The Mistake

On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.”


“I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips together, realizing what I’ve done.

Dead silence crashes over the kitchen.

Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not even the craziest item on Grace’s list.

That’s right. I said it. List. The little brat texted me not one, not two, but six tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe gestures is a better way to phrase it.

I get it, though. She doesn’t think I’m serious about her and she’s worried I’ll screw it up again. Hell, she probably believes this list of hers will scare me off and we won’t even get to the dating part.

But she’s wrong. I’m not afraid of six measly romantic gestures. Some of them will be tough, sure, but I’m a resourceful guy. If I can rebuild the engine of a ’69 Camaro using only the parts I found in Munsen’s crappy junkyard, then I can certainly write a sappy poem and produce “a quality collage showcasing the personality traits of Grace’s that I find most bewitching.”

“I just have one question,” Garrett starts.

“Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have many.”

Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.”

Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.”

“It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth.

My best friend nods solemnly.

Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.”

“I hate you.”

I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed jackass with Cutlass.”

“Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?”

“The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.”

Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.”

He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it.

“Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.”

“Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.”

I ponder the next line. “How sweet…”

“Your ass,” Tucker supplies.

Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again.

“Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.”

“Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.”

Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?”

“Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.”

That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!”

I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.”

Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes. I still have fifty pages to read for my econ course, and a marketing plan to outline, but am I doing either of those things? Nope.

I reach for my cell and text Grace.

Me: What’s your email address?

She answers almost instantly: [email protected]

Me: Incoming.

This time around, she takes her sweet time messaging back. Forty-five minutes to be exact. I’m thirty pages into my reading assignment when my phone buzzes.

Her: Don’t quit your day job, Emily Dickinson.

Me: Hey, u didn’t say it had to be GOOD.

Her: Touché. D-on the poem. Can’t wait to see your collage.

Me: How do u feel about glitter? And dick pics?

Her: If there’s a pic of your dick on that collage, I’m photocopying it and passing it around in the student center.

Me: Bad idea. You’ll give all the other dudes an inferiority complex.