Undecided (7 page)

“I’m sure
you have better things to do.”

“I do,
but I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“You
nailed it.”

“Who
nailed who now?”

We whirl
around to see Kellan standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one dark brow
raised suspiciously. And I suppose an off-kilter bed, scattered pillows and
beddings, and Crosbie’s discarded shirt might suggest someone had gotten
nailed, but…they hadn’t. Unfortunately.

“I bought
a defective bed frame,” I say, pointing to the mangled corner.

“Oh.” He
frowns and comes inside for a better view. “What were you doing to break your
bed?”

It’s so
hard to keep a straight face. “I was jumping on it.”

“You were
jumping on your bed?”

Crosbie
coughs into the crook of his elbow, trying to mask his laughter.

“Yes.”

“I’m
surprised, Nora. That doesn’t seem like you.”

“I
thought it sounded fun.”

“Well,
they might not give you a refund if they know you were just jumping around on
it like that. It’s irresponsible.”

Crosbie
coughs again and hustles out of the room. After a second we hear the tap in the
kitchen sink turn on and I picture him drowning out the noise of his laughter.

“I’ll
just tell them it came that way.”

Kellan
stares at me like he can’t decide if I’m serious or not, then his face relaxes
and he smiles. “They’ll believe you. Who wouldn’t?”

He
returns to the living room and I hear him ask Crosbie what he’s still doing
here.

“I was
cleaning up,” Crosbie replies.

“Why is
your shirt in her room?”

“It’s
not.”

“It’s the
one you were wearing last night.”

“Dude,
then I don’t know how it got in there. You know what I did last night. Nora was
not it.”

Their voices grow muffled as they enter
Kellan’s room, so I hang Crosbie’s shirt on the out-facing doorknob and gently
close the door on their conversation.

I don’t see
Crosbie much in the week after the bed incident. We don’t end up going to Ikea
together, though a couple of days later they do take away the “defective” frame
and swap it out for a new one. The delivery comes when Kellan is home, and he
surprises me by putting it together before I return from class, saying he’s
concerned about my building skills and making me promise not to jump anymore.
Otherwise, he’s not really around all that often. He’s been hanging out at
Alpha Sigma Phi, so Crosbie doesn’t have a reason to turn up, either. I try to
pretend I don’t notice, but I do.

“Earth to
Nora. This is Earth, asking Nora to report to home base.”

“You’re a
huge loser.”

Nate
laughs, unoffended. It’s Tuesday evening, ten days since the bed hopping
debacle, and we’re at the Burnham library near the center of campus. We have
Intro to French together, and have to put together a cheesy dialogue about a
French person teaching an English speaker how to order a cup of coffee.

“How’s
this for a first line?” Nate asks. “
Bonjour
.”

“
Bonjour?
We’ve been here for thirty minutes and you came up with one word?”

“That
word says a lot!”

“It says
you’re going to fail.”

He
snorts. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been doodling ‘Mrs. Kellan McVey’ all over
the assignment worksheet.”

I gasp.
“I have not! I’m brainstorming.”

“Yeah?
What’d you come up with?”

“
Je
veux boire le café
.”
I want to drink coffee.
I think.

“What
does that mean?”

“Are you
even listening to the CDs?” I’ve been putting in close to two hours a week, and
I’m pretty sure I’d be screwed if I unexpectedly wound up in France. Or Québec.

“No.”
Nate shakes his head. “What do they say?”

I laugh
and toss my pen across the table. It bounces off his shoulder and he snickers
and snatches it up. We’re on the fourth floor, which is relatively quiet at
eight o’clock at night, so there’s no one to glare or shush us. It’s this very
silence that makes the low male chuckle filtering through the bookshelves loud
enough to jolt us in our seats.

“Whaaaat?”
Nate mouths, looking delighted.

I’m about
to tell him it’s probably nothing when a female voice joins in the laughter,
ending abruptly on a heated moan.

How
annoying.

I’m
trying to study.

I’m
trying to concentrate.

I’m
trying not to be terribly jealous.

I mean, I
went from high school where I had zero relationships, to college, where the
only way I met guys was when Marcela and I were partying. The combination of a
high volume of alcohol, lowered inhibitions, and Marcela’s expert wingwoman
skills led to a lot of introductions—and a few that went beyond mere
introducing.

