Undecided (31 page)

Marcela
lives on the third floor of a building that qualifies as “new” in Burnham,
which means it’s about fifteen years old. Her apartment is dated but spacious,
and Crosbie nods his approval as we cross the threshold. “Nice.”

“This is
going to be my room.” I lead him through the kitchen to a short hallway with
bedrooms on opposite sides. He pauses at the door and frowns at the milk
crates, the duffel bag, the mattresses I had nearly died getting here.

“This
again?” he asks, arching a brow in my direction. “Square one?”

“Marcela
has a wrench and a screwdriver,” I inform him. “So…maybe she’ll know how to
reassemble the furniture.”

He smirks
and carefully places the wood slats along the wall, away from the wood pieces
on the other wall that used to be my desk. “Go get these ‘tools,’” he orders,
shrugging out of his jacket. “And this time, pay attention.”

I’m not
about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I whirl around and hustle into the
kitchen to find the wrench and screwdriver in Marcela’s junk drawer. By the
time I get back Crosbie’s got the pieces arranged on the carpeted floor, and
he’s kneeling between them, looking perplexed. “What’d you do with the screws?”
he asks. It takes me a second to answer; he’s wearing a black T-shirt and it’s
straining across his back, his biceps broad and defined.

I shake
my head to clear it of lusty thoughts. “I left them in my car. I’ll go grab
them.” I turn back around and hurry out the door before he can think this
through. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t positively giddy that he’s here. That
he’s…trying.

I reach
the car and snag the plastic bags I’d stashed the screws in, then hesitate as I
study Crosbie’s car. The lock on the driver’s side door is up, and before I can
talk myself out of it, I’m rooting around beneath the passenger seat until I
find the gift I’d hidden there before Chrisgiving. Maybe I’ll give it to him as
a thank-you for building my furniture. He’d given me something, after all. Even
if I had to return it.

I get
back to the apartment and join Crosbie kneeling on the floor in my room,
handing him things as instructed, pretending to pay attention like I’d done the
last time. “How’d your exams go?” he asks, holding a screw between his lips as
he twists another one in.

“Okay, I
think. Better than last year, definitely. You?”

He
shrugs, and his shirt lifts up to reveal a swath of pale skin and his boxers
peeking out from the top of his jeans. “Not too bad.”

“That’s
good.”

“Yeah.
How was your trip home?”

I
hesitate. “Ah…”

He stops
working. “What does that mean? No turkey?”

“There
was turkey. And there was…truth-telling.”

“Truth-telling?”

“Yeah. I
basically made my parents admit they hated each other.”

“Do they?
Did they?”

“Yes and
yes. My dad’s already looking for a new place.”

“No way.”

“Turkey’s
overrated.”

“Or
underrated,” Crosbie counters. “As a truth serum.”

I laugh.
“Fair enough.”

“How
about Nate and Marcela? Are they going at it yet?” He turns his attention back
to connecting the final pieces of the frame.

“I don’t
know,” I muse. “I don’t think so. Marcela said she wasn’t ready to admit she
was in love with him, but she’s not going to pretend not to care, either.”

“Where
does that get them?”

I shrug.
“Marcela’s in Tahiti, so…paradise?”

He smiles
and pushes to his feet, gently kicking the frame to make sure it’s sturdy.
“Grab the other end,” he instructs, picking up the box spring. I do as I’m told
and we wedge it into the frame, following with the top mattress. Crosbie sits
down heavily, bouncing a few times, and it all holds up.

Then he
looks at me.

“You know
what I’m going to say.”

“Happy
New Year?”

“Jump on
the bed, Nora.”

“Remember
what happened last time?”

He gives
me a thorough once-over. “You look like you’ve lost some weight. It should be
okay.”

“I can’t
believe I ever missed you.”

His smile
fades slightly. “Did you?”

“Did I
miss you? Yes, of course. You got a hundred texts.”

“A
hundred and fourteen, but who’s counting?”

“Who,
indeed.” I take a breath when he stands and extends a hand to help me up. I’m
perfectly capable of climbing into bed on my own, but I want to feel him again,
even if it’s just the coarse skin of his fingers against mine, the faint
squeeze before he lets go. I stand in the middle and watch him as he leans
against the far wall, folding his arms across his chest. His biceps bulge, his
forearms look ridiculously strong—he’s so sexy and I feel like such an idiot.

“I’m
not—”

“Jump,”
he interrupts. “We have to make sure it’s safe.”

“I’ll
probably—”

He clears
his throat and raises an eyebrow.

I grimace
and give a tentative push with my toes. The mattress springs squeak, but
nothing terrible happens. I stare at my socked feet and push a little harder
this time, my heels coming off the slippery fabric, skidding a little. I bend
my knees and try a bit more, glancing up warily, as though I’m in any danger of
hitting the ceiling.

I’m not.

I inhale
and tell myself I’m only going to do this once, just one big jump to show
Crosbie that I can, even though by now I think he knows it.

I jump.

Nothing
breaks.

I plant
my feet and wait, fully expecting the mattress to come tumbling down or a
neighbor to pound on the door, but it doesn’t happen. I jump again and the
mattress squeaks, but everything holds firm. I jump again, and again, and
again, and when I look up Crosbie is smiling as he watches, sexy and amused and
somehow knowing.

I brace a
hand against the wall as I stop, the mattress wobbly under my feet, my breath a
little unsteady as I curl a finger in Crosbie’s direction. “Come on,” I say.
“Your turn.”

“I’ve
already had a turn.”

“I just
want to see that you know how to have fun,” I say. “Isn’t that what you said to
me?”

“Did I?”

“Mm hmm.”

“And what
did you say?”

“I was
like, ‘Okay, great idea.’”

