Undecided (2 page)

I peek
past him into the bedroom. It’s a decent-sized room that easily fits a queen-size
bed, desk, and dresser, and a bunch of boxes that have yet to be unpacked.
Given Kellan’s reputation, I’d kind of expected red walls, mirrored ceilings
and zebra-print pillows, but maybe he’s serious about turning over a new leaf.
Or maybe he just decorates his room like a normal person and not a porn king.

“Next
one,” he says, opening the other door and showing me an identical unfurnished
room. More hardwood, a large window that looks over the back parking lot, and
bare walls painted white. Plenty of room for my things and good for studying—
No, no. What am I doing? I can’t consider moving in here, even if the bathroom
is surprisingly spacious. I’m going to endure the tour, tell him I’ll think
about it, then go home and write a polite email declining the offer. Those
other roommates weren’t so bad, were they? Even if two were thirty minutes
away, one was a chain smoker, and the other had four cats.

This place is the cheapest too, given Kellan’s
parents are the ones really covering the rent. And Kellan doesn’t have any cats
and he doesn’t smoke, which I appreciate, and he says he washes his own dishes,
which—No. No pro list for this place. Cons only.

“So
that’s the tour.” Kellan steps back and takes a seat on the arm of the brown
leather sofa positioned opposite the television. “And this is me. I swear I pay
my bills on time, and I’m going to use this place to sleep and study, no
parties. No girls. I know I said that in my email and you probably thought I
was lying—”

More like
I thought no girls would be tempted to come home with Matthew, who said his
favorite food was mac and cheese—

“—but I’m
totally serious. This would be our home, and I’d completely respect your
boundaries. Fuck. Boundaries? Did I just say that? You know what I mean. And
please don’t worry about Crosbie. He’s really not that bad, but I’ll keep him
away if he annoys you.”

I force a
smile. The place is great. And if not for Kellan, I’d be all over this deal.
But telling people I live with Kellan McVey is like telling them I live in a candy
store or a bank vault—they’re going to be friends with me for the wrong
reasons. Not to mention my own…temptations. I’d like to say I’m above it all
and I’m the one girl on campus who isn’t dying to date Kellan McVey, but I’m
not. Even with the very offensive I-don’t-remember-having-sex-with-you issue,
he’s still super hot. And he seems nice. And kind of dorky, which makes him
surprisingly down to earth, and—

No. What
am I doing? I can’t justify this. There’s nothing he can say—

“I can
give you a break on the rent too,” he offers hastily. “How about until January,
no rent? I already told you my parents are paying for this place, and I have
some savings. You said in the emails you work at a coffee shop, right? So you
can use that money for books or Christmas presents or whatever, and then in
January, if you still like it here, you can pay. If not, no hard feelings.
It’ll be like a trial run.”

Did I
just hear him correctly? Free rent?

“Is it
the bedrooms?” he asks, misinterpreting my hesitation. “You can totally
choose—”

“The
bedrooms are fine,” I say.

Don’t do it.

“Everything
looks great,” I hear myself add.

Nice
apartment, free rent, hot roommate?

I can’t.

“So… Are
we doing this?” He shoots me a tentative grin, dimple flashing.

Stare
at something besides the dimple.

I look at
his chest and stick out my hand.

“We’re
doing this,” I say.

Okay, so
today didn’t go exactly as planned. It went
mostly
as planned, in that I
have to move out of my current place by the weekend and I found a great, free,
apartment, but obviously my roommate is not the bookworm I’d been anticipating.
And we once had sex in a closet and then he forgot about it.

I drop
onto the edge of the twin mattress in my shoebox-sized dorm room and sigh,
trying to convince myself I made the right decision. I mean, if I make a pros
and cons list, the pros obviously outweigh the cons. And what’s the worst that
could happen? I have a crush on my roommate for a while? Big deal. People live
through crushes all the time.

The tiny
dorm window is already open, but I still shove it up an extra half inch, as
though it will make breathing any easier. After last year’s debacle I’d had to
sign up for summer classes and move into Henley, the lone residence they keep
open for summer students. The rooms are barely big enough to house a bed and an
average-sized human, and the building is nearly deserted. Of its ten available
floors only five are in use, and there are four other people on my level. Not
that I’ve had a lot of time for socializing, with three classes, a full-time
job, and three hundred hours of community service.

I wrapped
up my summer courses and community service last week, and now all that’s left
is my job at Beans, the coffee shop in town. I’d loved working there last year,
but now it’s painfully awkward. The awkwardness is entirely my fault, but after
nearly flunking out and getting arrested, I’d had to make some changes. One of
those changes was ending things with my best friend and co-worker, Marcela
Lopes. After getting my ass chewed in the Dean’s office, I’d flipped the switch
on any fun and frivolity, and that meant getting rid of any bad influences in
my life. Unfortunately Marcela fell squarely into that category, and she did
not take being “shunned” too well.

