Undecided (32 page)

“Perfect
timing,” I say.

“Just
like I planned.”

“Is this
part of the illusion?”

He smiles
and kisses me. “No. This is real.”

I glare at
Crosbie and plant my hands on my hips. “You went out last night,” I snap.

“So?” He
glares right back. “I can’t see my friends anymore? We get married and all of a
sudden
this
is supposed to be my whole world?”

I gasp.
“As though
this
is so bad? I work hard to make
this
look nice for
you!” I gesture around the stage, decorated to resemble a makeshift living
room. It consists of an old armchair, an unplugged lamp, and a long wooden box
on a raised table.

“I work
hard to pay for all this! Not to mention
that
!” He points at the
enormous fake diamond ring on the fourth finger of my left hand. “I deserve a
little me-time!”

“Trust
me,” I bite out. “You will be getting more than a little me-time. Fine—go out
with your friends. I’m going to bed.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

Crosbie
storms off stage as I make my way around to crawl into the prop box, lying flat
on my back, head sticking out one end, high-heeled feet visible on the opposite
end. I close the top so I’m securely tucked inside, then wiggle my toes and
give an exaggerated yawn before quickly falling fake-asleep.

We’ve
rehearsed this a hundred times, so I don’t need to open my eyes to see Crosbie
sneaking back on stage with a saw. Beans is packed, the shop standing room only
as people piled in for the Valentine’s Day Open Mic performances. As usual,
there’s lots of poetry and singing, but only one magic act. Crosbie did most of
the show alone, but this—the finale—requires an assistant, so here I am.

Getting
sawed in half.

The
audience gasps and snickers as he locks the box then determinedly saws through
the wood, and on cue my eyes fly open. “What are you—” I shriek mid-sentence,
then launch into a very convincing death scene.

“That
oughta do it,” Crosbie announces when the box has been sawed clean through. He
tosses the saw to the ground and separates the halves, showing that I have
indeed been neatly cleaved in two. Though it’s an illusion we’ve all seen
before, the audience applauds uproariously, and it’s all I can do to keep a
straight face as I continue to play dead.

I hear
Crosbie breathing as he rounds the table, checks for a pulse, nods his
satisfaction when he doesn’t find one, and moves the box back together. With
great flair he unlatches the lid and I climb out, unscathed, and we hold hands
and bow, the audience on their feet.

He leans
over to kiss my cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You do
know how to woo a gal.”

We grin
and bow one last time, then quickly move our props to the side for the next
performers. Crosbie clutches my hand as we weave our way through the crowd,
giving thanks and high fives as required, before ducking into the kitchen to
grab two bottles of water and heading down the hall to the back entrance for
some fresh air. Though my portion of the act lasts only six minutes, it was a
nerve-racking six minutes and I’m sweating copiously, despite the fact that my
assistant outfit is only a pair of thin black tights and little black dress
that takes
little
very seriously.

“You were
great,” I say once we’ve caught our breath. “The trick where you throw the
cards and grab the right one out of the air? They were stunned.”

Crosbie
watches me as he downs half his drink in one swallow. “You know they were only
watching you,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve before
gesturing to my ensemble. “Who can blame them? I could barely concentrate.”

I smile.
“I’m proud of you.”

He smiles
back, embarrassed. “Thanks.”

His
nerves haven’t eased much since the last time he performed, but as always, he’s
out there trying, doing his best, working his ass off. And though my
“assistant” role was relegated to the shadows until the finale, I really don’t care
anymore. The spotlight is overrated. Being seen is overrated. If I have to pick
quality or quantity, I’m going with quality every time. Because Crosbie Lucas
is the best boyfriend I never would have guessed I wanted.

“What are
you thinking?” he asks. He polishes off the water and launches the bottle into
the nearby recycling bin for a perfect three-pointer.

“That
you’re a good boyfriend.”

“Oh yeah?
In what ways?”

“Mostly
how you’re so modest.”

“Yeah,
I’m pretty great.”

“And
you’re smart.”

“I’m brilliant,
but close enough.”

I scratch
my chin. “And…you run really fast.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Um…I
guess you’re sort of attractive.”

He makes
a buzzer noise. “Wrong.”

“You have
good taste in girlfriends?”

“Wrong
again. You were doing so well, Nora. When’s your next meeting with the Dean?
I’m going to tell him you’re not progressing as we’d hoped.”

I
snicker. “Leave Dean Ripley out of this.”

A chilly
February wind blows through the alley, making us both shiver. We step back
inside and head up front to check out the rest of the show, stopping abruptly
at the kitchen door. On the other side, lingering behind the coffee counter,
are Nate and Marcela. They’ve been cordial since the Chrisgiving blow up, but
to the best of my knowledge, nothing has actually happened between them. Now,
however, they share a bowl of popcorn, their hands bumping when they reach in
at the same time, glancing at each other for a long moment, then removing their
hands and pretending to watch the show.

Ever so
slowly I see Nate’s canvas sneaker-clad foot slide across the inches separating
their feet, stopping just short of actually touching Marcela’s sparkly gold
boot. After a second she shifts her heel, bumping her foot against his. They
don’t look at each other again, and they don’t move.

“Ooh,”
Crosbie whispers, equally captivated. “Who needs sleight of hand when you have
sleight of foot? Maybe I haven’t given that guy enough credit. Maybe he does
have game, after all.”

We back
away from the door, unwilling to interrupt. “Let’s go out the back,” I suggest.
“Where are you parked?”

“Down the
block.”

Our coats
and my purse are stashed in the storage room, and we snag them quickly and head
out into the alley and around to the street. The plan is to go to Marvin’s when
open mic wraps up, so Nate had given us the okay to store our props here over
night. I worked the first part of the evening but my shift ended when Crosbie’s
performance started, so it’s okay for me to bail early.

