Gracie Gets Lucky

Chapter 1

Get Lucky

Gracie

Present

“Tonight, I’m going to get lucky,” I announce as I slide into the booth, bumping my hip into Kirsten hard enough that she yelps.

“Rude,” she says, but she scoots over anyway.

She’s my best friend.

Well, best girlfriend.

I have a best friend who’s a guy too.

Or…I did.

Trish leans around Kirsten, squinting at me. “Lucky?” she asks, slurring the word as she sways just a little. We pre-partied back at the apartment Kirsten and I share. The one Trish moved into two months ago and immediately turned into a frat house with pastel throw pillows.

It’s March 17.

St. Patrick’s Day.

Which is why we’re crammed into an Irish pub off Harvard Avenue in Allston, already packed even though it’s barely five and most people haven’t left work yet.

Green beer sloshes onto the floor every time someone bumps a table.

College kids stand shoulder to shoulder, beads tangled in hair, voices raised over aggressive but jaunty Gaelic music.

The kind of place where no one checks IDs too closely and absolutely no one’s parents would ever step foot.

“Hold still,” Kirsten says, swiping her thumb across my cheek. “Your clover’s smudged.”

“Is it?” I pull out my phone and use the camera as a mirror.

She’s right. The glittery green four-leaf clovers we painstakingly drew on our cheeks have blurred at the edges, probably from the heat.

Outside, Boston is buried under snow, sidewalks with a layer of ice so slick and slippery we’d linked hands on the walk over, half laughing, half bracing ourselves so we wouldn’t die dramatically before happy hour.

Inside, it’s hot and loud and sticky, the air thick with cologne, sweat, and bad decisions.

I shake out my hair until the long auburn spirals fall back into place and brush leftover glitter from my fingertips.

“Better?” I ask.

“Hot, Gracie.” Devon grins from across the table, flashing the dimple that has half the campus in a chokehold. “The green matches your eyes.”

My cheeks warm despite myself.

Devon is one of Brandon’s friends.

Brandon. My ex. As of last week.

They play hockey together, which means Devon knows everything. The yelling. The crying. The things Brandon said about me afterward, private things I didn’t realize he’d shared with half the team until the rumors made their way back to me.

Asshole.

For half a second, I consider Devon. Taking him home would be a deeply satisfying screw-you to Brandon. After all, Brandon called me a whore more than once during our final fight.

Might as well lean in.

But no.

That’s not what I want.

I don’t want revenge.

I want quiet. One night where I don’t lie awake replaying conversations, wondering what I did wrong.

Lowering my voice so Devon won’t hear, I lean toward the girls. “I’m having a one-night stand tonight.”

Trish’s eyes widen. Kirsten groans like she’s already tired.

“One of these lucky lads”—I wave vaguely toward the bar, attempt an Irish accent, and fail miserably—“is going home with me.”

A spark of recklessness flares in my chest, bright and dizzy. It doesn’t quite reach the ache Brandon left behind, but it’s…close enough.

“Have you ever done that before?” Trish asks, halfway through a basket of fries.

“Nope,” I say breezily, flipping my hair. “But tonight feels like the right vibe.”

Kirsten snorts. “Gracie’s on the rebound. She always does this. Gets an idea and commits.”

“I do not.”

She gives me the look. The one that says I have lived with you since freshman year, and you cannot bullshit me.

“I’m unlucky in love,” I say, aiming for dramatic, landing somewhere between joke and confession. “I just want something easy,” I add. “Fun. No commitment. No complications.”

Given the number of glazed eyes and unsteady bodies around us, it shouldn’t be hard. Some people have clearly been here since opening, drinking like luck can be swallowed if you try hard enough.

“What about regret?” Kirsten asks.

“That’s a problem for Tomorrow Gracie.” I straighten, lifting my chin like confidence is something I can fake into existence, even as I wonder if I can actually pull this off.

Trish raises her glass. “To Tomorrow Gracie. She seems resilient.”

“To future Gracie,” I say, clinking my glass against hers. “May she not come home with a rash.”

They laugh.

Encouraged, I push on. “After all, it’s the luckiest day of the year. I’m going to pick a random guy, take him home, and bang him.”

