by Elle Kennedy
Me: Are u home?
Him: Yup.
Me: Txt me your address. I’m coming over.
It’s almost a full minute before he responds.
Him: What if I don’t want any visitors?
Me: Srsly? After all your “wooing” you’re really gonna say no?
His next message pops up in no time at all. It’s his address.
Ha. That’s what I thought.
My next course of action is to call a taxi. Normally I don’t mind the thirty-minute walk to Hastings, but I’m afraid my anger might multiply to a scary level if I allow it thirty whole minutes to fester. Yep, I’m angry. And annoyed. And thoroughly flabbergasted. I knew Morris wasn’t thrilled about what happened at the Sigma party, but he hadn’t given me any indication that it was a deal-breaker. If anything, he seemed incredibly understanding when I explained my history with Logan on the walk home.
Which makes what just happened a hundred times more perplexing.
I fidget impatiently during the five-minute cab ride, and when we reach our destination, I slap a ten-dollar bill at the driver and open the back door before the car even stops moving. It’s my first visit to Logan’s house, but I don’t give my surroundings more than a perfunctory inspection. Neat lawn, white stoop, and a front door I immediately pound my fist against.
Dean answers the door wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts, his blond hair sticking up in all directions. “Hey.” He greets me in surprise.
“Hi.” I set my jaw. “I’m here to see Logan.”
He gestures for me to come in, then points to the staircase on our left. “He’s in his room. Second door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
That’s the extent of the conversation. He doesn’t inquire as to the reason for my visit, and I don’t offer an explanation. I simply march upstairs to Logan’s room.
The door is wide open, so I have a clear view of him lying on a double bed, his knees drawn up and an open textbook balanced against them. There’s a deep furrow in his strong forehead, as if he’s concentrating on what he’s reading, but his gaze shoots to the door when he hears my footsteps.
“Shit. You got here fast.” He tosses the book aside and hops to his feet.
I stalk inside and close the door behind me, requiring privacy for the tongue-lashing I’m about to give him.
“What is wrong with you?” I say in lieu of greeting. “You went to Morris’s dorm and declared your intentions?”
He offers a faint smile. “Of course. It was the noble thing to do. I can’t be chasing after another guy’s girl without his knowledge.”
“I’m not his girl,” I snap. “We went on one date! And now I’m never going to be his girl, because he doesn’t want to go out with me again.”
“What the hell?” Logan looks startled. “I’m disappointed in him. I thought he had more of a competitive spirit than that.”
“Seriously? You’re going to pretend to be surprised? He won’t see me again because your jackass self told him he couldn’t.”
Astonishment fills his eyes. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Is that what he told you?” Logan demands.
“Not in so many words.”
“I see. Well, what words did he actually use?”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. “He said he’s backing off because he doesn’t want to get in the middle of something so complicated. I pointed out that there’s nothing complicated about it, seeing as you and I are not together.” My aggravation heightens. “And then he insisted that I need to give you a chance, because you’re a—” I angrily air-quote Morris’s words “—‘stand-up guy who deserves another shot.’”
Logan breaks out in a grin.
I stab the air with my finger. “Don’t you dare smile. Obviously you put those words in his mouth. And what the hell was he jabbering about when he told me you and him were ‘family’?” All the disbelief I’d felt during my talk with Morris comes spiraling back, making me pace the bedroom in hurried strides. “What did you say to him, Logan? Did you brainwash him or something? How are you guys family? You don’t even know each other!”
Strangled laughter sounds from Logan’s direction. I spin around and level a dark glower at him.
“He’s talking about the joint family we created in Mob Boss. It’s this role-playing game where you’re the Don of a mob family and you’re fighting a bunch of other mafia bosses for territory and rackets and stuff. We played it when I went over there, and I ended up staying until four in the morning. Seriously, it was intense.” He shrugs. “We’re the Lorris crime syndicate.”
I’m dumbfounded.
Oh my God.
Lorris? As in Logan and Morris? They fucking Brangelina’d themselves?
“What is happening?” I burst out. “You guys are best friends now?”
“He’s a cool guy. Actually, he’s even cooler in my book now for stepping down like that. I didn’t ask him to, but clearly he grasps what you refuse to see.”
“Yeah, and what’s that?” I mutter.
“That you and I are perfect for each other.”
