The Mistake

As the hosts start bickering about the pros and cons of male pubic hair, I choke down laughter and concentrate on monitoring the time. Each caller is allowed five minutes, tops. This one still has four left in the allotted five.

My gaze drifts to the other window in the booth, and I watch as Morris organizes a stack of CDs in front of the massive wall of music. Shelf after shelf holds hundreds and hundreds of albums, which is a strange sight to behold. I can’t remember the last time I listened to an actual CD—I figured they were as obsolete as VCRs and cassette tapes by now. But the station is old school and so is Morris. He’s already confessed to having a record player and a rare Underwood typewriter in his dorm room, and he’s also rocking a retro fashion sense I find sexy as hell. Part hipster, part newsie, part punk, part—I could go on forever, actually. There’s a little bit of everything in the guy’s style.

It suits his quirky personality, though. I’ve only known him a week, but I’m quickly discovering that Morris can’t go an hour without making a dry quip, a dirty joke, or at least one groan-worthy pun.

I’m also fairly certain he has a thing for me, if his constant flirting and readily available compliments are any indication.

I think I’d be open to it if he asked me out, but every time I consider it, a part of me raises a protest and encourages me to go out with Logan instead. I won’t lie—that muffin stunt had been…charming. Presumptuous, sure, but adorable enough that I couldn’t stop smiling during the entire walk back to my dorm.

But that doesn’t mean I’m giving him a second chance.

I shift my gaze back to the main booth and force myself to concentrate on the radio show. For the next thirty-five minutes, I fight hard not to laugh as I listen to quite possibly the two dumbest people on the planet give advice. Seriously, if their combined IQ is in the double digits, I’ll eat my hat. Proverbial hat, of course, since I can’t for the life of me pull off hats. My head refuses to look good in them.

Once the hosts sign off, I switch on the rap mix Morris gave me to use as a placeholder while the next deejay sets up. His name is Kamal, and he’s a rabid hip hop fan who plays obscure tracks that almost no one has ever heard of, myself included.

When I leave the booth and step into the main room, Morris wanders over with a lopsided grin. “Were you listening to that manscaping call?”

“How could I not? It was one of the most ridiculous debates I’ve ever heard.” I pause, then grin back. “But I did enjoy when Evelyn said that if she wanted to see foliage, she’d take up hiking or gardening.”

He laughs and rakes a hand through his hair, drawing my gaze to those unruly dark strands.

He’s got the most interesting appearance. Honeyed skin, jet black hair, golden brown eyes. I honestly have no idea what his background is. Asian maybe? Mixed with…no clue. Like his fashion style, his features are a collection of unique elements that I find incredibly attractive.

“You’re staring at me.” His lips twitch with humor. “Is there something in my teeth?”

“No.” My cheeks warm up. “I was just wondering about your ethnic background. Sorry. You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

He looks highly amused by the question. “My face is like a melting pot of ethnic goodness, huh? Don’t worry, I get asked that all the time. My family is like the United frickin’ Nations. My mother was born in Zambia—her mom was black, her dad was a white doctor who ran a clinic there. And my father is half-Japanese, half-Italian.”

“Wow, that is a lot of culture.”

“What about you?”

“Not as interesting. The Ivers family practically founded Massachusetts, and we’ve got some Scottish and Irish roots, I think.”

A high-pitched giggle sounds from behind us, and we turn to see Pace and Evelyn making out against the wall. On my first day here, I asked Evelyn how long they’ve been dating, and she looked at me as if I’d just gotten off a spaceship, then informed me that they only make out at the station because “radio is so boring.”

As Morris and I exchange amused looks, Pace catches sight of us and grins over Evelyn’s slender shoulder.

“Yo, Morrison,” he calls out, even as the blonde continues to nibble on his neck. “Kegger at Sigma tonight. Fat Ted has a new game he wants you to try to beat. You should come too, Gretchen.”

Even if I’d wanted to correct him, Pace is no longer paying attention to us, because his tongue is in Evelyn’s mouth again.

“Why does he call you Morrison, and who on earth is Fat Ted?” I inquire in a dry voice.

Morris chuckles. “He calls me Morrison because he thinks that’s my name, no matter how many times I tell him it’s not. And Fat Ted is one of his frat brothers. He’s a hardcore gamer, and we sorta have this competition going on. Whenever one of us gets a new game and beats it, we pass it off to the other one and see if they could do it better. Ted’s awesome—you’ll meet him at the party tonight.”

I have to laugh. “Who says ‘Gretchen’ is even going to that party?”