Page 106 of The Mistake

Before I can go, Mr. Ivers asks, “What’s going on, John?”

The ache in my chest gets worse. “Nothing. It’s nothing, sir. I, uh…had a family emergency.”

He looks concerned. “Is everything all right?”

I nod.

Then I shake my head.

Then I nod again.

Christ, make up your fucking mind.

“Everything’s fine,” I lie.

“No, it’s not. You’re white as a sheet. And you look exhausted.” He softens his tone. “Tell me what’s wrong, son. Maybe I can help.”

My face collapses. Oh shit. Oh fuck, why’d he have to call meson? The sting in my eyes is unbearable. My throat squeezes shut.

I need to get out of here.

“Why don’t you come in?” he urges. “We’ll sit down. I’ll make some coffee.” A wry smile lifts his lips. “I’d offer you something stronger, but you’re still a minor, and I have a strict rule about giving alcohol to?—”

I lose it.

I just. Fucking. Lose it.

Yup, I bawl like an honest-to-God baby, right there in front of Grace’s father.

He freezes.

Only for a moment, and then he springs forward and puts his arms around me. He traps me in a hug I can’t escape from, a solid wall of comfort I find myself sagging into. I’m so goddamn embarrassed, but I can’t fight the tears anymore. I held them back in Munsen, but the panic is back, and so is the fear, and Grace’s father called meson, and holy hell, I’m a mess.

I’m a total fucking mess.

33

GRACE

The moment I finish writing my Abnormal Psychology midterm, I race out of the lecture hall like I’m trying to outrun a forest fire.

My father is not the kind of man who overreacts or dabbles in melodrama. He’s incredibly levelheaded and annoyingly straightforward, but he has the infuriating tendency to downplay a crisis instead of admitting when shit has hit the fan. So when he phoned me this morning and casually suggested that I should check in on my boyfriend today, I immediately knew something was wrong.

Actually, I knew it even before the phone call. The apologetic text Logan sent me last night had triggered my concern, but when I’d pushed him, he insisted that everything was okay, claiming he had to stay with his dad longer than he’d anticipated. He’d also made sure to reiterate that he was truly sorry for not making it to dinner or being able to drive me home.

I went to bed unable to fight the gnawing suspicion that something bad had happened, and now, combined with the vague heads-up from my father, I’m certain of it. Which is why I opt to cab it to Logan’s house instead of walking or taking the bus. I want to see him as soon as possible, before the crushing worry I’m feeling starts flashing worst-case scenarios in my head.

As I settle in the backseat of the taxi, I pull out my phone and text Logan.

Me: I’m on my way to your place.

Nearly a minute goes by before he responds with:Don’t know if that’s a good idea, babe. I’m in a lousy mood.

Me: Fine. Then I’ll cheer you up.

Him: Not sure if you can.

Me: Still gonna try.

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