No words. There are no words to accurately convey what I’m feeling right now. Horror maybe? Absolute insanity? I mean, it’s not like I’m madly in love with Morris or anything, but if I’d known that kissing Logan at the party would lead to…this, I would have strapped on a frickin’ chastity gag.
I draw a calming breath. “You used me,” I remind him.
His features crease with regret. “Unintentionally. And I’m trying to make up for that.”
“How? By asking me out? By buying me muffins and kissing me at parties?” I’m so frazzled I can barely think straight. “I’m not even convinced you actually like me, Logan. This whole thing feels like it’s centered on your ego. The only reason you even saw me again after that first night was because you couldn’t handle that I didn’t have an orgasm. And at the party, when you found out I was on a date with someone else, it was like you went out of your way to stake a claim or some shit. Your actions scream ego, not genuine feelings for me.”
“That’s not true. What about the night I came to the dining hall? How did that benefit my ego?” His voice is gruff. “I like you, Grace.”
“Why?” I challenge. “Why do you like me?”
“Because…” He drags a hand through his dark hair. “You’re fun to be around. You’re smart. Sweet. You make me laugh. Oh, and just the sight of you gets me hard.”
I swallow a laugh. “What else?”
Embarrassment colors his cheeks. “I’m not sure. We don’t know each other very well, but everything I do know about you, I like. And everything I don’t know, I want to find out.”
He sounds so earnest, but a part of me still doesn’t trust him. It’s the hurt and humiliated Grace who almost had sex with him in April. Who told him she was a virgin and then watched him scramble off the bed as if it was covered with ants. Who sat there—naked—while he said he couldn’t sleep with her because he was hung up on somebody else.
As if sensing my doubts, he hurries on in a pleading voice. “Give me another chance. Let me prove to you that I’m not an egocentric ass.”
I hesitate.
“Please. Tell me what’ll it take for you to go out with me, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
Well. That’s interesting.
I’m not the type to play games. I’m really not. But I can’t fight this nagging distrust, the cynical voice in my head warning me his intentions might not be pure.
Yet I also can’t bring myself to say no again, because another part of me, the one that loves spending time with this guy, wants me to say yes.
God, maybe I do need him to prove it to me. Maybe I need him to show me how serious he is about dating me. An idea niggles at the back of my mind. It’s a crazy one. Outrageous, even. But hey, if Logan can’t tackle a few simple obstacles, then maybe he doesn’t deserve another shot.
�
�Anything?” I say slowly.
His blue eyes shine with fortitude. “Anything, gorgeous. Absolutely anything.”
23
Logan
“What rhymes with insensitive?” I tap my pen on the kitchen table, beyond frustrated with my current task. Who knew rhyming was so fucking difficult?
Garrett, who’s dicing onions at the counter, glances over. “Sensitive,” he says helpfully.
“Yes, G, I’ll be sure to rhyme insensitive with sensitive. Gold star for you.”
On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.”
“I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips together, realizing what I’ve done.
Dead silence crashes over the kitchen.
Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not even the craziest item on Grace’s list.
That’s right. I said it. List. The little brat texted me not one, not two, but six tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe gestures is a better way to phrase it.
I get it, though. She doesn’t think I’m serious about her and she’s worried I’ll screw it up again. Hell, she probably believes this list of hers will scare me off and we won’t even get to the dating part.
But she’s wrong. I’m not afraid of six measly romantic gestures. Some of them will be tough, sure, but I’m a resourceful guy. If I can rebuild the engine of a ’69 Camaro using only the parts I found in Munsen’s crappy junkyard, then I can certainly write a sappy poem and produce “a quality collage showcasing the personality traits of Grace’s that I find most bewitching.”
“I just have one question,” Garrett starts.
“Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have many.”
Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.”
Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.”
“It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth.
My best friend nods solemnly.
Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.”
“I hate you.”
I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed jackass with Cutlass.”
“Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?”
“The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.”
Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.”
He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it.
“Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.”
“Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.”
I ponder the next line. “How sweet…”
“Your ass,” Tucker supplies.
Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again.
“Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.”
“Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.”
Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?”
“Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.”
That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!”
I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.”
Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes. I still have fifty pages to read for my econ course, and a marketing plan to outline, but am I doing either of those things? Nope.
I reach for my cell and text Grace.
Me: What’s your email address?
She answers almost instantly: [email protected]
Me: Incoming.
