The Mistake(90)

“Logan?” I blurt out before he can hang up.

“Yeah?”

I take a deep breath. “Don’t throw out the condoms.”





29




Grace


It’s Friday night. Logan and I are tangled up together on his living room couch, about to watch a horror movie he chose off the film channel on his TV. When we got back from dinner at the fish and chips place in Hastings, I figured we’d go upstairs and rip each other’s clothes off. You know, so I could give him my flower, as my mother would say. Instead, he surprised me by suggesting a movie.

I suspect he’s trying not to seem overeager, but the heated glances he keeps casting my way tell me he wants it as much as I do. Still, I’m not against taking it slow. Letting the tension build, the anticipation simmer.

“I can’t believe this is what you chose,” I complain as the opening credits flash on the screen.

“You told me I could pick,” he protests.

“Yeah, because I thought you’d pick something good.” I glare at the television. “I can already tell this is going to make me angry.”

“Wait, angry?” He shoots me a baffled look. “I thought you were bitching because you didn’t want to be scared.”

“Scared? Why would I be scared?”

Laughter bubbles out of his throat. “Because it’s a scary movie. A ghost is killing people in gruesome ways, Grace.”

I roll my eyes. “Horror movies don’t scare me. They piss me off because the characters are always so frickin’ stupid. They make the worst decisions possible, and we’re supposed to feel sorry for them when they die? No way.”

“Maybe these characters will be smart, levelheaded adults who do everything right but still get killed,” he points out.

“There’s a ghost in the house and they choose to stay there. The levelheaded response? Leave.”

He tugs on a strand of my hair, his tone taking on a chastising note. “Just you wait—there’s going to be a good reason for why they can’t leave the house. I’ll bet you five bucks.”

“You’re on.”

We settle in for the movie, Logan on his back, and me snuggled up beside him with my head on his chest. He strokes my hair as the first scene fills the screen. It’s an incredibly un-scary cold open involving a busty blonde, an unseen malevolent force, and a scalding shower. The blonde meets her grisly end by burning alive—the evil spirit, of course, has ghosted the water temperature. Logan tries to give me a high-five after the death scene, which I refuse to reciprocate because I actually feel bad for the girl. Kudos to her—the only decision she makes is to take a shower, and who can fault her for that?

The movie unfolds in the most predictable way. A group of college students conduct paranormal experiments in the ghost house, and then bam—the first one dies.

“Here it comes,” I say gleefully. “The levelheaded reason for why they stay in the house.”

“Watch, the ghost won’t let them leave,” Logan guesses.

He guesses wrong.

On the screen, the characters argue about whether they should go, and one of the girls announces, “We’re doing important work here, guys! We’re proving the existence of paranormal entities! Science needs this. Science needs us.”

I burst out laughing, shuddering against Logan’s rock-hard chest. “Did you hear that, Johnny? Science needs them.”

“I f*cking hate you,” he grumbles.

“Five bucks…” I say in a singsong voice.

His hand slides down to pinch my butt, making me squeak in surprise. “Go ahead and gloat. You win the battle by getting five bucks out of me, but I win the war.”

I sit up. “How do you figure?”

“Because you still have to sit through the rest of this movie, and you’re going to hate every second of it. I, on the other hand, am enjoying it immensely.”

The jerk is absolutely right.

Unless…

As he refocuses his attention on the movie, I nestle close again, only this time I don’t rest my hand on the center of his chest. I plant it lower, mere inches from the waistband of the sweatpants he changed into after dinner. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too engrossed in the movie. Ha. He won’t be for long.

With the utmost nonchalance, I drag my hand to where the hem of his white wife-beater has ridden up slightly. Then I sneak my fingers beneath it and lightly stroke the hard plane of his stomach, and his breath hitches. Fighting a smile, I flatten my palm and stop moving it. After a moment, he relaxes.