But I
haven’t been drunk since the night I got arrested, and I haven’t had sex since
then either, which puts me firmly at the four-month mark of my sexual hiatus
and I have to say…I miss it. Especially when every time I see Kellan he’s
shirtless or sweaty or eating or playing video games—whatever the guy does,
it’s sexy. What’s worse, of course, is knowing that every time I close my eyes,
the guy I picture leaning in to kiss me isn’t Kellan at all.

I know
I’m lonely. And with the exception of Nate, who’s among the legions of men
lusting after Marcela, Crosbie’s the only guy I’ve really talked to or hung out
with in eons. And as weird as it is, I’ve kind of missed him this past week.
I’d gotten used to coming home from work and finding him camped out on the
couch, eyes glazed as he blows up cars and robs banks with Kellan, tearing his
gaze away long enough to spare a smile, switching that intense focus from the
TV to me, just for a second. Which is all it takes to kick my hormones into
gear and wish he’d do so much more.

The moans
are increasing, mostly from the female half of the equation, and they’re
muffled now, like he’s covering her mouth. Nate and I are tucked back in the
corner near the balcony, so unless they’d scoped out the floor or spotted us
from the ground level, they have every reason to think they’re alone.

Nate
scribbles something on a piece of paper.
Ten bucks says it’s Kellan and a
blonde.

That’s kind of like putting your
money on Meryl Streep being nominated for an Oscar.

He writes
again.
Go look.

I swallow
a laugh.
No.
Two emphatic underlines.

Chicken.

I’m
boring now, remember?

I
certainly do. Zzz.

I kick him under the table and he
yelps.

I dare
you,
he writes.
Triple double dog dare you.

“How old
are you?” I hiss.

He leans
in. “Not a hundred and five like you’ve been acting.”

I recoil,
offended. “I have not—”

“You’re
killing yourself. If you’re not going to do anything fun, the least you can do
is spy on the people who are and report back to me.”

“I think
you have some kind of once-removed voyeur fetish.”

He grins.
“Guilty.”

But I
really don’t need any more prompting. You can’t get arrested for accidentally
noticing a couple getting it on in the library. It’ll only take a minute, my
grades won’t suffer. No phone calls to my parents, the Dean, or the police.
What’s the harm?

Plus I’m
so bored.

I inch
back my chair and stand, my sneakers making no sound on the worn old carpet.
The moans increase as I approach the aisle stuffed with books on capitalism,
and I glance over my shoulder at Nate. He gives me the thumbs up as I turn one
aisle before the lovebirds and crouch as I creep along. Halfway down I spot two
pairs of legs—one in denim, one barely covered by a miniskirt—and I ease
closer, their heavy breathing more than masking any noise my approach might
make. Hell, I could topple over a shelf and I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t
interrupt the makeout.

I’m about
twenty books away when the female half of the equation moans, “Oh, Crosbie.”

His low
chuckle, the one I’ve been missing all week, is immediately, terribly,
unwelcome. My skin prickles with nauseating goose bumps and I feel a strange,
achy clench in my chest.

“I got
you,” he murmurs.

Any
fleeting hope I’d held that it was a
different
Crosbie shatters. It’s
him.

And it’s
certainly his reputation.

Somehow,
when I thought it was Kellan, I didn’t really care what I’d find.

But this
hurts.

Instead
of wisely returning to my table and telling Nate we have to go, I retrace my
steps to the end of the aisle, snatch a book off the shelf, and take a breath
before turning into the occupied aisle as though searching for an interesting
book on capitalism.

And there
they are.

Ten feet
away, grinding against the shelf, his hips pinning hers to the row of books I’m
never going to touch. They’re fully clothed, at least, only their lips involved
in the encounter, and even though they look like they’re glued together,
Crosbie jerks away the second he spots me.

His
partner in library crime looks dazed and confused until she follows his gaze to
discover the problem, and even though I knew what I’d find before I rounded
that corner, I still hear myself stammer a pretty convincing, “Sorry, I didn’t
know—” before I race back to the table where Nate waits.

“Pay up,”
he says, holding out his hand.

“Joke’s
on you,” I say, trying to act like I find the whole thing amusing and not
appallingly, horribly painful. “It wasn’t Kellan.”

“It was
too.”

“It
wasn’t. I swear.”

He frowns
as he realizes I’m jamming my books in my bag like there’s a fire and they’re
the only thing I need to rescue.