This time around, she takes her sweet time messaging back. Forty-five minutes to be exact. I’m thirty pages into my reading assignment when my phone buzzes.
Her: Don’t quit your day job, Emily Dickinson.
Me: Hey, u didn’t say it had to be GOOD.
Her: Touché. D- on the poem. Can’t wait to see your collage.
Me: How do u feel about glitter? And dick pics?
Her: If there’s a pic of your dick on that collage, I’m photocopying it and passing it around in the student center.
Me: Bad idea. You’ll give all the other dudes an inferiority complex.
Her: Or an ego boost.
Smiling, I quickly type another message: I’m getting that date, gorgeous.
There’s a long delay, then: Good luck with #6.
She’s trying to get in my head. Ha. Well, good fucking luck with that. Grace Ivers has underestimated both my tenacity and my resourcefulness.
But she’ll find that out soon enough.
*
Grace
I’m laughing to myself as I sit at my desk rereading the God-awful poem Logan emailed me. His similes crack me up—mostly car or hockey comparisons—and his rhyme scheme is all over the place. Is it ABAB? No, there’s a third rhyme in there. ABACB?
God, this is epic-level bad.
And yet my heart won’t quit doing happy dolphin flips.
“What’s so funny?” Daisy waltzes into our room, back from the one-hour show she hosts at the station. She’s in ripped jeans, a teeny tank top, and her trademark Docs, but her bangs are now purple. She must have dyed them when I was in class today, because they were still pink when I left this morning.
“Love the purple,” I tell her.
“Thanks. Now show me what you’re giggling about.” She comes up behind me and peers at the screen. “Is it that baby koala video Morris forwarded everyone earlier? Because that was so adorab—Ode to Grace?” she squawks in dismay. “Oh God. Do I even want to know?”
I suppose a better person would have minimized the window before she could read Logan’s poem, but I leave it up. It’s too hilarious not to.
Her laughter reverberates through the room as she scans the poem. “Oh wow. This is a disaster. Points for the hockey references, though.” Daisy lifts a strand of my hair and scrutinizes it. “Hey, it kinda is the same shade as those Bruins throwback jerseys from the sixties.”
I gape at her. “How on earth do you know what those look like?”
“My brother has one.” She grins. “I used to go to all his high school games, which turned me into a reluctant fan. He plays for North Dakota now. I’m surprised my parents haven’t disowned us both—we pretty much rejected everything about the South a
nd moved north the first chance we got.” Her gaze shifts back to the screen. “So you have a secret admirer?”
“Admirer, yes. Secret, no. You know that guy I was telling you about? Logan?”
“The hockey player?”
I nod. “I’m making him jump through a few hoops before I go out with him.”
Daisy looks intrigued. “What kind of hoops?”
“Well, this poem, for one. And…” I shrug, then grab my phone and pull up the text I sent him last night, the one that contains the most absurd list I’ve ever written.
She takes the phone. By the time she’s done reading, she’s laughing even harder. “Oh my God. This is insane. Blue roses? Do those even exist?”
I snicker. “Not in nature. And not at the flower shop in Hastings. But he might be able to order some from Boston.”
“You’re an evil, evil woman,” she accuses, a wide grin stretching her mouth. “I love it. How many has he done so far?”
“Just the poem.”
“I can’t believe he’s going along with this.” She flops on her bed, then wrinkles her forehead and stares at the mattress. “Did you make my bed?”
“Yes,” I say sheepishly, but she doesn’t seem pissed. I’d already warned her that my OCD might rear its incredibly tidy head every now and then, and so far she hasn’t batted an eye when it happens. The only items on her don’t-touch-or-I’ll-fuck-you-up list are her shoes and her iTunes music library.
“Wait, but you didn’t fold my laundry?” She mock gasps. “What the hell, Grace? I thought we were friends.”
I stick out my tongue. “I’m not your maid. Fold your own damn laundry.”
Daisy’s eyes gleam. “So you’re telling me you can look at that basket overflowing with fresh-from-the-dryer clothes—” she gestures to the basket in question “—and you aren’t the teensiest bit tempted to fold them? All those shirts…forming wrinkles as we speak. Lonely socks…longing for their pairs—”
“Let’s fold your laundry,” I blurt out.
A gale of laughter overtakes her small body. “That’s what I thought.”
24