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.

“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.