Undecided (8 page)

Nate
clears his throat and wanders over to chat up the old man, and for a second
Marcela and I just stand side-by-side at the counter and watch. She uses one
fingernail, painted black, to pick at a sticker someone stuck on the counter,
and I don’t know what to do. This is where I want to be, even though I
shouldn’t.

Story of
my life.

“I’m
sorry you got arrested,” she says eventually, watching the corners of the
sticker peel up. “And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

I keep
watching her fingernail. “It’s not your fault.”

“Well, it
was my idea.”

“Okay, so
it was mostly your fault.”

She
laughs a little. “And if I made you fail your classes last year, I’m sorry for
that too. I know you have a scholarship and you need to keep your grades up.”

I glance
at her. I’m terrible at confrontation, if last night’s events weren’t proof
enough. “You didn’t make me fail. I failed all by myself. I was just embarrassed.”

“Do you
really never go out anymore?”

“Never.”

“Where’d
you stay the night of Kellan’s birthday?”

I sigh.
“Don’t laugh.”

“Did you
hide in the closet and spy?”

I smile.
“No. I stayed in Crosbie’s room at the frat house.”

Her mouth
opens.

“He wasn’t
there,” I say hastily. “He stayed at my place.” I assume he did, anyway.
Perhaps he’d been in the library all night.

“Do you
like him?”

I shrug.
“I thought I did. A little bit. But…no. I can’t. I need to focus on getting my
grades up and staying out of trouble.”

“Last
year was fun.”

“It was
awesome.”

“And this
year has been terrible. I hang out with Nate, like, all the time.”

“Outside
of work?”

“Yes. He
makes me go to vegan restaurants and buy candles and watch foreign films. He’s
a hipster stereotype and it’s killing me.”

“He’s in
love with you.”

“It
doesn’t change anything.”

I watch
Nate show the old man the newest set of nesting dolls. We all know the guy’s
never going to buy anything; he comes in three days a week and doesn’t order so
much as a coffee. But still Nate holds out hope.

“What do
I do?” I ask. Marcela has stopped picking at the sticker and now I take over.
I’ve been dying to ask her that very question all month, and now I feel like I
can barely breathe as I wait for her answer.

“You just
get on with your life,” she says, eyes on Nate. “And you forget all about the
other person.”

“Sounds
simple.”

Her red
lips curve. “Nate,” she calls. “We’re closing shop early. Lock it up.”

Nate
looks surprised but doesn’t argue, and fifteen minutes later we’re out the
door, the three of us bundled up against a chilly fall wind as we hustle down
the street in the direction of the bank and the nearest bar. Marcela and I
stand guard as Nate drops off the small deposit, then we dart across the street
into Marvin’s, a crowded pub that’s popular with Burnham’s older students.

The music
is muted, the air is warm, and everyone’s wearing cords and cardigans. In her
silver sequined top, black tights, and thigh-high white pleather boots, Marcela
makes a statement. As usual, all eyes are on her as she picks her way through
the crowd and finds us a tall table in the corner. Nate heads up to the bar to
grab a round of shots, and I take a deep breath. I know I shouldn’t be here,
but I miss this. Not the alcohol, but the atmosphere. The people. Not being
home alone by myself. Again.

Nate
returns a few minutes later with six shot glasses precariously clustered in his
hand and Marcela helps arrange them on the table. “What are you going to
drink?” she asks, blinking at him, deadpan.

He makes
a face and she grins and I do too, then we all take a glass. “What are we
toasting?” Nate asks. “The end of the Cold War?”

“Yeah,”
Marcela says. “And bygones being bygones, and fuck Crosbie Lucas.”

Nate
shrugs, not fully comprehending, but gamely echoes, “Fuck Crosbie Lucas.”

I didn’t
think I’d laugh again for a long time, but I’m laughing when I say, “Fuck
Crosbie Lucas,” and we all toast to it.

* * *

It’s
shortly after midnight when I stumble in the front door. The stumbling has more
to do with the fact that my legs and fingers are numb from the bike ride home
than the alcohol. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m a little bit drunk, but
nothing crazy. Not out of control.

“Middle
ground drunk,” Marcela called it, when I lamented my inability to hang out in
the center of the spectrum. “You will only be middle ground drunk this evening,
I will see to it.”

She did a
pretty good job. We’d laughed and danced and flirted and made up, and it’s a
surprise and a relief to learn that she missed me too. Actually, it’s an
enormous relief, even if hanging out with Marcela did involve ditching work
early and drinking on a school night. But what the hell—I had fun. Finally.

