Undecided (18 page)

It’s
Kellan.

“Oh my
God,” Crosbie mumbles into my hair. “
Whyyy?
”

More
knocking. “Crosbie? Are you in there? Are you okay? Where’s the manager? I need
a key.”

Crosbie
backs away, takes a deep breath and looks at me, adorably exasperated. “Hide in
the stall,” he says with a sigh. “I’ll get him out of here.”

I can’t
help but laugh, covering my mouth so Kellan, who’s probably got his ear glued
to the door in a misguided show of friendship, doesn’t hear. “He’s your number
one fan.”

Crosbie
rolls his eyes and pushes me toward the stall. “He’s my number one cock
blocker.”

I shuffle
into the stall and twist the lock. A second later I hear Crosbie pull open the
door to the bathroom, the outside noise rushing in along with his best friend.

“Dude!”
Kellan exclaims. “Are you okay? I’ve been knocking.”

“Sorry,”
Crosbie answers. “I didn’t hear. How was the show? Did everyone think it was
stupid?”

“No way.
It was awesome. How’d you bend that quarter?”

“I told
you. Mind meld. Let’s get back out there.”

“Why was
the door locked? There’s someone in that stall, man.”

“Is
there? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You
probably freaked him out!”

The
accusation fades as Crosbie hustles him away. I count to twenty and hurry out
of the men’s room, lucky not to encounter anyone coming in. The show lasts
another half hour and though Crosbie’s sitting with the track team in row two,
we’re so swamped with last minute food and drink orders that we don’t get
another chance to talk.

The open
mic wraps up at ten-thirty and once everybody’s gone, it takes another
forty-five minutes for us to get the shop restored. We refold a hundred folding
chairs, mop a thousand muddy footprints from the floor, and drag tables and art
displays back into place. Celestia sits in the corner reading a book, and
Marcela’s only slightly more helpful as she works with one hand while texting
constantly with the other.

“We’re
going out,” she announces at one point.

Everyone
looks at her. “You’re all welcome,” she says after a second, but points to me.
“But you’re definitely coming.”

“Coming
where?”

“Marvin’s.”
She names the popular nearby pub. “That’s where Kellan and the other track guys
are, celebrating Crosbie’s big night. He wants us to join them.”

She’s
obviously expecting me to turn her down, and though I’m tired, I really want to
see Crosbie. I’ll just be mindful of keeping my clothes on, enforcing a two-drink
maximum, and steering clear of any camera phones so Dean Ripley doesn’t wind up
with a digital track record of tonight’s festivities to show my dad.

“Sure,” I
say with a shrug that’s far more casual than I feel. “I can come for a bit.” As
soon as I agree my phone buzzes with a text from Kellan bearing the same
instructions.

Be
there soon
, I type back.

He
responds with a smiley face, and fifteen minutes later he’s beaming at me in
person and pressing a bottle of beer into my hand. “We’re going to party,
Nora!” he sings. “And it’s going to be so fun!”

I glance
around at the sea of blue and orange Burnham athletics jackets. The crowd is so
thick I can barely tell them apart, never mind find Crosbie in the throng.

“Is he
here?” Kellan whispers, dipping his head so his lips brush my ear. “Who is it?
You can tell me.” He looks at the bartender, a guy in his late twenties with
five facial piercings. “
That
guy? Interesting.”

“Wrong,”
I reply. “As always.”

“I’ll
figure it out soon enough.”

“I’ll
bet.”

His
attention is stolen by something over my shoulder, and I don’t need to look to
know it’s Marcela. She’s stripped off the sweater she wore at the shop to
reveal a sheer black camisole with lace trim and twisted her bleached hair into
a sloppy bun on top of her head. Add a fresh coat of red lipstick and she looks
like every guy’s fantasy of a naughty librarian.

Nate’s
fantasy, in particular, never mind the fact that his date is also blond and has
an actual book in her hand. He looks agitated as he watches Kellan and Marcela
hug and kiss chastely on the lips, though to be honest, the gesture looks more
like estranged cousins coming together at a funeral. For two people I know to
have fairly extensive sexual track records, their libidos really don’t seem to
be very much in sync.

