Too Good to Be True by Kristan Higgins Page B

Grace,” I said, trying to start over. “I wanted to apologize about…last night. I’m so sorry. And of course, I’m sorry again, for all this. Very sorry.” I glanced down at his feet, which were bare. “I think you’re bleeding. You might’ve stepped in glass.”
    He looked down, then turned an impassive gaze to me. Call me paranoid, but he looked quite disgusted.
    That was all it took. Bruised, bleeding, smelling like a wino, and the pièce de résistance, disgust. I was undeniably attracted to this guy. Heat rose to my cheeks, making me glad for the dim light.
    “Well,” I said slowly. “Listen. I’m really sorry. It looked like you were breaking in…that’s all.”
    “Maybe you should be sober the next time you call the police,” he returned.
    My mouth fell open. “I was! I was sober.” I paused. “Mostly.”
    “Your hair was all wild, you smelled like gin, and you hit me in the face with a walking stick. Does that sound mostly sober to you?”
    Sweat broke out on my back. “It was a field hockey stick, actually, and my hair is always like that. As you can see.”
    He rolled his eyes. Well, the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Apparently that movement hurt, because he winced.
    “It’s just…you looked suspicious, that’s all. I wasn’t drunk. Buzzed, maybe, okay. A tiny bit, yes.” I swallowed. “But it was past midnight, and you definitely didn’t have a key, did you? So…you know. It looked suspicious. That’s all. I’m sorry you spent the night in jail. Very, very sorry.”
    “Fine,” he grunted.
    Okay, well, that wasn’t exactly as nice as my wine-drinking, South American guitar fantasy, but it was something. “So,” I said, determined that we would part on good terms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
    “I didn’t give it,” he said, crossing his arms and staring.
    Sweet. “Okay. Nice meeting you, whatever your name is. Have a good night.” He still said nothing. Very carefully, I put the rake down, forced a smile, walked past the shards of broken glass, past him, painfully aware of my every move. The walk home, though it was only a matter of yards, felt very long. I should’ve cut through the yard, but there was the question of the long, snake-concealing grass.
    He didn’t say another word, and from the corner of my eye, I could see that he hadn’t moved, either. Fine. He wasn’t friendly. I wouldn’t invite him to the neighborhood picnic in June. So there.
    For a second, I imagined telling Andrew about this. Andrew, whose sharp sense of humor had always made me laugh, would’ve howled over this apology gone wrong. But no. Andrew didn’t get to hear my stories anymore. To quash the Andrew image, I instead summoned to mind Wyatt Dunn. Gentle, dark-haired Wyatt, who’d have to possess a lovely sense of humor and kind, kind heart, being a children’s doctor and all.
    Just as had been true in the old days of my painful adolescence, the imaginary boyfriend took away some of the sting imparted by the surly neighbor whose head I’d just bruised for the second time.
    And while I knew all too well that Wyatt Dunn was a fake, I also knew that someday I was going to find someone wonderful. Hopefully. Probably. Someone better than Andrew, possibly better looking than my grouchy neighbor, and just as great as Wyatt, and just thinking about this made me feel a little more chipper.

CHAPTER FOUR
    A NDREW AND I HAD MET at Gettysburg—well, the reenactment of the battle here in fair Connecticut. He was assigned to be a nameless Confederate soldier, instructed to shout, “May God condemn this War of Northern Aggression!” then fall dead in the first cannon barrage. I was Colonel Buford, quiet hero of Gettysburg’s first day, and my dad was General Meade. It was the biggest reenactment in three states, and there were hundreds of us (don’t be so surprised, these things are very popular). That year, I was the secretary of Brother Against Brother, and before the