The words barely leave my mouth when a voice speaks from right behind me.

“You’re going to what?”

My stomach drops.

I turn slowly.

Beck stands there.

Gracie

Age 5

The teacher is nice. Kind eyes and a soft voice. But that doesn’t stop me from crying when Mommy says she’s leaving and not coming back until later. Mommy promises she’ll be waiting in the pickup line after school, the long one that wraps around the gravel drive and stretches out toward the fields.

I don’t care. I beg Mommy not to go, but she does anyway.

The teacher tries for a long time, at least ten whole minutes, to calm me down. She rubs my back and tells me it’s okay, that today will be fun.

That doesn’t stop my tears. But there’s another kid wailing even louder than I am, and eventually Teacher sighs and stands. There are lots of kids crying today, the first day of kindergarten.

“Beck!” Teacher calls out. She points my way. “Come help this girl.”

“Okay,” someone answers, but my eyes are too blurry to see.

A minute later, a boy stands in front of me. He has shaggy brown hair that needs a trim and warm brown eyes, the color of chocolate milk when Mommy adds an extra spoonful of cocoa powder.

“Hi,” he says softly, like he’s trying not to scare me.

“H—hi,” I stutter, my chest heaving.

“What’s your name?” he asks, eyes bright and curious.

“Gracie Smith,” I say. “I live on the second floor. In an apartment. In Ohio.”

The boy nods like this is very important information, then points to himself. “I live in Ohio too. I’m Oliver Becksworth the Third,” he says, puffing out his tiny chest. “But everyone calls me Beck.”

I blink, my tears slowing. “Why so fancy?”

He shrugs, his narrow shoulders lifting and falling. “It’s my dad’s name. He’s number two, and I’m three. Never met my grandpa. He was number one.”

That seems like too many numbers, so I don’t say anything.

Beck looks down at his shoes, then over at the windows. “He doesn’t live with us anymore,” he adds. “Dad. He went somewhere else.”

My stomach feels funny, like when I swing too high at the park.

“I don’t know mine,” I tell him. I’m not crying anymore.

“Oh,” he says.

We stand there for a second. Not talking. Just being quiet together.

Then his face changes, lighting up like he remembered something important.

“Do you like frogs, Gracie?” He smiles, showing a gap between his front teeth so wide you could stick a dime in it.

“Yeah?” I follow his gaze across the room to something that looks like a fish tank, except it isn’t full of water.

“There’s two over there,” he says. “Frogs. Big ones. Wanna go look?”

I rub my eyes with both fists. They still sting a little.

“Okay,” I tell him.

“Cool!” Beck’s face lights up and he turns to go, but he hesitates. “You won’t be scared? Some kids are. We can do something else.”

I’m already moving.

I breeze past him, excited now, my shoes squeaking on the classroom floor. I grab his sleeve as I pass, tugging him along with me.

“Come on, Beck!” I say. “Let’s go!”

Beck

Present

“Going to bang him.”

Gracie’s words linger in the air like smoke. The choking kind.

She freezes when she sees me. Goes pale. Wide green eyes. Caught.

“Uh…” She clears her throat. Then I watch the switch flip. Chin lifts. Jaw sets. Armor on. “I was just telling the girls I’m on the hunt for a one-night stand tonight. Something casual. You know.”

“What about Brandon?” I ask, genuinely bewildered.

I push my glasses up my nose with one finger.

She scoots over to make room on the bench. I slide in, my hip brushing hers. She doesn’t pull away, which stings because it tells me she doesn’t feel it. That spark that radiates through me every time I touch her.

“Hey, Beck,” Kirsten says. I say hi back.

“Hi! I’m Trish. The new roommate,” chirps a pretty blonde two seats down. I lean over and give her hand a quick shake.

I recognize about half the people at the table. I exchange nods, quick hellos. Devon’s here too, that jerk from my sociology class.

As soon as I’m settled, I turn back to Gracie.

“I thought you were with that hockey player?” I ask. Then, quieter, meant only for her, “I thought he was talking rings. Moving to New York with you after graduation.”

Most people would miss it, the slight waver in her voice, the tiny quiver of her chin.

