Page 43 of The Mistake

“I know, right?”

And just like that, we’re good again. Seriously, chicks need to take a lesson from dudes when it comes to burying the hatchet. We know our shit.

“Anyway, I need to make a call,” I tell him. “Night, guys.”

I’m already pulling up Grace’s number as I dart out of the kitchen and head for the stairs. Texting isn’t an option. I want her to hear my voice. I want her to hear how agonized I am about everything that went down tonight.

To my frustration, the dial tone rings and rings and rings before switching over to voice mail.

The second time I call, it goes straight to voice mail, which tells me she most likely pressed theignorebutton.

Crap.

With a crushing sense of defeat, I open a new message and shoot her a text asking if we could talk.

Then I go upstairs and wait.

14

LOGAN

It’s past midnight, and still no word from Grace. I’ve sent her three texts already, and now I’m lying on top of my bedspread, staring up at the ceiling and valiantly fighting the urge to send a fourth.

Three messages borders on desperation.

Four would just be pathetic.

Fuck, I wish she would text back. Or call. Oranything. At this point, I’d be thrilled if a carrier pigeon tapped its beak on my window and delivered a handwritten letter done in perfect calligraphy.

She’s not calling you, man. Deal with it.

Yeah, I guess she isn’t. I guess I really did blow it. And I guess I fucking deserve it.

I didn’t just lead her on—I led her right up to the point where she wanted to lose her virginity to me, and then I threw the offer back in her face and told her I was interested in someone else. Hell, I'm surprised karma hasn’t rained down on me and given me three flat tires and a sprained ankle by now for being such an ass.

My phone buzzes, and I hurl myself at the night table like an Olympic high jumper. She texted back. Oh, thank fuck. That means shedoesn’tview me as the antichrist?—

The message isn’t from Grace.

It comes from an unfamiliar number, and it takes me a solid ten seconds before I’m able to register what I’m reading.No, what I’m seething over.

Hey, this is Ramona. Just heard what happened with you and Grace. Need me to come over and comfort you? ;)

Winky face. She actually fuckingwinky-facedme.

I drop the phone as if it’s a hot coal. As if the message is contagious and the mere act of touching the device it came on will turn me into a person as contemptible as the one who wrote those words.

Why the hell is Grace’s best friend hitting on me? Whodoesthat?

I’m so pissed off that I grab the phone and forward the message to Grace without stopping to question my actions. I add a caption—thought you should see this.

And then, since I’m already in this deep, I send another one.

Me: Can we please talk?

She doesn’t respond to either. Not now, and not by the time three in the morning rolls around, which is when I finally drag my pathetic ass under the covers and fall into a restless sleep.

GRACE

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