“Hey,”
comes a breathless voice from over my shoulder.

I turn
around to see Crosbie holding two bottles of the beer we’d had on Halloween.
He’s unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a tight wife beater underneath, and I want
so badly to run my hands under that shirt, feel the contrast of smooth warm
skin and hard muscle and know that it’s mine to explore. But I can’t.

“Hey.” I
return the smile even as his falters when he sees the beer in my hand.
“Kellan,” I explain. “He just gave it to me.”

“Crosbie!”
Two guys from the track team approach, arms slung around each other’s
shoulders. “We figured it out, the way you tore that card in half and then
repaired it.” A dramatic pause. “You had
another
card somewhere.”

Crosbie
shakes his head. “A good magician never reveals his secrets.”

The guys
nod in unison, though they’re obviously disappointed. “Right, man. You have a
code. That’s cool.”

The pair
leaves, but before Crosbie and I can speak, Marcela and Kellan take their
place. “Let’s dance!” Marcela exclaims, bouncing on her toes to eye the
writhing dance floor that makes up half the pub.

“C’mon!”
Kellan grips Crosbie’s wrist. “You remember Miss Maryland from Halloween? She’s
here and she still wants to meet you. Don’t blow this!”

Crosbie
shoots me a helpless look before Kellan steals both bottles of beer and sticks
them in my free hand. “For safe keeping!” he shouts, then the trio disappears
into the crowd.

I watch
them go, chastising myself for feeling disappointed.
I’m
the one who
wants to keep Crosbie and me a secret.
I’m
the one making it so we can’t
hold each other’s hands and drag each other onto the dance floor. I’m also the
one standing here alone, feeling like an idiot.

“I’ve
heard of double fisting,” says a voice from over my shoulder, “but triple
fisting? I guess you’re on a mission.”

I glance
up to see Max—the Walking Douche—grinning down at me. He’s already got a drink
of his own and I hold up my three. “Think you can keep up?”
He laughs. “With you? I’m not sure.”

“Were you
at the coffee shop? I didn’t see you.”

“I was,”
he says. “It was great. I didn’t know you worked there.”

“Yeah, a
few nights a week. I—”

The song
changes to something fast and popular, and everyone cheers, crowding onto the
floor. “Come on,” Max says, clinking one of my bottles with his. “Drink up and
let’s dance.”

What am I
going to do? Insist on lingering on the perimeter and safeguarding the drinks?
“Sounds good,” I say. I down half a bottle, then stick the trio on a nearby
table and let Max lead me onto the dance floor. It’s been far too long since
I’ve just let go, and it’s fun. It’s not hard to gravitate toward the track
team since half of them are still wearing their jackets, and soon we’re part of
a big, writhing circle of bodies, all moving to the same up tempo beat.

I didn’t
have anything to change into so I’m still in my skinny jeans and long-sleeve
top from work. I feel sweat beading along my nape and gathering in the small of
my back, but I don’t stop, not when one song turns into two which turns into
five. Because even though Max is beside me, his hand occasionally grazing my
hip or my shoulder, it’s Crosbie I’m watching, and he’s watching me. On the
opposite side of the circle, Miss Maryland doing her best to steal his focus,
he’s dancing too. This is as near as we can get, thanks to my whole
secretiveness kick, the reasons for which I’m having a lot of trouble
remembering at the moment. Because he looks so hot, six feet away, his eyes
searing me all over, stopping on parts of my body that so desperately want to
feel more than his gaze.

But this
is as close as we come for the rest of the night, just two casual acquaintances
in a group that gradually dwindles until it’s one o’clock and time for last
call. Soon the four of us—Kellan, Crosbie, Marcela and I—are huddled on the
sidewalk, shivering in the cold as Kellan confirms that everybody’s okay to
drive.

Crosbie
looks at me in frustration, but there’s not a whole lot we can do about it.
Kellan and I live together—it would be weird if I insisted on getting a ride
with someone else. We all hug goodnight, and Crosbie squeezes my hip harder
than necessary, a promise or a warning or something in between. I shoot him an
apologetic look he returns with a look of his own, one that clearly says, “It
doesn’t have to be this way.”

