The Mistake(72)

“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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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?