The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(20)
“I’ve been trying to get with Dean all year,” she laments. “All fucking year and he doesn’t know I exist, and you just hook up with his best friend without even trying.” An oddly vulnerable look softens her features. “I’ve been acting like a total bitch and I’m so sorry. I was insecure and I took it out on you and that wasn’t fair, but please don’t be angry with me. It’s your birthday on Wednesday. I want to celebrate with you, and I want us to be good again, and I—”
I interrupt with a sigh. “We’re good, Ramona.”
“We are?”
The anger that had been flowing so freely through my veins dissipates as I glimpse her hopeful expression. This is the Ramona I invested thirteen years of my life for. The girl who listened to me babble for hours about my high school crushes, who brought my assignments home whenever I was sick, who taught me how to put on makeup, and threatened to kick the ass of anyone who so much as looked at me the wrong way. She might be self-absorbed and shallow at times, but she’s also fiercely loyal and unbelievably kind when she drops that bad girl bitch act.
All the bullshit with Jess and Maya back there still stings, but I can’t bring myself to throw away years’ worth of friendship over something so trivial.
“We’re good,” I assure her. “I promise.”
A brilliant smile fills her face. “Good.” She flings her arms around my waist and bear-hugs the hell out of me. “Now let’s go home so you can tell me every dirty thing John Logan did to you this morning. In explicit detail.”
8
Logan
I drive to Munsen on Wednesday morning, my enthusiasm level sitting firmly on its usual spot on the super-happy-fun-time scale: zero.
It’s rare that I’m forced go home during the school year, but sometimes I have no choice. Usually it happens if the part-time mechanic at my dad’s shop can’t cover for Jeff when he takes Dad to his doctor’s appointments. Today is one of those instances, but I assure myself that I can handle a couple hours of oil changes and tune-ups without losing my mind.
Besides, it’ll be a good warm-up for the summer. I tend to forget how much I hate working in the garage, so on that first day back, it’s like being sent to the front lines of a war zone. My stomach drops and fear pummels into me, as I realize that this will be my life for the next three months. At least if I dip my toes in today, I can get some of the panic out of the way.
Jeff’s van is already gone when I park my pickup in front of Logan and Sons Auto Repair. The name is kind of ironic, seeing as the shop was already called that long before my parents ever had kids. My granddad ran the place before my dad took over, and I guess he’d been hoping to sire a lot of strapping male offspring. He only sired one, though, so technically the place should be called Logan and Son.
The shop consists of one small, brick building, the interior of which only has room for two lifts. But the meager square footage doesn’t really impact the business since it’s not exactly booming. L&S does well enough to cover expenses, my dad’s bills, and the mortgage on our bungalow, which sits at the back of the property. Growing up, I hated that our house was so close to the shop. We used to get woken up in the middle of the night by customers pounding on our door because their car broke down nearby, or by phone calls from the tow truck company saying they were bringing over a vehicle.
Since my dad’s accident, the close proximity has actually become convenient, because it means he can get from home to work in less than a minute.
Not that he spends much time in the garage anymore. Jeff is the one who does all the work, while Dad drinks himself stupid on the living room recliner.
I walk up to the dented metal door, which is shut and locked. A lined piece of paper sticks to it with a jagged strip of duct tape, and I instantly recognize my brother’s handwriting.
YOU’RE LATE.
Two words, all caps. Shit, Jeff was pissed.
I use my set of keys to unlock the side door, then step inside and hit the button that sends the huge mechanical door soaring upward. It’s still cold out, but I always keep the door open, no matter how frigid the weather is. It’s my one requirement for working here. After a while, the overpowering odor of oil and car exhaust makes me want to kill myself.
Jeff has left me a list of tasks, but luckily, it’s not too long. The older model Buick parked on the concrete needs an oil change and a headlight replaced. Easy peasy. I throw on a blue jumpsuit with the L&S logo on the back, turn the radio dial to the first metal station I find, and get right to work.
An hour passes before I take my first break. I chug water from the sink in the office, then pop outside for a quick cigarette.
I’ve just snubbed the butt out beneath my steel-toed boot when the sound of an engine hums in the distance. My chest tightens when I glimpse the front bumper of my brother’s white van slicing through the trees that line the long driveway.
Like a coward, I duck back inside and race to the raised hood of the Buick. I bend over and pretend to give the engine a spot check, while also pretending I’m too focused on my work to notice the car doors slamming and my dad’s harsh voice as he snaps something at my brother. I hear two sets of footsteps, one slow and laborious, leading away from the dirt driveway, the other a fast angry thump as Jeff storms into the garage.
“You couldn’t come over and say hello to him?” my older brother demands irritably.