But if I
invite him over I’m breaking my promise to Kellan, and if I go to the frat
house I’m a Crosbabe. There’s a clear lesser-of-two-evils option here, but I’m
not ready to pick it.

“Bye,
guys.” Kellan and I wave and trudge down the slippery sidewalk to his car,
parked a block over.

“Do you
want me to drive?” I offer when we round the corner. “I only had one drink.”

“Nah,” he
says. “I’m good. I didn’t have anything.”

I look up
at him in surprise, belatedly realizing I never saw him drink anything other
than water the whole night. “Why not?”

He
shrugs, leaving his shoulders hunched up to ward against the cold. “Just not in
the mood.”

I think
about his strangely asexual relationship with Marcela. Just how many things is
he not “in the mood” for? I wonder but don’t dare ask, not sure what I’d do
with the answer.

Ten
minutes later we’re back in our apartment, still shivering as we head into our
separate rooms to get ready for bed. I’m finally tucked in and reaching up to
turn off the light when my phone buzzes. Even as I reach for it, I know who it
is. What I can’t predict is what he’ll say.

I tap the
message and stare at the three little words that fill the screen.

I miss
you.

The next afternoon I return home from the library, shivering from the
below freezing weather outside. Kellan’s normally never around at this hour, so
it’s a surprise to find him lying on the couch with a damp face cloth covering
his eyes, a notebook clutched to his chest. If you picture a male model trying
to look both stressed and reflective and doing a terrible job of both, Kellan
is exactly that guy. Except he’s utterly sincere.

I unwind
my thick wool scarf and hang it and my jacket on the back of one of the dining
chairs before dropping my backpack and heading into the living room.

“Hey,” I
say softly. “Are you sick?”

He’s
completely still for a moment, then slowly shakes his head.

“Are
you…pondering something?”

His lips
quirk and he shakes his head again. He doesn’t move much, but I notice his
fingers tightening their grip on the notebook as though there’s any reason I
might be tempted to steal it.

“Do you
want to be left alone?”

A longer
pause, then another head shake. Eventually he reaches up to remove the cloth.
His eyes are slightly red, otherwise he looks fine, as always.

I perch
on the edge of the coffee table. “What’s going on?”

He
inhales heavily and tries to meet my eye but can’t, so instead focuses on the
ceiling. “Have you ever…” He trails off, inhales again, and reattempts. “Have
you ever thought about your life and realized you were just really stupid?”

I flash
back to the whole of last year. “Yes.”

He looks
surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah.
Why do you think I’m spending all this time at the library? Studying my ass
off? Choosing to spend Friday night at home instead of out with friends?”

“I
thought you didn’t have any friends.”

I punch
his knee. “Ass.”

He grins
and slowly sits up. “I just thought you were a bookworm. Not that that’s a bad
thing,” he’s quick to add. “That’s why I asked you to move in. So your good
behavior would rub off on me.” He winces briefly, then tries to hide it.

“And did
it?” I ask. “Are you failing a class? Is that what this is about?” I nod at the
notebook and he clenches it more tightly.

“Not
exactly.”

“Then
what?”

“Were you
happy?”

“When?
Last year?” I shrug. “Yeah. I had a good time.”

But he’s
shaking his head. “No, this year. When you were ‘being good.’ Before you met
this mystery guy. Were you happy not…doing things?”

I feel
like a contestant on one of those game shows where you have to match up the
pictures to slowly reveal a riddle underneath. I’m turning over panels but none
of the clues are making sense. Not sleeping with Marcela. Not drinking last night.
Protecting that notebook. Still, I play along and furrow my brow, recalling the
Crosbie-free days between moving in and Halloween night. “I was happy,” I
answer, trying to be honest. “But I was also bored.”

He
swallows and nods, like he’s trying to convince himself. “There are worse
things, right? Than being bored?”

“Of
course there are. Kellan, what’s going on?”

He groans
and runs a hand through his hair. “Nora, I fucked up.”

“Is it
your grades?”

“No.”

“Marcela?”

“What?
No.”

I rack my
brain. “Problems with the track team?”

“No.”