I don’t.

“He was,” she says. Her mouth twists like she’s tasting something bitter. “Until he wasn’t.” She swallows. “He dumped me. Last week. It was…messy.”

Probably ugly too. She doesn’t say, but it’s there.

Something hot and violent sparks in my chest. Brandon’s face flashes through my mind. How easily my fists could fix him.

“That sucks,” I say, because that’s what you say when you’re trying not to confess you’d happily ruin someone’s life for her.

She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. It really does.”

I’m thinking of it again. My fist. Brandon’s face. Blood on the floor.

But that’s a fantasy. Not really who I am. I’m not a fighter. At least not with my hands.

With words, yes.

With my mind, sure.

Those aren’t much help to Gracie right now.

Her shoulders tense, like she’s bracing for the lecture she’s sure is coming. For me to tell her she deserves better, or that Brandon’s an idiot, or that a one-night stand won’t fix anything.

I don’t.

I’ve learned the hard way that Gracie Smith doesn’t want to be fixed. She wants to be seen.

Across the table, someone shouts for another round. Glasses clink. The music surges. I stand so a couple farther down the bench can squeeze past.

“Dance floor’s calling,” they tell us.

Gracie smiles. The fake one. Too bright. “We’ll join later.”

I watch them weave toward the dance floor, which is already packed, couples pressed tight, groups of friends clustered in loose circles. They’re laughing. Drinking. Hands are thrown in the air and hips sway.

From here, it looks like everyone is having the night of their lives.

I know better. One look at Gracie reminds me how easy it is to feel alone in a room full of people.

Gracie

Present

“So,” Beck says, glancing at the green beer clenched in my hand. “One-night stand, huh?”

“Correct.” I lift my chin, daring him to judge me. There was a time, when we were teenagers, when we fought a lot about my decisions. Old habits die hard.

“With a stranger,” he adds, like he needs to confirm.

“Preferably.”

“On St. Patrick’s Day.”

“The luckiest day of the year,” I say solemnly.

He hums, considering. “Bold strategy.”

“What?” I narrow my eyes. “You don’t think I can pull?”

Beck’s mouth twitches. “Oh, I think you can pull. I just think you’re aiming to emotionally black out instead of actually have fun.”

There it is.

“I am having fun,” I say immediately.

He doesn’t argue. Just looks at my drink. At my death grip on the glass. “You’re strangling that beer like it owes you money.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “I’m festive. Look.” I gesture at my cheek. “Clover.”

He squints. “It’s a little crooked.”

“It’s abstract.”

“You always say that when something’s wrong.”

“That’s a lie.”

“You said it when you tried to cut your own bangs sophomore year.”

“That was a calculated risk.”

“It ended with bobby pins for six weeks.”

I point at him. “I looked edgy.”

“You looked like you lost a fight with a hedge trimmer.”

Kirsten chokes on her drink. Trish doesn’t even try to hide her grin.

I lean closer to Beck, lowering my voice. “Careful. You’re killing my confidence.”

“Am I?” he asks mildly. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re about two sentences away from announcing your plan to the entire bar like a public service announcement.”

“I would never.”

Right on cue, a guy in a green fedora stumbles past, slurring, “You ladies havin’ fun tonight?”

“Yes,” I say flatly.

“No,” Beck says at the exact same time.

The guy blinks, confused, then wanders off.

I glare at Beck. “What was that?”

“I helped.”

“By scaring him away?”

“By sparing you the need for antibiotics,” he says.

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “You are being deeply unsupportive of my hoe era.”

He tilts his head. “Is this a full era or a limited-time engagement?”

“Seasonal,” I say. “Holiday-themed.”

That earns me a smile from him. Not teasing. Not smug. Just…warm.

Maybe he’s not judging after all. Maybe he’s humoring me. Letting me drag him along like I always do.

“Well,” he says, nudging my knee with his, “if you’re going to pretend this is a good idea, I’d rather be nearby.”

I pause. Look at him. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Someone should probably keep an eye on things.”

I roll my eyes. “And you’re just the guy to do it?”

“Always,” he says lightly, lifting his beer.

I clink my glass against his. “Don’t get too cocky.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”