Kellan
and Crosbie are watching something on TV when I come up the stairs, and I spot
the DVD box for the first season of
Arrested Development
sitting on the
dining table as I enter. I squint at the screen and recognize the familiar
characters, and when I look at Kellan he’s got the same “I don’t get it” look Marcela
had when I made her watch it.

“Steve
Holt,” I say.

Kellan
scratches his chin and glances over at me. “Who?”

I can
practically feel Crosbie’s stare, but I refuse to make eye contact as I head
into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I’m a bit woozy and I brace
myself against the counter as I drink.

“Are you
drunk?” Kellan calls, muting the show. It sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Just a
little bit,” I reply. “I’ll be okay.”

“Where
were you?”

“Marvin’s.
Near work.”

“With who?”

“With
whom,” I correct, putting my glass in the sink and heading for my room. “And
that’s none of your business.”

He raises
an eyebrow. “I might like drunk Nora.”

“You
did,” I say, without meaning to. “Good night.” I enter my bedroom and close the
door.

When I first realized Kellan didn’t
remember our hookup, I was mortified. But now I think I was just naïve. My
“relationships” last year were fleeting and shallow, and because I was only
doing it to convince myself I was somebody exciting, I wasn’t even remotely
invested in them, emotionally. The longest one lasted a month, and that’s just
because it was the guy who took my virginity during frosh week and we felt
obligated to keep seeing each other.

Kellan is the crush everybody has. Crosbie is
the sidekick.

He’s the Nora to Kellan’s Marcela.

He’s the one you forget.

I have a
ten o’clock class on Thursday mornings, so I sleep in until nine then stumble
bleary-eyed out of my room to hunt down some frozen waffles for breakfast. It’s
chilly in the apartment and I shift from foot to foot as I shiver in my
sweatshirt and shorts waiting for the toaster to finish its job.

“Hey.”

I jolt
and turn around to find Kellan on the living room floor, dressed in his running
clothes and touching his toes. “What are you doing here?” I never see Kellan in
the mornings and I’ve kind of gotten used to having the place to myself. He’s
either sleeping in—or sleeping out—when I leave for class, and this is unusual.

“Group
run,” he says, switching legs. “In ten minutes.”

I glance
out the window. The sun is up, glinting off the yellowing leaves of the trees
that line the street. It’s already shaping up to be a much better day than
yesterday. In fact, now that I’ve made the decision to forget Crosbie Lucas, everything
is looking up.

“Have
fun,” I say, stacking the waffles on a plate, dousing them in syrup, and
preparing to retreat to my room. I know Kellan’s running group slowly picks up
members as they begin their route, and Crosbie normally comes inside when they
reach our place. My new plan does not involve seeing Crosbie nine hours after
the plan went into effect.

“Hey,”
Kellan says, standing and cracking his back.

I pause
at the door to my room, waffle halfway to my mouth. “What’s up?”

“Thank
you.”

“You’re
welcome?” I have no idea what he’s thanking me for.

“I
suppose I should have realized this on my own, but Crosbie told me last night
that you let them host my birthday party here, and I appreciate it. I know
that’s not what we agreed, so…thank you.”

“Ah.
You’re welcome.”

“And…” he
adds, again halting my return to my bedroom. “I think we should go out.”

I’m
already stopped, but now I freeze completely, half an unchewed waffle in my
mouth. “What?”

He grins
and reaches back to grab his foot to stretch. “As a thank-you. Let’s go out to
dinner tomorrow. You know Verre Plein, the French place on the edge of town?
What about there?”

I’m so
stunned I can barely speak. I’m pretty sure I have maple syrup on my face and
my hair is a mess and I haven’t brushed my teeth and this—
this
—is when
Kellan McVey asks me out?

“Are you
serious?” I try to swallow the enormous bite of waffle without chewing.

“Yeah,”
he says, smile widening. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Confidence
practically radiates off of him, never quite edging into obnoxious territory,
unlike somebody whose name I will have forgotten by lunchtime. “It’s really
nice,” he continues, when I don’t answer. “I went once with my parents—you have
to wear a tie and everything. I mean, not you—just I’ll wear—I mean, you can
wear—Fuck.” He groans. “I haven’t had coffee yet.”

“You
don’t drink coffee.”

He
laughs, embarrassed. “Right.”