“What are
you—”

“I just
remembered I have to do something,” I lie, utterly unconvincing.

“Nora,
what—” His eyes focus on something over my shoulder and I know that Crosbie and
his Crosbabe have fixed their clothing and emerged from the aisle.

“Don’t,”
I say tightly, when the look on his face changes from confusion to concern.
“Don’t say anything.”

“Nora,
I—”

“Please.”
I think I might cry. And it’s so stupid—I don’t care about Crosbie, I don’t
want
to care about Crosbie, and I never thought he cared about me.

I grab my
bag and stride toward the stairs at the far end of the floor, my route keeping
me parallel to Crosbie and his friend. But their pace is no match for mine and
I reach the top of the stairs just in time to hear her demand to know why they
can’t take the elevator.

I jog
down the stairs and maneuver my way through the main level and out the front
doors to my bike, locked up in the rack on the sidewalk. My fingers tremble as
I fumble for the combination, and the tumblers align just as I hear the front doors
open and Crosbie’s date’s shrill inquiry about why they have to walk so fast.

I sling
my leg over the seat and don’t look back as I pedal home as fast as I can. The
sidewalk is damp and edged in the first fallen leaves of the season, but not
even the welcome signs of fall improve my mood.

I know
I’m being stupid.

Just like
I knew streaking down Main Street was a bad idea.

Just like
I knew blowing off Art History—five weeks in a row—was not smart.

How I
knew partying the night before my Linguistics midterm was a mistake.

I know
things are bad for me, but I do them anyway. And letting those stray shoots of
feelings for Crosbie stay when I should have gotten down on my hands and knees
and torn them up before they could take root—that was a mistake.

And I am
done making mistakes.

I usually
chain my bike to the handrail, but tonight I drag it up the front steps and
ditch it in the foyer of our apartment. I stomp upstairs but there’s no one to
impress with my bad mood because Kellan’s not home—as usual. I turn off all the
lights to make it look like I’m not home, either, like I have plenty of
interesting places to be while some people are getting off in the library.

I flop
onto my bed and stare at the dark ceiling. My heart is pounding and my temples
are damp with sweat.

I mean,
what the fuck.

* * *

 
“Sorry about last night.”

I glance
up at Nate as I tie on my apron in the kitchen at Beans. “It’s no big deal.”

Marcela’s
there too, not pretending not to eavesdrop. Not pretending Nate didn’t fill her
in on the whole humiliating debacle.

“I tried
calling you a couple of times—you didn’t pick up.”

“I was
listening to the French lessons.” Technically true, but my phone was on my milk
crate nightstand and I heard it vibrate, I just refused to look at the display.
Just as I heard a tentative knock at the front door but didn’t dare get up to
answer. I didn’t know what I’d say if it were Crosbie, and if it wasn’t him,
that would have somehow been worse. So I did what I always do: I chose one end
of the spectrum and I stayed there. Confront my demons or ignore them? Hello,
denial. I’m Nora.

“I
thought you had a thing for Kellan,” Marcela remarks. She sticks a tray of
muffins in the convection oven, a wave of heat wafting over me as I walk toward
the swinging door to the shop.

“Me too,”
I say.

They
follow me out front, and I sigh when there’s just one customer in the shop, an
old man who always comes to browse the artwork but never buys anything.

“I was
just surprised,” I say. “That’s all. I barely know Crosbie. I’m worried things
might be awkward at home. He’s there all the time.”

Nate and
Marcela share a look.

“What?”

“He came
here last night,” Marcela says.

I grow
very still. “What?”

“Around
nine. He came in asking for you. He looked stressed.”

I take a
breath. “He was probably trying to find Kellan.”

“I don’t
think so.”

“Well,
maybe he just wanted another brownie.”

“He
didn’t flirt with me at all.”

“Huh.”
That
is
weird. Though it’s hardly placating to know that after he
dropped off his date he came looking for me, his second choice. It doesn’t mean
anything, and I can’t let it. I’m barely a month into my new life and despite
my best efforts, I’m failing. Again.

And I
really can’t afford to. It’s not like I come from nothing. My parents worked
hard, saved their money, and instilled in me the importance of doing the same.
And I did—all through high school. I never got into trouble, never rebelled,
never so much as dyed my hair. And it’s not like I had dreams of robbing banks
or getting a dozen tattoos, I just wanted to have
fun
last year. Just
for a little bit, I wanted to let loose.