by Elle Kennedy
Dean has been tagging along with me, and when I pull up in front of our townhouse, he’s waiting for me in the driveway. Mr. GQ is shirtless, wearing low-riding Adidas tear away pants and jogging in place like a moron.
Grinning, I hop out of the truck and walk over to him.
“Hey. Change of plans,” he says. “Wellsy got off work early, so we’re going running instead.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You and me?”
“You, me and Wellsy,” he clarifies. “She and I have been running every night. Sometimes G comes if he’s not too beat. But she has plans with her folks tonight.”
“Nice. Her parents are in town?” I know Hannah doesn’t get to see them as often as she’d like, so I imagine she must be thrilled. I also know that the reason she doesn’t see them is…her own damn business. Even though she told Garrett it was okay to confide in me about the sexual assault in her past, it feels inappropriate to bring it up. If she wanted to talk about it with me, she would.
“They’re staying at the inn on Main,” Dean answers. “Anyway, this is the only time she can run today.”
As if on cue, Hannah appears on the front stoop, decked out in a baggy T-shirt and spandex pants that go to her knees. Her ponytail flops around as she hurries over to give me a hug. “Logan! I feel like I haven’t seen you in months!”
“That’s because you haven’t.” I tweak the end of her ponytail. “How’s your summer going?”
“Good. You?”
I shrug. “All right, I guess.”
“So you’re coming running with us?”
“Apparently I don’t have a choice in the matter.” I’m already wearing sneakers, track pants and an old T-shirt, so I don’t need to change, but I pop into the house to stash my wallet and keys before joining them outside again. Just in time to hear Hannah scolding Dean about his running attire.
“Seriously, dude, put on a shirt.”
“Hey, you know what they say,” Dean drawls. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
“No, I’m pretty sure they say put on a shirt when you go for a run, you cocky narcissist.”
His jaw drops. “Narcissist? More like realist. Look at these abs, Wellsy. Actually, touch them. Seriously. It will change your life.”
She snorts.
“What, you’re too intimidated by all this masculine beauty?” He slaps a hand over his tight six-pack.
“You know what?” she says sweetly. “I would love to touch your abs.”
In the blink of an eye, Hannah scoots down and grabs something from the planter next to the garage. A handful of dirt. Which she proceeds to smear on him, leaving a line from his belly button to the top of his waistband. And since it’s hot as hell outside and Dean is already sweaty, the dirt cakes to his skin like a mud mask.
“Ready?” she chirps.
Dean glowers at her. “I know you think I’ll go inside and wipe that off. But guess what—I won’t.”
“Oh really? You’re going to run through town looking like that?” She tips her head in challenge. “No way. You’re far too vain.”
I snicker, but I happen to know she’s not giving Dean enough credit. As much as his ego probably hates that his pristine abs have been soiled, Dean also happens to be a stubborn-as-fuck hockey player who’s not going to allow a tiny ballbuster like Hannah get to him.
“Nuh-uh, baby doll. I’m wearing this dirt as a badge of honor.”
He stares at her. Gloating.
She stares back. Annoyed.
I clear my throat. “Are we running or what?”
They snap out of their stare-down and the three of us take off in a brisk pace down the sidewalk. “We usually run the same route,” Dean tells me. “Down to the park, hit the trail there, then come back the other way.”
Knowing they’ve been running together often enough to have a “route” brings a strange pang of jealousy. I miss my friends, damn it. I hate how isolated I’ve been in Munsen, with nobody to talk to but Jeff and my perpetually inebriated father.
We’ve only been running for a few minutes when Hannah starts humming. Softly at first, but eventually it turns into full-on singing. Her voice is beautiful, sweet and melodic with a throaty pitch that Garrett says gives him goose bumps. As she sings Hozier’s “Take Me to Church”, I can’t help but turn to grin at Dean.