“Sure,” I
say. “I’ll go.” I don’t want to read too much into this. Plus I feel…odd. Not
like anything about his offer is untoward, it’s just that something is missing.
That spark. The excitement that should accompany an invitation to have dinner
with the hottest guy on campus. I’m flattered, but that’s all. Probably because
it’s early, I tell myself. I’m only half awake. Maybe once I’ve eaten these
waffles and had a shower, the momentousness of this occasion will sink in.

“Awesome,”
he says, just as there’s a knock at the door. “I’ll make a reservation for
eight.”

My heart
starts beating double time, and I step into my room. “Tomorrow,” I say.

He shoots
me one last smile as he jogs toward the stairs. “It’s a date.”

* * *

I’m
supposed to work from five until closing on Friday, but when I tell Marcela and
Nate I have a date with Kellan McVey, they agree to cover my shift. Coffee
shops in Burnham aren’t exactly booming on Friday nights, so they’ll be okay.
They tell me so half a dozen times as they sit on my bed and mull over the
outfits I’m considering.

Verre
Plein is a tiny French restaurant with a lengthy wine list, a pricey menu, and
servers with long white aprons. It’s a far cry from mac and cheese and the fast
food that’s available on campus, and my regular uniform of jeans and a T-shirt
isn’t going to cut it. I rustled up a few dresses I’d buried in the back of my
closet, and I have a whopping three pairs of heels—black, gold, and red—to pair
them with.

“Too
prim,” Nate says when I hold up a retro blue dress with a Peter Pan collar.
“It’s a date with Kellan McVey, not an Amish man.”

“Hold
onto that one, though,” Marcela adds, “in case you
do
get a date with an
Amish man.”

I put it
on a hanger and return it to the closet. “Here’s hoping.”

My next
option is a strapless white dress with black leather straps crisscrossing the
waist and black trim at the hem, which stops a good six inches above my knees.

“No,” we
all say at the same time. Is it sexy as hell? Yes. Is it appropriate?
Absolutely not. Am I a little bit mortified that I once—maybe seven times—wore
it out in public? Er, yeah.

They
quickly veto my four remaining dresses, calling them dowdy, boring, scandalous
and offensive, respectively. My all or nothing problem summed up in one piddly
wardrobe.

“So I’ve
got heels and nothing else.” I slump on the bed beside them.

“On the
bright side,” Marcela says, “that might be all you need.”

“Get him
to buy you dinner first,” Nate interjects. “At least pretend to play hard to
get by putting on clothes.”

I laugh.
“Thanks, Dad.”

“Okay,
fine,” Marcela says. “I thought it might come to this, so I brought something
for you.”

She had
her backpack with her when she came, but I assumed it was full of books. Now,
however, she digs around until she comes out with a little black dress with
tasteful lace cutouts. I know from last year’s clothing swaps that we’re the same
size, so at her urging I take the dress into the bathroom, try it on, and
return for their perusal.

“Yes,”
Marcela announces.

“Try it
with the red shoes,” Nate urges.

I do,
pirouetting in front of them so quickly I have to grab the wall before I fall
down.

“Gorgeous,”
they say. “Perfect.”

And,
looking in the full-length mirror—propped against the desk, since I can’t be
bothered to hang it—I have to agree. The dress is sleeveless and stops just
above my knees, so it shows plenty of skin but not so much as to be
inappropriate for an upscale French restaurant. The red heels make it youthful,
and when Marcela comes up and twists my hair into a loose bun, it looks pretty
and romantic.

“I love
it,” I say.

Nate
glances at his watch, then rises. “Text us and tell us how it goes. We have to
get out of here.”

“Spoilsport.”
Marcela tucks another piece of hair behind my ear and nods, satisfied. “Do
everything I would do,” she orders.

I grin.
“Promise.”

No
panties
, she mouths as Nate drags her out of the room.

“Oh my
God,” Nate groans. “Wear panties, Nora.”

I laugh
and wave goodbye, then study my reflection some more once they’re gone. Kellan
has class until seven, leaving me with a few hours to kill before our eight
o’clock reservation. The dress doesn’t have a zipper so it has to come up over
my head, and since I don’t want to ruin my hair, I decide to leave the dress on
while I wait. I kick off the heels and grab my anthropology textbook to get in
some reading.

I doze
off a bit when anthropology is no more exciting than I thought it would be, and
wake up slouched on the couch. I check the time: ten after seven. Kellan’s
class will be wrapping up, then he’ll walk home, which takes about twenty
minutes. I hurry to the bathroom to wipe up my smudged mascara, then add
another coat. A swipe of red lipstick and I’m doing my best approximation of
effortlessly glamorous.

