The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(19)

“So is it true?” Jess demands. “Did you seriously hook up with him?”

I feel uncomfortable discussing Logan with them, but I know these girls, and they won’t let up until I give them something. Trying to appear casual, I twirl some fettuccine around my fork and take a bite. Then I glance at Jess and say, “Yep.”

“That’s it? Yep?” She looks aghast. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“I told you guys, she’s being super hush-hush about it.” Ramona grins. “Obviously we need to remind Grace about the number one rule of friendship. AKA not skimping on details when you made out with the hottest guy on campus.”

I chew my pasta. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Maya speaks up, a mocking note in her voice. “You know, considering the complete lack of details, one might think it didn’t even happen at all.”

One might think?

My head swivels toward Ramona. Unbelievable. Is she spreading that around now? Letting people believe I’m some crazy pathological liar?

Ramona is quick to defend herself against my unspoken accusation. “Hey, we cleared that up, remember? I totally believe that you fooled around with him, babe.”

“Twice.” The confession slips out before I can stop it. Damn it.

Ramona’s jaw falls open. “What you mean twice?”

I shrug. “He came over again this morning.”

That gets me two gasps, followed by two high-pitched squeals—from Jess and Maya. Ramona remains strangely quiet, but when I study her expression, it’s impossible to decipher.

“Oh my God. He did?” Jess exclaims.

“When was this?” Ramona asks.

Her tone is way too polite to not raise my hackles. “Right after you left for class. He didn’t stay long, though.”

Her dark eyes stay shuttered. “Did you at least get his number this time?”

“No,” I admit. “But he has mine now.”

“So you still have no way of reaching him.” It’s not a question. It’s not even a particularly pleasant statement. There’s an edge to her voice, and when I glance across the table, there’s no missing the smirk on Maya’s face.

They don’t believe me.

Ramona can deny it until she’s blue in the face and backpedal until she’s in another state, but my best friend still thinks I’m making it up. And now she’s recruiting our friends into doubting me too.

Our friends?

The scornful voice raises a good point, and as I think it over, I suddenly can’t think of a single person I’ve hung out with this year that Ramona didn’t introduce me to. The one time I invited a few girls from my English Lit class to come over, Ramona laughed and chatted with them all night, told them what a fabulous time she had, and then, after they left, informed me they were boring and that I wasn’t allowed to bring them over when she was around.

Damn it, why do I let her dictate my life like that? I tolerated it in high school because…hell, I don’t even know why I tolerated it. But we’re not in high school anymore. This is college, and I should be able to spend time with whoever I want without worrying about what Ramona will think about them.

“No,” I answer through clenched teeth. “I have no way of reaching him. But don’t worry, I’m sure my imaginary hook-up partner will get in touch with me sooner or later.”

She frowns. “Grace—”

“I’m heading back to the dorm to work on my paper.” My appetite has disappeared. I pick up my half-eaten dinner tray and rise to my feet. “I’ll see you later.”

Maybe I’m naive, but I thought college would be different. I thought all the gossiping and backstabbing and bullshit ceased to exist once you left high school, but I guess mean girls can be found at any level of the education system. It’s like visiting a farm—if you go there not expecting to see piles of cow shit everywhere, then you’re in for a rude awakening. And there’s a good SAT question for you. SCHOOL is to MEAN GIRLS as FARMS are to _______.

Shit. The answer to that is shit.

Ramona catches up to me the moment I burst outside, her heels clicking on the limestone entrance as she hurries toward me.

“Grace, wait.”

My jaw tenses as I turn around. “What now?”

Panic lights her eyes. “Please don’t be pissed at me. I hate it when you’re pissed at me.”

“Gee, I’m so sorry you’re upset, Ramona. What can I do to make you feel better?”

Her bottom lip quivers. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I came out here to apologize.”

For fuck’s sake, if she launches into her whole crocodile-tears act, I might actually lose my shit.

“I’m not having this conversation with you again,” I say in a cold voice. “I don’t care if you think I’m lying. I know I’m not, and that’s all that matters to me, okay? Just know that I find it incredibly insulting that my best friend since I was six years old believes I—”

“I’m jealous,” she blurts out.

I stop talking. “What?”

Her face collapses as our gazes lock. She lowers her voice, then repeats herself. “I’m jealous, all right?”

Hell must have frozen over. There’s no other explanation for what I’m hearing. Because in thirteen years of friendship, Ramona has never admitted to being jealous of me.