“She sings when she’s running,” he says with a sigh. “Seriously. She does it the whole time. Garrett and I tried explaining that it messes with your breath control, but—”
“I swear to God,” she interrupts, “if I have to hear one more lecture about my breath control, I will punch you. All of you. I like to sing when I run. Deal with it.”
I actually don’t mind it. Her voice is a nice soundtrack to the thuds of our sneakers pounding the pavement, even if her choice of songs is slightly depressing.
When we reach the entrance of the park, I notice the roof of the gazebo peeking through the trees, and I’m suddenly reminded of the night at the water tower with Grace. She’d told me this was her childhood spot.
My shoulders tense, almost as if I’m anticipating to find Grace in the gazebo. Which is stupid, because of course she’s not—
Holy shit, she is. I see a girl on the steps. A long braid and…disappointment surges through me. Wait. It’s not Grace. It’s a blonde in a green sundress, and the afternoon sunlight catches in her golden braid as she bends her head to read the book in her lap.
Then her head lifts, and holy shit again, because I was right the first time—it is her.
I stumble to a stop, completely forgetting about Dean and Hannah, who keep running. From her perch on the steps, Grace looks in my direction, and although thirty or so yards separate us, I know she recognizes me.
Our gazes lock, and a frown mars her lips.
Shit, maybe Dean’s onto something. Maybe I shouldn’t be wearing a shirt right now. Chicks are much more amenable when they’re looking at a ripped chest, right?
Jesus, and that’s just sad, thinking the sight of my bare chest will make her forget everything that went down between us.
“Logan. Yo, what the hell? Keep up, bro.”
My friends have finally noticed I’m not with them, and they come jogging back. Hannah follows my gaze, then gasps. “Oh. Is that Grace?”
For a second, I’m surprised she knows her name, until I realize that Garrett must have told her. Shocker.
Beside me, Dean squints at the gazebo to get a better look. “Naah, that’s not her. Your freshman is a brunette. And she doesn’t have legs that go on and on and—fuck, those legs are hot. ’Scuse me, I think I’ll go over there and introduce myself.”
I grab his arm before he can take another step. “It’s Grace, dumbass. She obviously dyed her hair. And if you looked at her face and not her legs, you’d see it.”
He squints again, and then his jaw drops. “Shit. You’re right.”
Grace lowers her gaze back to her book, but I know she’s aware of my presence because her shoulders are stiffer than the posts at the gazebo’s entrance. She’s probably waiting for me to run off, but that’s not going to happen. I’m not running away, not this time.
“You guys go on ahead,” I say gruffly. “I’ll catch up. Or I might just meet you back at the house.”
Dean continues to leer at Grace, until Hannah finally shoves him to force him to follow her. As they head for the path, I move in the other direction, my heart beating faster and faster the closer I get.
It’s not only her hair color that’s different, I realize. She’s also wearing more makeup than I’ve seen her wear before, smoky green eye shadow that makes her eyes look bigger. Fuck, it’s sexy. Especially combined with the freckles that no amount of makeup can cover up.
My chest clenches as something occurs to me. She’s wearing a dress. And makeup. On a Thursday afternoon.
Is she waiting for someone?
My palms are clammy as I approach her. I can’t take my eyes off her. Jesus. Her legs really are phenomenal.
Smooth and tanned and…crap, I’m imagining them wrapped around my waist. Her heels digging into my ass as I fuck the hell out of her.
I clear my throat. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she answers.
I can’t for the life of me read her tone. It’s not casual. Not rude. It’s…neutral. I guess I can work with that.
“I…” The nerves get the best of me, and I end up blurting the first thing that comes to mind. “You didn’t call me back.”
She meets my eyes. “No. I didn’t.”
“Yeah…I don’t blame you.” I wish my goddamn track pants had pockets, because I’m experiencing that age-old problem actors have—what the fuck do I do with my hands? They’re dangling at my sides, and I’m fighting hard not to fidget. “Look, I know you probably don’t want to hear a word I have to say, but can we talk? Please?”