“Kellan,
I’m really not—”

“Don’t
judge me,” he interrupts. “Please.” He looks so legitimately panicked that
I
start to panic. Kellan’s living the college dream: every girl wants him, every
guy wants to be him. If something’s wrong in his world, we’re all screwed.

“I
won’t,” I promise, hoping it’s true.

“I have…”
He takes a deep breath. “I mean, I don’t have, but I
did
have… I
had
…gonorrhea.”
He looks like he’s about to pass out.

“You have
an STI?” I echo, startled.

“
Had
,”
he’s quick to clarify. “I started feeling weird so I went to the doctor and got
some antibiotics and now it’s gone. I had it. Now I don’t.” His eyes are so
wide, his words so rushed, he could easily be talking about a government
conspiracy while wearing a tin foil hat.

Slowly
more puzzle pieces turn over, the unexpected mystery becoming clear. “That’s
why you and Marcela aren’t…”

He waves
a hand vaguely, as though that’s only part of the issue. “Eh.”

“And why
you didn’t drink last night?”

A nod.

“Does
Crosbie know?”

He
pinches his brow. “No. At first I was embarrassed and then he was so anxious
about the open mic night that I didn’t want to add to his problems.”

“So
what’s the notebook for?”

He sighs
and stares at it. “It’s a list.”

“Of?” I’m
wondering how many STIs he may have had.

“Girls,”
he answers, putting an end to that theory. “The doctor said symptoms normally
show up within a few weeks, but sometimes they can take months. And since I’ve
had a few…partners, I don’t know where or when I got it. I’m supposed to
contact every girl I’ve been with and let them know they need to get tested.”

I think
about the very lengthy lists on the bathroom walls in the Student Union
building. “That’s awkward.”

He turns
the notebook around so I can see. The list is two columns long and there are
approximately fifty names. And four blank spaces.

Now I’m
the one who needs a hot compress.

“A few
months,” I say, trying to sound casual. “You’ve been with all those girls since
September?”

“I’m
going back to January,” he says soberly. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“Don’t
you think that’s a little excessive?” I’m desperately trying not to sound,
well, desperate. Because even though we’d used a condom during our poorly
thought-out closet session, my name—or rather, my
blank space
—is on that
list. I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything, but I’m most definitely feverish.
And nauseous. What are the symptoms of gonorrhea?

“Nora?”

I blink
and realize he’s said my name a few times.

“Sorry.”
I shake my head. “I’m just…glad you’re okay.”

“Me too.
Though I’m going to have a lot of awkward phone calls to make. And some intense
Facebook stalking. I mean, I don’t even remember a lot of these girls. That’s
terrible, isn’t it?”

Speaking
from experience, it certainly is. Until it works in your favor. I squint at the
list and realize some of the entries aren’t names at all, but notes.
Kitchen
at Beta Theta Pi house party. Pool at community center. Redhead from science
lab.

Kellan
rubs his hands over his face and stares at me beseechingly. “When the doctor
asked how many girls I’d been with and I took a minute to count, he gave me a
look
.”

“A look?”

“Yeah. A
disapproving
look
.” He gives me just such a look now, as an example.
It’s mostly funny, but also disapproving.

“Ooh.”

“He was
shaming
me!”

I try not to laugh. I mean, he’s free to do
whatever and whomever he pleases, but that list isn’t exactly bolstering his
self-righteous case at the moment. Instead of responding I slump onto the
floor, wrapping my arms around my bent legs. I’m feeling too many things right
now. I’m surprised Kellan confided in me; not surprised he caught something
over the course of fifty-plus random hookups. I’m worried I might have
something; relieved he’ll never be able to figure out I’m one of those blank
spaces. Nervous he might try to figure it out; confident he never will.

“I’m glad
you told me,” I say, when I realize he’s waiting for me to say something. “And
you have nothing to be ashamed of.” I’m not a great actress and it takes everything
I have to utter those words with a straight face. “If there’s anything I can do
to help, just let me know.”

“Don’t
tell anyone,” he says quickly. “That’s the only thing. I’m going to work on
figuring out how to find these girls, then…it’ll be over.”

“Over,” I
repeat. “Excellent.” I don’t point out that somehow, over the course of
fifty-plus notifications, the likelihood of this secret slipping out grows
exponentially.

