Page 44 of The Mistake

I wakeup at five-thirty in the morning. Not by choice, but because my traitorous mind decides it’s time for me to wallow in misery some more and forces me into consciousness.

The humiliation of last night slaps me in the face the moment I open my eyes. The clothes I was wearing are still strewn on the floor. I hadn’t bothered to pick them up, and neither had Ramona, who’d come home around midnight.

“Didn’t happen. He’s into someone else.”

That was all the information I gave her last night, and she must have seen the devastation on my face, because for oncein her life, she didn’t nag me for details. She simply gave me a hug, a sympathetic squeeze on the arm, and climbed into bed.

Now she’s sleeping peacefully, her cheek pressed against her pillow, one arm flung across the mattress. Well, at least one of us is going to feel rested today.

Despite my better judgment, I check my phone. Sure enough, there are two unread messages flashing on the screen. Which brings the final tally to five.

Logan mustreallywant to talk to me.

I guess guilt turns some guys into real chatterboxes.

A smart person would delete the messages without reading them. No, delete his number from the contact list. But I’m not feeling too smart right now. I feel stupid. So fucking stupid. For inviting him over last night. For developing feelings for him.

For reading the messages he keeps sendi—what the hell?

I blink. Once. Twice. Three and four and five times, but it doesn’t bring clarity to what I’m seeing.

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

My head swings toward Ramona’s bed. She’s still out like a light. But that is unarguably her phone number next to the time stamp of the text. Twelve-sixteen a.m. Approximately twenty minutes after she’d gotten home last night.

I stare at her sleeping form, waiting for the fury to come. For my insides to clench and my blood to boil with a sense of white-hot betrayal.

But nothing happens. I’m…cold. And numb. And so frickin’ exhausted it feels like someone stuffed sand in my eyes.

My fingers tremble as I bring up the next message—Can we please talk?

No, we can’t. In fact, I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Not Logan, and certainly not Ramona.

I suck an unsteady breath into my lungs. Then I stand up and creep toward the door. Stepping into the hall, I sag against the wall before sliding down to the floor and drawing my knees up. My phone rests on my knee, and I stare at it for several seconds before turning it over and accessing my contact list.

It might be too early to call my dad, but in Paris, my mom will be wide-awake and probably fixing lunch right now.

The numbness doesn’t go away as I dial her number. If anything, it gets worse. I can’t even feel my heart beating. Maybe it’s not. Maybe every goddamn part of me has shut down.

“Sweetie!” My mother’s overjoyed voice fills my ear. “What are you doing up so early?”

I swallow. “Hey, Mom. I…uh, have an early class.”

“You have class on Sundays?” She sounds confused.

“Oh. No, I don’t. I meant I have a study group.”

Crap, my eyes are starting to sting, and not because I’m tired. Damn it. So much for being numb—I’m seconds away from bursting into tears.

“Listen, I wanted to talk to you about my visit.” My throat closes up, and I take another breath hoping to loosen it. “I changed my mind about the dates. I want to come earlier.”

“You do?” she says in delight. “Oh yay! I’m so happy! But are you sure? You said you might have plans with your friends. I don’t want you to come early on my account.”

“The plans got canceled. And I want to come sooner, I really do.” I blink in rapid succession, trying to stop the tears from spilling over. “The sooner the better.”

15

GRACE

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