The Mistake

Hannah sighs. “Sometimes they really bring out the worst in each other. But on the flip side, they also bring out the best in each other. That’s why they keep breaking up and getting back together. I thought for sure it would stick this time, but who knows.”


A mouthwatering aroma begins wafting through the kitchen. Garrett’s not the greatest cook, but he makes damn good omelets. Ten minutes later, he serves us fluffy, golden goodness loaded with cheese, mushrooms, and peppers, and the four of us settle around the table. It feels like a double date, which is surreal as hell. Up until last year, Garrett wasn’t interested in girlfriends, and up until last month, neither was I.

I like it, though. Hannah and Grace are getting along. The conversation’s lively. We laugh a lot. I can’t remember the last time I felt so at peace, and by the time we finish eating, I don’t even care that I’m stuck doing dishes.

Grace takes pity on me and helps me clear the table, then follows me to the sink, where I quickly rinse each plate before loading them in the dishwasher.

“I can see why you wanted her.” Her voice is barely audible, but wistful enough that it makes my shoulders go rigid.

When I realize she’s gazing at Hannah, guilt pricks my heart, bringing a sharp sting of pain. I hadn’t mentioned Hannah’s name when I told Grace about her in April, but I had admitted to liking my best friend’s girlfriend. Clearly Grace has put two and two together.

“She’s funny. And really pretty,” Grace says awkwardly.

I dry my hands with a dishrag and grasp her chin, drawing her gaze to mine. “I didn’t want her,” I murmur. I nudge Grace’s head in the direction of the table again. “I wanted that.”

Garrett has just tugged Hannah into his lap, one arm wrapping around her as he plants a kiss on the tip of her nose. The fingers of his free hand thread through her dark hair, and she leans closer to whisper something in his ear that makes him chuckle. The way they look at each other…the reverence with which he touches her…they’re disgustingly in love, and anyone can see it.

Including Grace, who turns back to me with a smile. “Yeah. Who wouldn’t want that?”

Once the kitchen is squeaky clean, we disappear upstairs again, but not to have sex. We’ve barely slept this weekend thanks to our fuck-a-thon—not complaining, by the way—so we decide to take a nap. I set the alarm to make sure we don’t oversleep, because I’m supposed to drive Grace to her dad’s house at six.

We climb under the covers and I yank her warm body toward me, spooning her from behind. A contented sigh slips out, but right as I start to drift off, her voice teases me back to a state of alertness.

“John?” she murmurs.

My heart squeezes. I don’t know why it does that every time she uses my first name. She calls me Logan too, and Johnny when she’s making fun of me, but it’s only John that floods my chest with emotion like this.

“Mmmm?”

“Do you want to come for dinner?”

I stiffen, and she doesn’t miss the response. She releases a soft laugh and adds, “You’re allowed to say no. But…I mean, you’ve already kind of met my mother, and just so you know, my dad isn’t too scary. If anything, you might find him boring. He talks about science a lot.”

Right. She’d mentioned that he was a biology professor. That’s not what worries me, though. The last time I met a girl’s parents, I was in high school, and it wasn’t a big deal back then. If anything, it was unavoidable, considering my girlfriend and I lived with our parents.

And yeah, I’ve already Skyped with Grace’s mom, but that hadn’t felt like an official meeting or anything. It had been fun and casual, no big deal at all. But meeting Grace’s father—in person—feels like a big deal.

Says the guy who’s in love with her.

Good point. Hell, I ventured into BIG DEAL territory the moment I realized how I feel about her.

“Will he mind if I come?”

“Not at all. Mom already told him I had a boyfriend, so he’s actually been bugging me about meeting you,” she confesses.

“Okay, then sure.” My arm tightens around her. “I’d love to.”

*

Grace

It’s a pleasantly warm evening, so Dad decides we should eat on the patio. He grills up some steaks on the barbecue, while Logan and I take care of the rest of dinner. I’m in charge of the baked potatoes, Logan’s handling the salad. But watching the sheer concentration with which he slices those tomatoes, you’d think he was vying for a slot on Top Chef.

“Relax, Johnny,” I tease. “Your salad preparation expertise has no bearing on whether he’ll like you or not.”