The
confession seems to have lifted a serious weight from his shoulders because he
finally grins at me, a big, unburdened smile. “Thanks, Nora,” he says. “I’m
glad you’re here. Too bad we didn’t meet sooner, huh? Maybe then I wouldn’t be
in this mess.”

* * *

I normally work on Tuesday afternoons, but I have an archaeology paper
due on Friday so I’d booked the day off to give myself time to prepare. Instead
of heading straight home after my morning class, however, I bike over to the
student health center for a hastily-made appointment. Even though I know that
the odds of having an STI are slim—I’ve been with six guys and always used
condoms—I’m still shaking when I pee in a cup and hand it to a nurse who
promises to call with the results in a few days.

By the
time I get home I’m only slightly calmer than I was, and the last thing I want
to find is Kellan and Crosbie huddled at the dining table poring over Kellan’s
sex-partner notebook. Fuck. Another thing I shouldn’t really worry about, but
most definitely will. Because with the exception of a positive test result, the
last thing I want is for Crosbie to help Kellan cross names off his long list
of sexcapades, knowing that mine is supposed to be on there.

“Still
working on that, huh?” I hope I sound casual and not shrill as I dump my things
in my room before joining them at the table. I’d overheard Kellan calling
Crosbie last night and correctly assumed he’d told him everything, and now here
he is, like a good best friend, comparing the names/descriptions Kellan had
jotted down with something on his phone. “What are you doing, exactly?”

Kellan
and I are at either end of the table, Crosbie seated in between, and now he
turns his phone so I can see the display: it’s a close up shot of the bathroom
wall in the Student Union building. Kellan’s list.

I try to
keep my expression neutral, but Crosbie’s watching me, no doubt waiting for
some sort of Crosbabe rant. Instead I say, “Have you made any calls?”

Kellan
nods. “It went about as uncomfortably as you’d expect.”

“He’s
working his way back,” Crosbie explains. “Starting with the most recent girls
and asking them to call if they get a positive result.”

“I use
condoms,” Kellan interrupts. “I swear. So however this happened, it wasn’t like
I was spreading it around after.”

I nod
like I’m in total agreement. When I’d gone for the test the nurse asked if I’d
had either oral or anal sex with the infected person, since that would require
a swab. Kellan and I had done neither, but since I’d witnessed him getting a
condom-free blowjob—forty-five minutes after we’d screwed in a closet—I know
there’s one opportunity for him to have picked it up. And if it happened once,
it could have happened twice. Or—I squint at the notebook—sixty-two times.
Well, sixty-one, since I can eliminate myself from the possible oral gonorrhea
givers.

I frown
and pick up the notebook. The bathroom wall gives actual names, since it’s not
Kellan who updates it. Kellan’s notes, however, are quite different. There are
entries like:
starts with a C or K, blonde in blue dress, hostess from that
tapas place, girl from bus stop,
and
girl who looked like Kate
Middleton.

“Did you
never ask them their names?” I ask. “Even once?” It’s not much of a consolation
prize, but at least I’m not the only nameless entity in this mess. Though I
don’t appear to warrant much of a description, either.

“Hey,”
Crosbie says, shooting me a sharp look when Kellan winces. “No judgment.”

I roll my
eyes. He’s on that bathroom wall too, and we all know it. It’s not only
Kellan’s honor he’s trying to defend.

“No
judgment,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “It would just make things
a bit…easier.”

Kellan
sighs. “I know. Lesson learned.”

I tap the
top of the list. “So these are the most recent girls?” There are about ten
candidates spanning October and November.

“Yeah. I
spoke with three of them today, since they’re in my science lab and we have a
class contact list.” Oh dear. “And these two work at that bar near the library,
so I can probably find them pretty easily. This one—” He points to number six,
known as
Pink shorts with stripe
. “She runs the same route as me on
Thursdays, so I can talk to her then. Number seven is Dane’s sister, and eight
is his cousin—”

“Dane?”
Crosbie interrupts, looking alarmed. “Dane who lives down the hall from me?
Dane who thinks his sister’s going to become a nun?”