“Do you
think they’ll ever get it together?” I ask. “The anticipation is killing me.”

“Of
course they will,” Crosbie replies, reaching for my hand. “Has magic taught you
nothing? What you don’t see is just as important as what you do.”

I think
back to my belated epiphany. How sometimes it’s the things we do when we think
no one is watching that really matter. “You’re right.”

“Of
course I am.”

“Ha ha.”

We reach
his car and he gallantly unlocks the door and gestures for me to climb in.
“Wait. Why are we getting in your car?” I ask. “Aren’t we going to Marvin’s?”

Crosbie
checks his watch. “Show’s not over for another half hour. We’ve got time.”

“For
what?”

“To go
back to your place to bang our brains out.”

“Ooh. Be
still my heart.”

He
laughs. “Just get in.”

I do as
instructed and he closes the door, then rounds the front and climbs into the
driver’s seat. “Give me a hint,” I order. We’d agreed not to do anything
special tonight, so this feels suspiciously like I’ve been fooled.

“Hold
your horses.”

He starts
the car and gives it a second to warm up, but before he can pull out, a car
comes up alongside us, honking maniacally.

Crosbie
groans. “Dammit.”

I can’t
help but laugh as he rolls down the window to see Kellan leaning across the
passenger seat of his car, not one but two girls squeezed into the front.

“Great
show tonight!” he hollers. “You have to tell me how you did that thing with the
glass of water!”

The girls
echo the praise and Crosbie handles it smoothly, perfectly comfortable with the
attention. It didn’t take long for him and Kellan to get back to best friend
status, so I still see Kellan from time to time. Things aren’t weird but
they’re not entirely normal, either, and Kellan seems to have forgotten his vow
to stop messing around. I’m not the person who moved into that apartment in
September, and Crosbie’s not the person I thought I met then, either. But
Kellan is exactly who he appeared to be—no pretenses, no illusions. Maybe he’ll
change, and maybe not. Whatever he’s doing seems to be working for him, and
that’s what matters.

He
invites us to a Valentine’s party at one of the sororities, but Crosbie demurs,
saying we have plans. Kellan gives a lascivious waggle of his eyebrows, wishes
us luck, and speeds off.

“Jealous?”
I ask, when Crosbie exhales and watches them go.

He looks
over. “Of what?”

“Of that.
Of the…variety.”

“Are you
kidding?” He pulls into the road and starts driving back toward Burnham. “I’ve
got Nora the Nerd, Nora the Assistant, Nora the Convict, Nora the Party Animal…
Your multiple personalities provide all the variety I’ll ever need.”

“I don’t
know what I see in you.”

He flexes
his arm, and even in the dim light from the streetlamps it’s obvious he has
very impressive muscles. “It’s probably these guys.”

I squint.
“I can’t see anything.”

A few
minutes later we reach the Frat Farm and find parking a couple houses down from
Alpha Sigma Phi. The place is dark, the guys either at the open mic to support
their friend or at one of the various parties around campus.

“A frat
house,” I whisper, getting out of the car and following Crosbie down the
sidewalk. “How charming!”

He smacks
my ass. “Just you wait.”

He leads
me inside and up the stairs to his room, unlocking the door and trailing me in.
If I was expecting rose petals and mood music, I’d have been sorely disappointed.
It’s exactly the same as it always is, right down to the corner of the
Hustler
sticking out of his pillowcase.

“Here,”
he says, grabbing a pair of my sweatpants from the back of his chair and
tossing them to me. “Put these on.”

I frown.
“I feel like this is going the opposite of how I pictured it.”

“Patience,
grasshopper. I have a point.”

“Let’s
hope so. You know I like to sleep in these pants. You’ve got about five minutes
before I crash.”

He
laughs. “I’ll make it fast. Get changed and I’ll be right back.” He hurries out
of the room and I hear him run down the stairs as I tug on the sweats over my
tights. I hadn’t taken off my jacket and since he hadn’t either, I leave mine
on, wondering what, exactly, the plan is.

I find
out seconds later when he returns with a bouquet of roses. “Ta-da!” he crows,
whipping the flowers out from behind his back.

“Seriously?
We said we weren’t going to do anything!”

“What’s
the point of having all these holidays together—even fake ones—if we don’t
celebrate properly?”

“Thank
you,” I say, accepting the bouquet and inhaling. “They’re beautiful.”

He winks
at me. “You’re beautiful. Now put those down and come on.” He opens the window
and the sweats start to make sense. I set the flowers on the bed and crawl
outside, Crosbie right behind me. There’s a blanket on the roof and we sit in
the middle and curl the sides over our legs. Unlike Halloween, there’s no one
milling around the front lawn, no space between us, no attempt to find each
other a perfect someone else.

“This is
sweet,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder.

“There
are maybe five nights a year this place is quiet,” Crosbie replies. “This is
one of them. Lie back.”

We
recline, his arm around my shoulders, my cheek on his chest. The stars are out
in full force, and for a long minute we just watch them. Not even the February
chill can penetrate our lovely little fog.

“You take
any astronomy courses last year?” Crosbie asks.

“No.
You?”

“No. I
don’t know what the hell we’re looking at.” He fumbles in his jacket for
something. “But I do know this.” He passes me a manila envelope and watches as
I open it, pulling out a piece of heavyweight paper with fancy script printed
across the top. It’s a Star Certificate, complete with coordinates for where
new star
Nora Kincaid
can be found, and stamped with an official gold
seal.

“Crosbie,”
I mumble, touched. “You…”

“I gave
it some thought,” he says, “and I know how desperate you are for attention. Now
you’re a star.”