I
consider pouring myself a glass of wine while we wait, thinking I’ll look sexy
and sophisticated if I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in my dress and heels,
but we don’t have any wine and it’s hard to boost myself onto the stool in this
dress.

My
hesitation from yesterday is nowhere to be found. All I needed was a little
time to let the whole “Kellan McVey just asked me out!” news to sink in, and
now that it has, I’m excited. Tiny butterflies flit about my stomach, and I
pace around the living room, trying to calm myself.

I didn’t
exactly go on a lot of dates last year. I went
out
a lot, but always
with Marcela. Parties, bars, raves—I never said no. And in my effort to make up
for my lonely high school years, I said yes to a lot of things I shouldn’t
have. Maybe that’s why tonight feels special—I’ve said no so long, saying yes
actually means something.

Saying
yes to Kellan McVey—technically not my first time, but the first time he’ll
remember—means something.

I check
the time. Ten to eight. He should be here any minute. I drop back onto the
couch and switch on the TV, watching a bit of the news. We don’t see each other
a lot at home so I’m really not sure what we’ll talk about. Maybe an update on
current events is in order.

When the
news wraps up at the top of the hour, Kellan still isn’t home.

No big
deal. He has a car and it’s a ten-minute trip to the restaurant—who cares if
we’re a few minutes late?

Fifteen
minutes later, I’m definitely starting to care. And I’m really hungry. My
stomach is growling its displeasure, and finally I give in and eat a cracker. I
don’t want to spoil my appetite.

By 8:40
p.m. it’s dread and disappointment that have my stomach twisting, not hunger.
He wouldn’t stand me up, would he? I mean, I could text him, but what’s the
point? If he was held up somewhere—or remembered at all—he would have texted
me. Or called. Or made some effort to tell me I hadn’t been forgotten. Again.

At ten to
nine my phone beeps and I snatch it up like a lifeline, but it’s just Nate
asking for an update. I blow out a heavy breath and don’t respond. I’m not in
the mood to report my second romantic disappointment of the week.

At five
after nine I hunt around the fridge for something to eat, but it’s the weekend
and I’m always out of groceries by Friday. All we have are cupboards full of
Kellan’s stupid mac and cheese, a few containers of protein powder, and half a
box of cereal, no milk.

I eat a
handful of dry cereal and try not to cry, the only thing that could possibly
make me feel even more pathetic. I imagine Kellan walking in as I stand,
mascara-stained tear tracks on my cheeks, a handful of dry cereal in my palm,
my hair done, my dress borrowed, my pretty red heels pinching my toes.

It’s that
image that has me tossing the remaining cereal into the sink and kicking off
the shoes. I stomp into my room and wrench the dress over my head as though it
somehow played a part in this disappointment. My hair gets a little more
tousled but I leave it, even as I grab a tissue to wipe off the lipstick,
hurling it violently into the trash. As violently as one can hurl a tissue, in
any case.

My lower
lip trembles as I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. My whole body
feels hot, flush from head to toe with humiliation and frustration. I return to
the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, trying to calm down and think
rationally. What should I say when Kellan comes home? Should I pretend that I
also forgot about our date? Play it off like it was a casual “maybe we will,
maybe we won’t” invitation? Or should I tell him how righteously pissed I am
that he couldn’t even be bothered to text his roommate to tell her he wasn’t coming?
I know his parents pay for his phone—all he has to do is use it.

A
knock at the front door has me lurching in surprise, and I choke on the
mouthful of water I’d just consumed. A brief coughing fit later, I yank open
the door expecting to find a shame-faced Kellan saying he’d been robbed, losing
his phone and his house keys in the process, but it’s not him.

It’s
Crosbie.

Of-fucking-course.

“What?” I
snap. I cross my arms, both because I’m angry and because there’s a sharp chill
in the air. And because dressed in a gray T-shirt, jeans, and an open brown
corduroy jacket, a satchel slung over his shoulder, Crosbie looks far more
appealing than he should.

“Ah…” His
tentative smile disappears when confronted with my stone-faced scowl, and he
darts a glance over my shoulder. “Is Kellan here?”

I arch a
brow. “No.”

He
shivers a little. “Can I come in?”

“Why?”

“Because
we were supposed to play
Fire of Vengeance
and he has the game.”