I know I
made the right choice in changing my circle of friends—more like, deleting my
circle of friends and opting to have none—but I really miss Marcela. She’s
smart and funny and a little bit insane, and she’s the only one in the world
who knows about my hookup with Kellan. She’d die laughing if she heard about
today’s events, but I can’t call her. And when I go into work tomorrow, I can’t
tell her, either. She’s not speaking to me, and it’s for the best.

I’m
pretty sure.

I strip
out of the constricting interview clothes and toss on a pair of jeans and a
long sleeve shirt. I unwind my hair from its bun, relieved when it falls in
nice waves down my back instead of its usual tumbleweed nest. Though we
technically have a small kitchen on our floor, it’s just a filthy microwave and
a stove with one working burner, so I forgo eating in, grab a jacket, and head
to the small campus strip mall, which has been a ghost town all summer.

There are two days left in August but no one
gave Mother Nature the news, and the trees in northern Oregon are already
starting to change, greens giving way to muted yellows and reds, the air
already taking on the crisp feel of autumn.

Classes
officially resume on September fifth, the day after Labor Day, and students are
allowed to move in on the third. Until then it’s just me and a handful of other
summer students lining up for burgers and fries at the Hedgehog Grill, one of
the few campus restaurants that stay open year-round.

“Hey,
Nora,” calls Franco, the owner. “Lemme guess. Burger. Mushrooms. Bacon. Vinegar
for the fries. And…an orange soda?”

“Sounds
good,” I say, getting out my wallet. It always sounds good, since I always get
the same thing when I come here. I pay and find a booth along the wall,
grabbing my archaeology textbook from my bag, determined to cram every bit of
knowledge about matrices and excavation processes into my brain by the end of
dinner. Even though I have no intention of being an archaeologist, I’d failed
this course last year and the only way to ease the bruise of an F is to re-take
the class.

I’m
halfway through a page about strata when I hear my name. Looking up, however,
it’s not Franco calling me over to pick up my food, it’s Crosbie Lucas
approaching with a tray of his own.

“Trying
to go incognito?” he asks, gesturing to my loose hair and non-cardigan. “Look
more like a college student than a nanny?”

“I guess
it didn’t work.”

“Can’t
fool me.” Without waiting for an invitation, he slides into the far side of the
booth and munches on a fry. “What are you reading?”

“I’m
studying.”

“I
figured. What?”

“Archaeology.”

“
You
want to be Indiana Jones?”

“I just
want to pass.”

He
shrugs. “Sure. Fair enough.”

My eyes
dart around and I catch several people looking our way. Despite last year’s irresponsible
antics, I’m a small fish in a big pond, and I don’t have much of a reputation.
Crosbie Lucas, however, does, and though I’ve just agreed to move in with his
best friend, I have not agreed to be friends with Crosbie by extension. Every
girl Crosbie hooks up with gets added to a list called the “Crosbabes” and no
way do I want to join their ranks, rumored or real.

Before I
can think of a polite brush-off, Franco shouts that my food is ready. I head up
to collect my meal, then return to the table and sigh when Crosbie shows no
signs of leaving.

“What are
you doing on campus?” I ask. “I thought you lived on the Frat Farm.” The short
strip of old Victorian homes converted into Burnham frat houses on the west
side of campus has more than earned its name, thanks to the wild parties and
rumors of crazy behavior that’s more fact than fiction. I should know, since
I’d been a frequent flier there last year.

Crosbie
speaks around a mouthful of food. “Just working out. They keep the Larson gym
open all summer.”

“I
thought they had weights at the frat houses.”

“Oh yeah?
You spend a lot of time there?”

“No,” I
lie. “Just a guess.” Though Crosbie and I were never officially introduced last
year, we’d been at a lot of the same parties, and it’s more than a little
offensive that he doesn’t remember me.

He stuffs
a couple of fries into his mouth. “I’ve got an elliptical and some weights in
my room, but it’s not enough. And the gym here’s quiet in the summer, so I like
to use it when I can.”

“Makes
sense.”

“You
staying on campus?”

“Yeah. I
was taking summer courses.”

“Trying
to get a leg up, huh?”
Ha. “Yep,” I lie again.

“Kell
says you’re moving in.”

I
hesitate. I already know it’s true, but hearing it from someone else feels
weird. Like it’s more true, more permanent, more wrong, somehow. Like how you
know streaking down Main Street is a bad idea, but hearing your parents say
“You ran naked down Main Street, Nora!?” makes it sound even worse.

“September
third.”

“Should
be interesting.”

“What
does that mean?”
He shrugs. “It means, Kellan’s got good
intentions about being a model student this year, but I don’t think it’ll
happen. And something tells me you’re the kind of girl that doesn’t want to be
corrupted.”

I nearly
choke on my burger. “Corrupted?”

“Yeah.
You ever go to a party? Get drunk? Mess around? That’s what Kellan’s into—hell,
you’ve got your nose buried in a book, but even you must know that. I just
think maybe you’re going to be…scandalized a little bit this year. It’s why I
said you had the wrong address. So you didn’t make a mistake.”