Grace sighs. “What’s the point? I said everything I needed to say that night. It was a mistake.”
I nod in agreement. “Yes, it was. It was a huge mistake, but not for the reason you think.”
Irritation clouds her features. She closes her book and stands up. “I have to go.”
“Five minutes,” I beg. “Just give me five minutes.”
Despite her visible reluctance, she doesn’t walk away. Doesn’t sit down either, but she’s still standing in front of me, and five minutes in the life of a hockey player? More than enough time to score a few points.
“I’m sorry about how everything went down,” I say quietly. “I shouldn’t have ended it like that, and I definitely shouldn’t have let us get that close to having sex when I was so screwed up even before I came over. But all that stuff I said about wanting someone else? I was wrong. I didn’t realize until I got home that I was already with the person I wanted to be with.”
Zero reaction on her face. Zip. Nada. A part of me wonders if she’s even listening to me, but I force myself to continue. “The girl I told you about…she’s my best friend’s girlfriend.”
A flicker of surprise crosses her expression. So she is listening.
“I convinced myself I had a thing for her, but it turns out it wasn’t really her I wanted. I wanted what she and Garrett have. A relationship.”
Grace eyes me dubiously. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, but I don’t really buy that.”
“It’s true.” My throat is tight with embarrassment. “I was jealous of what they have. And I was stressing about other things too, family stuff, and hockey. I know it sounds like I’m making excuses, but it’s the truth. I wasn’t in a good place, and I was too confused and bitter about my life to appreciate what I had. I really did like you. Do like you,” I amend hastily.
God, I feel like a frickin’ pre-teen. I wish she’d offer some shred of encouragement, a hint of understanding, but her expression remains blank.
“I’ve been thinking about you all summer. I keep kicking myself for the way I acted, and wishing I could make it right.”
“There’s nothing to make right. We barely know each other, Logan. We were just fooling around, and honestly, I’m not interested in starting that up again.”
“I don’t want to fool around.” I exhale in a rush. “I want to take you out on a date.”
She looks amused.
Goddamn it. Amused. As if I’ve just told her a humdinger of a joke.
“I mean it,” I insist. “Will you go on a date with me?”
Grace is quiet for a moment, then says, “No.”
As disappointment clenches in my stomach, she tucks her book in her shoulder bag and takes a step away.
“I have to go. My dad and I are going out for lunch soon, and he’s waiting for me at home.”
“I’ll walk you,” I say instantly.
“No, thanks. I can make it there all by my lonesome.” She pauses. “It was nice seeing you again.”
Oh, hell no. There’s no way I’m letting it end this way, all cold and impersonal, as if we’re nothing more than acquaintances who bumped into each other on the street.
When I fall in step alongside her, she grumbles in annoyance. “What are you doing? I told you I don’t need you to walk me home.”
“I’m not walking you home,” I answer cheerfully. “I happen to be going in that direction.”
She points to the trail. “Your friends went that way.”
“Yup. And I’m going this way.”
Her cheeks hollow as if she’s grinding her teeth, and then she mumbles something under her breath. It sounds like, “the one day I forget to bring my iPod.”
Perfect. That means she can’t ignore me by listening to music.
“So you’re having lunch with your dad? Is that why you’re all dressed up?”
She doesn’t answer and promptly picks up her pace.
I lengthen my strides to keep up. “Hey, we’re already walking in the same direction. No harm in passing the time by making conversation.”
She spares me a cursory glance. “I’m dressed up because my mother spent way too much money on this dress, and my paranoid brain thinks that if I don’t wear it she’ll somehow be able to sense it, even though she’s all the way in Paris.”
“Paris, huh?”
She responds in a grudging tone. “I spent the summer there.”
“So your mother lives in France? Does that mean your parents are divorced?”
“Yes.” Then she scowls at me. “Stop asking me questions.”
“No prob. Do you want to ask me some?”
“Nope.”