He
laughs. “I’ve already built this thing twice. I’m not building it a third time.
Get down here.”

“Why?”

“Because
I said so.” He bends to collect his jacket from the floor, and my stomach
sinks. Oh.

But then
he pulls out the flat red box from his coat pocket and turns to face me,
exhaling carefully. “You know what else I realized?” he asks quietly.

I step
down off the mattress but don’t cross the four feet that separate us. “What?”

“That we
saw each other on Labor Day, Veteran’s Day, Halloween, Chrisgiving, and now New
Year’s. But not Christmas.”

I stare
at the box he must have retrieved from the kitchen. “I know.”

“I got
you this. I put it under your pillow, but then…”

“I know.”

“I
thought a lot about it recently. I mean, fuck, I thought a lot about it since
we met. I was really worried that I was in love with someone who was in love
with someone else.”

“I’m not
in love with Kellan.”

“I know.”

“I—You
do?”

“Yeah. A
hundred and fourteen texts, remember?”

“That
sounds like an awful lot. But if you don’t think it’s stalkerish or creepy,
then okay.”

“You
helped me study,” he says, trailing a finger around the edge of the box. “You
gave me free snacks at the coffee shop. You pretended not to know about that
Hustler
in my pillowcase.”

“What’s
Hustler
?”

“You
acted impressed by my magic tricks.”

“They are
impressive.”

“And you
helped me paint over that bathroom wall. Like the choices I made last year, the
ones I regret, were okay. Because that’s what happens in college. You make
mistakes. And you learn from them.”

I nod,
hopeful and afraid of it.

“Some people
streak down Main Street and get arrested,” Crosbie adds as an afterthought,
“but those are the really messed up ones.”

“You were
doing so well.”

He smiles
and studies the box. “What time is it?”

I check
my watch. “Eleven forty-nine.”

He sighs.
“Do you want to wait eleven minutes for this so it’s really perfect timing?”

I shake
my head fervently. “I don’t want to wait.”

He
extends the box. “Merry Christmas, Nora.”

“Oh, what
is this?”

He
laughs, embarrassed, and steps on my toes, lightly. “Just open it.”

Of course
I already know what it is, but still my breath catches when I lift the lid to
see the dainty gold necklace inside, the tiny book charm, the careful etching
on the front.

“Did you
put it on?” Crosbie asks, hooking a finger under the chain and lifting it out.
“When you found it?”

I shake
my head, unable to speak as he fiddles to open the clasp, then carefully
fastens it around my neck. The gold book dangles into the V-neck of my sweater,
and we both glance down as he strokes his thumb over the letters carved on the
front.

“What do
you think?” he murmurs. “Did I choose right?”

I nod
mutely.

“Did
you?”

Finally
the words do come. “There was never a choice,” I say, reaching up a hand to
touch his face, the hair curled around the bottom of his ear, the tendon in his
neck.

His smile
widens and he dips his head to kiss me, but I push him back. “Hang on a
second.”

He
freezes. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” I
jog out of the room and retrieve his gift from where I’d stashed it behind a
chair in the living room. When I come back he stares at the wrapped box, about
the size of a board game, and slowly accepts it. It’s dented in one corner and
there’s a tear in the paper and part of it’s wet.

“What’s
this?”

“Your
Christmas present. I hid it in your car before everything, but then…”

He
studies me, then looks back at the box, curling his finger beneath the folded
edge of the paper.

“It’s not
as nice as yours,” I say hastily. “And I mean, it’s kind of stupid. I know you
don’t need—”

“Shut
up,” he orders, pulling off the paper and letting it drop to the floor so he’s
holding the box. Large, sparkly letters printed across the top spell out “Magic
Kit” and beneath that in block font reads, “Lovely Assistant! Astounding
Illusions! (Assistant not included.)”

“It’s,
um… It’s all tricks that require an assistant,” I say, suddenly more awkward
than ever. “I thought until you got more comfortable on stage, if you wanted, I
could…assist…you. Or…whatever.” I trail off as he just stares at the box,
turning it over to scan the contents listed on the back. It’s from a weird
little store in Gatsby and the guy at the counter swore it would be
well-received. He’d also tried to sell me what amounted to little more than a
bathing suit and a pair of fishnets as my “assistant outfit,” but I’d declined.

“Thank
you,” he says finally, lifting his head. I’m taken aback by the force of the
emotion in his eyes, the sincerity, the intensity. He’d given me a gold
necklace and I’d given him a
magic kit
and he’s reacting as though that’s
anywhere near the same thing.

Still,
all I say is, “You’re welcome.”

He sets
the box on the mattress behind me and fingers the book charm again, looking at
me. “You still want to be my assistant?”

“If you
still want me.”

“These
will be the only secrets you can keep.”

“I
promise.”

“You’ve
got to take them to your grave.”

“Oh,
absolutely.”

“All
right, Nora. You’re hired.”

I can’t
help but laugh. “Fantastic.”

“And…” He
looks at me seriously and tugs on the necklace. “I love you. In case you can’t
read.”

“Will you
build my desk now?”

“Nora. I
swear to—”

I press
onto my tiptoes so I can kiss him. “I love you, Crosbie. Only you. I’ve never
said that to anyone before, I promise.” Then I tell him something he hasn’t
heard a lot, something he deserves to hear every day. “You’re the first.”

I feel
him smile against my lips, his hand sliding around the back of my neck, fingers
snagging as they slip into my hair. “Same here.”
Outside, the fireworks start before I can
reply. It sounds like a million tiny explosions, the display short but intense,
and through the frosted glass of the window we can make out blurry washes of
reds and greens and yellow rocketing into the sky, unfurling quickly before
sinking away. Lovely, intense, ephemeral.