The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(89)

I push aside the fearful notion as I ring the bell. Grace’s dad answers the door, a frown puckering his mouth when he sees me.

“Hi.” My voice is hoarse, lined with regret. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to dinner, sir. I would’ve called, but my phone died and I…” No. No way am I telling him what I was forced to endure tonight. “Anyway, I’m here to take Grace back to campus.”

“She already left,” Mr. Ivers says ruefully. “Ramona’s mother drove them back.”

Disappointment crashes into me. “Oh.”

“Gracie waited as long as she could for you…” Another frown, a clear rebuke. “But she needed to go home and study.”

Shame funnels down my throat. Of course she waited. And of course she left.

“Ah…okay.” I swallow. “I guess I’ll head home then.”

Before I can go, Mr. Ivers asks, “What’s going on, John?”

The ache in my chest gets worse. “Nothing. It’s nothing, sir. I, uh…had a family emergency.”

He looks concerned. “Is everything all right?”

I nod.

Then I shake my head.

Then I nod again.

Christ, make up your fucking mind.

“Everything’s fine,” I lie.

“No, it’s not. You’re white as a sheet. And you look exhausted.” He softens his tone. “Tell me what’s wrong, son. Maybe I can help.”

My face collapses. Oh shit. Oh fuck, why’d he have to call me son? The sting in my eyes is unbearable. My throat squeezes shut.

I need to get out of here.

“Why don’t you come in?” he urges. “We’ll sit down. I’ll make some coffee.” A wry smile lifts his lips. “I’d offer you something stronger, but you’re still a minor, and I have a strict rule about giving alcohol to—”

I lose it.

I just. Fucking. Lose it.

Yup, I bawl like an honest-to-God baby, right there in front of Grace’s father.

He freezes.

Only for a moment, and then he springs forward and puts his arms around me. He traps me in a hug I can’t escape from, a solid wall of comfort I find myself sagging into. I’m so goddamn embarrassed, but I can’t fight the tears anymore. I held them back in Munsen, but the panic is back, and so is the fear, and Grace’s father called me son, and holy hell, I’m a mess.

I’m a total fucking mess.





33




Grace


The moment I finish writing my Abnormal Psychology midterm, I race out of the lecture hall like I’m trying to outrun a forest fire.

My father is not the kind of man who overreacts or dabbles in melodrama. He’s incredibly levelheaded and annoyingly straightforward, but he has the infuriating tendency to downplay a crisis instead of admitting when shit has hit the fan. So when he phoned me this morning and casually suggested that I should check in on my boyfriend today, I immediately knew something was wrong.

Actually, I knew it even before the phone call. The apologetic text Logan sent me last night had triggered my concern, but when I’d pushed him, he insisted that everything was okay, claiming he had to stay with his dad longer than he’d anticipated. He’d also made sure to reiterate that he was truly sorry for not making it to dinner or being able to drive me home.

I went to bed unable to fight the gnawing suspicion that something bad had happened, and now, combined with the vague heads up from my father, I’m certain of it. Which is why I opt to cab it to Logan’s house instead of walking or taking the bus. I want to see him as soon as possible, before the crushing worry I’m feeling starts flashing worst-case scenarios in my head.

As I settle in the backseat of the taxi, I pull out my phone and text Logan.

Me: I’m on my way to your place.

Nearly a minute goes by before he responds with: Don’t know if that’s a good idea, babe. I’m in a lousy mood.

Me: Fine. Then I’ll cheer u up.

Him: Not sure if u can.

Me: Still gonna try.

I tuck my cell away and bite my lip, wishing I knew what was going on with him. Obviously it has something to do with his visit home last night, but what the hell had happened?

A burst of anger goes off inside me. I’m running out of sympathy for Logan’s father. I really am, and it’s making me question how good of a therapist I’m going to be. Granted, I don’t plan on specializing in addiction issues, but what does it say about me that I can’t feel any compassion for Logan’s alcoholic father?

Fuck, and now is not the time to be second-guessing my career path. I’m only equipped to deal with one crisis at a time.

The cab driver has to stop at the curb in front of Logan’s house because the driveway is full. Logan’s pickup and Garrett’s Jeep are side-by-side, with Dean’s sporty something-or-other and Hannah’s borrowed Toyota behind them.

When I ring the bell, it isn’t Logan who lets me in, but Tucker. A groove of dismay digs into his forehead as he closes the door behind me.

“Are you guys in a fight or something?” he asks in a low voice.

“No.” I suddenly feel cold. “Did he say we were?”

“No, but he’s been rude and bitchy all morning. Dean thought maybe the two of you were fighting.”