“Okeydokey. I’ll keep being the question-asker then.”
“Did you just say okeydokey?”
“Yup. Was that adorable enough to change your mind about that date?”
Her lips twitch, but the laugh I’m waiting for doesn’t come. Instead, she falls silent again. And walks even faster.
We’re on a street parallel to Hastings’ downtown core, passing several quaint storefronts before the area goes from commercial to residential. I patiently wait for Grace to get tired of the silence and say something, but she’s more stubborn than I thought.
“So what’s with the hair? Not that I don’t like the new color. It suits you.”
“Also my mother’s doing,” Grace mutters. “She decided I needed a makeover.”
“Well, you look great.” I shoot her a sidelong look. Christ, she looks more than great. I’ve been walking with a semi since we left the park, unable to stop admiring the way her dress flutters around her thighs with each step she takes.
We reach a stop sign and she veers to the right, her pace quickening as we turn onto a wide street lined with towering oak trees. Damn it. Her house must be close.
“One date,” I urge softly. “Please, Grace. Give me a chance to show you I’m not a total dick.”
She gazes at me, incredulous. “You humiliated me.”
Four months’ worth of guilt slams into me. “I know.”
“I was ready to have sex with you, and you didn’t just reject me—you told me you were using me as a distraction. So you wouldn’t have to think about the person you actually wanted to have sex with!” Her cheeks turn bright red. “Why would I ever want to go out with you after that?”
She’s right. There’s absolutely no reason for her to give me another chance.
My stomach hurts as she brushes past me. She heads for the front lawn of a pretty house with a white clapboard exterior and wraparound porch, and I feel even queasier when I notice a gray-haired man on the porch. He’s sitting on a white wicker chair, a newspaper on his lap as he watches us from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Shit, that’s probably Grace’s father. Groveling in front of an audience is bad enough, but doing it in front of her father? Fucking brutal.
“What about everything before that?” I call out after her.
She turns to face me. “What?”
“Before that night.” I lower my voice when I catch up to her. “When we went to the movies. And the water tower. I know you liked me then.”
Grace releases
a tired-sounding breath. “Yeah. I did.”
“So let’s focus on that,” I say roughly. “On the good parts. I fucked up, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I don’t want anyone else. All I want is another chance.”
She doesn’t answer, and an ache of desperation seizes my chest. At this point I’d be thrilled to receive a “yeah, sure” from her. The silence wrecks me, chipping away at the confidence boost she gave me when she admitted to liking me before V-Night.
“Sorry, but no,” she says, and the last scrap of my confidence takes a nosedive. “Look, if you want forgiveness, then sure, you’ve got it. That night was embarrassing as hell, but I had the whole summer to get over it. I don’t hold grudges, okay? If we bump into each other on campus, I’m not going to run screaming in the other direction. Maybe we’ll even grab a coffee one day. But I don’t want to go out with you, at least not right now.”
Fuck. I really thought she’d say yes.
Defeat crushes down on my chest, followed by a surge of hope, because technically, she didn’t say no.
She said “not right now.”
I can absolutely work with that.
19
Grace
It’s the first semester of my sophomore year. Which means I’m Sophomore Grace now. Freshman Grace, God rest her soul, let her best friend make decisions for her and guys walk all over her, but Sophomore Grace? She will do no such thing. She will not be Ramona’s doormat or Logan’s distraction. Nope. Sophomore Grace is the carefree nineteen-year-old who spent the summer gallivanting around France.
Does it still count as gallivanting when you do it with your mother?
Sure it does, I assure myself. Gallivanting is gallivanting no matter who you’re with.
Either way, a new year equals a new me.
Or rather, an improved version of the old me.
At the moment, new/old me is making the bed in my new dorm room and desperately hoping that my roommate won’t be a bitch, a psycho, or a psycho-bitch. I tried convincing the woman in the housing office to give me a single, but those are reserved for upperclassmen, so I’m stuck doubling up with someone named Daisy.