I try to
keep a straight face. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

He points
at me with a fry. “I see you’re not taking this seriously. I’m just saying,
don’t get your hopes up.”

“What
would I be hoping for, Crosbie?”

He grins.
“What every girl hopes for. Happily ever after with Kellan McVey.”

“I’m just
trying to graduate.”

“Same
here,” he replies, distracted by a commotion over my shoulder. “But
sometimes…we get a little off track.”

“Hi,
Crosbie!” A gaggle of girls dressed in tiny summer dresses and heels totters
past, each shooting Crosbie their most endearing smile.

He gives
them a nod. “Ladies.”

“Join
us?” one asks, as though I’m invisible and Crosbie’s dining alone. Seems to be
the theme for today.

“Sure
thing,” he answers, watching them giggle and make their way to a corner booth.

“You just
went off track pretty easily.”

He laughs
and swipes one of my fries, since his are gone. “I’ll get back on track
tomorrow. Nice talking to you, Nora.”

“Yes,” I
agree. “It’s been fantastic.”

* * *

Most people
hate moving, but for me it’s really no big deal. All of my earthly possessions
fit into a pair of large duffel bags and two pilfered milk crates, all of which
I strap to my bicycle and painstakingly wheel over to Fir Street the day before
Labor Day.

It’s
strange to see Burnham bustling again after it was a virtual dead zone all
summer, but today is the official first day of move-ins, and campus is buzzing
with new and returning students. Everywhere I look there are tearful parents
and anxious sophomores, everyone doing their best to put on brave faces. Frosh
leaders wear obnoxious neon T-shirts and carry megaphones, rallying their
nervous young troops with promises of the best years of their lives.

I keep my
head down and maneuver my unwieldy load through the crowds, breathing a sigh of
relief when I make it to the shady pathways that wind around the edge of
campus. It’s quieter here, the canopy of old trees dotting
the pavement with light and shade.
The sun found its way back to Oregon and it’s warmer than it has been, enough
so that even in jeans and a tank top, I’m sweating when I reach the apartment.

I pause
on the sidewalk and take in my new home. The apartments are more like tiny
townhouses, each with a door that opens onto a tiny front lawn. They have red
brick faces, green doors, and a single window on the second level. It’s…homey.

The home
I’ll be sharing with Kellan McVey.

The front
door bursts open and Kellan and Crosbie elbow each other as they stumble out,
dressed in sneakers, shorts, and matching Burnham Track T-shirts. They stop
when they see me, and I smile uncomfortably and wheel my bike up the short path
to the front door.

“You got
more?” Kellan asks, taking in my load.

“This is
it.”

“That’s
it?” Crosbie looks perplexed. “Where’s your bed? Your desk?”

“They’re
coming,” I say. “I was in residence last year, so I don’t own any furniture.
It’s supposed to arrive on Tuesday.” Today’s Sunday and tomorrow’s Labor Day,
so that’s the earliest it could get here. I don’t mention that it’s coming from
Ikea, so odds are I won’t figure out how to get everything built until the
following weekend, if ever.

I wave
off their offers to help bring the stuff in, but they insist, and after one short
trip, my bedroom is fully equipped with two milk crates of books, and two
duffel bags of clothes and toiletries.

“Home
sweet home,” I say when they linger.

“You, uh,
want to come for a run?” Kellan asks. “We were just leaving.”

I
definitely do not. Athletics are not my forte. “Thanks,” I say, “but I have to
be at work in an hour. I’m just going to hang some stuff in the closet and head
out.”

“Oh
yeah?” Crosbie asks. “Where do you work?”

Though
Kellan already knows this from our email exchange, I tell them about Beans,
located in the center of Burnham’s tiny downtown.

“I’ve been in there a bunch of times,” Kellan
says. “I don’t think I saw you.”

I do my
best not to roll my eyes. I’m invisible. I get it. “I must not have been
working.”

“They have
open mic nights, right?” Crosbie asks, looking interested. “Like, for any type
of talent?”

Kellan
makes no effort to hide
his
eye roll. “Dude. No.”

I’m
expecting him to make a joke about his lap dance talent or something, so it’s a
total surprise when Crosbie says, “Do you ever have magicians perform?”

My
eyebrows shoot up. “Magicians? Er, no, not that I’ve seen.”

“Huh.”

“No one
has time for your tricks,” Kellan mutters, clearly embarrassed for his friend.
But Crosbie doesn’t appear to care. “Illusions,” he says. “You don’t have time
for my
illusions
.”

I’m too
surprised to laugh, but I do make a strange sound that’s half snort-half
snicker. Kellan looks at me in confusion, but Crosbie grins and I feel my mouth
twitch. Anyone who can quote
Arrested Development
can’t be all bad.

“There’s
a sign up book at the register,” I tell him. “Come in any time and put your
name down.”