there and introduce myself.”

I grab his arm before he can take another step. “It’s Grace, dumbass. She obviously dyed her hair. And if you looked at her face and not her legs, you’d see it.”

He squints again, and then his jaw drops. “Shit. You’re right.”

Grace lowers her gaze back to her book, but I know she’s aware of my presence because her shoulders are stiffer than the posts at the gazebo’s entrance. She’s probably waiting for me to run off, but that’s not going to happen. I’m not running away, not this time.