Undecided (21 page)

“There’s
an extra toothbrush in the bathroom,” I offer. “If you want to brush your teeth
before you come to bed.”

I see
heat flare in his eyes and very slowly, he nods. “Will do.”

“Fuck,”
Kellan groans. “Is this what it’s going to be like from now on?”

“I know
this isn’t what we agreed,” I say, balancing on the arm of the couch when
Crosbie leaves to clean up. “I’m sorry to flip the script on you.”

He shakes
his head. “I lived in a frat house last year,” he says. “You really think I
didn’t hear Crosbie banging—” He cuts himself off way too late.

I cross
my arms. “Huh.”

“Dude!”
Crosbie exclaims from behind me.

Kellan
hesitates, then unpauses the game, turning the volume way, way up, and
studiously ignores us. Slowly I look at Crosbie.

“That was
last year,” he says quickly. “I’m different now.”

I glare
at him, then relent. “Me too.”

His relief is palpable as he follows me into
the bedroom, closing the door and waiting until I’ve turned on the bedside lamp
before shutting off the ceiling light. “Don’t be pissed,” he says.

“I’m
not.” I slip out of my jeans and sweater and pull on a tank top, stopping as I
reach for a pair of shorts. I glance over my shoulder to find him staring at my
ass. “Should I bother putting these on?”

He yanks
off his shirt and undoes his pants so fast he almost falls. “No,” he says,
tackling me onto the bed. “You’re not going to need them.”

* * *

Crosbie Lucas is my boyfriend.

I’m not
the only one who’s stunned by the news, but I really don’t care what other
people say. Well, except for Marcela, who gave me an earful about keeping
secrets.

Two days
after the spaghetti debacle-turned relationship reveal, I’m sitting across from
Crosbie at one of the tiny tables at Beans and splitting a cinnamon bun during
my fifteen minute break. Nate attributes my excellent mood to all the orgasms I
must be enjoying—and I do enjoy them—but my buoyed spirits are due in no small
part to the phone call I’d gotten from the campus clinic this morning,
informing me that my test results had come back all clear. It’s what I expected,
but it’s still nice to have it confirmed.

I’m
wearing a turtleneck under my apron, but I still shiver when a customer strolls
in, the late November winds following. “Grr,” I say, trailing my finger through
a smear of cream cheese frosting left on the plate. “I hate the cold.”

“Seriously?”
Crosbie pops the last bit of cinnamon bun into his mouth. “I love winter. You
get snow, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years—it’s awesome.”

“Thanksgiving’s
in the fall.”

“Close
enough. The point is, winter is great and you’re wrong.”

“Bah
humbug.”

He
smirks. “Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

Thanksgiving
is on Thursday, and my plan is to work overtime to save up money for Christmas
presents. My reasoning is if I buy expensive gifts, no one will complain too
loudly when I show up late on Christmas Eve and bail around noon on Christmas
Day. I love my family, but I do not love the Kincaid family Christmas tradition
of non-stop fighting, one small fire, and overpriced pizza delivery when the
turkey inevitably winds up either burned or missing.

“No,” I
say, when I realize Crosbie’s waiting for an answer. “Are you?”

“Yeah.
I’m going to drive down, then join the guys for the mock meet right after.”

“That’s
next week?”

“I told
you about it.”

And he
had, explaining it was a pre-Christmas thing they did every year to test their
progress and also remind themselves not to overindulge during the holidays.
Apparently they never learn and everyone returns in January ten pounds heavier
and still hungover, but it’s a three-day visit of nearby colleges that brings
them back to Burnham on Friday.

“I
remember.”

“I’d
invite you for dinner if I was coming back,” he says, misinterpreting my
distraction. “I mean, if you really want, you can still come. I’ll drive you back
to campus, then turn around again. It’s only an hour, so—”

“Crosbie.”
I press my fingers to his lips. “It’s not a problem. I’m just thinking how nice
it’ll be to have the apartment to myself. What will it be like to not smell
powdered cheese every day?”

He grins,
relieved. “I’ll bring you back some leftovers.”

“Leftovers
that have survived the mock meet? Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

“What’s
wrong with Thanksgiving? If you hate winter and Thanksgiving’s in the fall, it
should be a safe holiday.”

I roll my
eyes. “Nothing with my family is safe.” My parents are what they like to call
“functional, friendly, and former.” Basically they’re a divorced couple, each
of whom resides in one half of a duplex, and they tell everyone they get along,
but really they hate each other. They divorced when I was ten and neither one
has remarried, and they bring a different date to every holiday in a desperate
attempt to show how mature they are. As the only child marching in this
dysfunctional parade, I’d much rather hide in the woodshed and eat worms than
sit down to dinner with whichever unsuspecting date is unlucky enough to show
up that day.

I relay
this information to Crosbie, whose eyes widen as I talk. “It’s torture,” I say.
“And nine times out of ten, there’s not even any turkey. If it’s not—”

“Hi,
Crosbie.”

We glance
over to see a trio of girls who look like they just stepped out of a winter
catalogue. They wave at Crosbie over cups of steaming hot lattes as they take a
seat nearby. I’m instantly transported back to the day we met, when Crosbie
invited himself to join me for dinner then promptly abandoned me when something
better came along.

Now,
however, he just lifts a hand in a vague semblance of greeting and sips his
water, gaze trained on me. “If it’s not what?” he prompts.

I shake
my head. “If what’s not what?”

“You were
saying there’s never any turkey. If it’s not…?”

“Oh.
Um…if it’s not burned to a crisp it’s completely raw. They’ve actually sent
three people to the hospital.”

“You’re
kidding.”

“Nope.
And once my mom got so angry at my dad that she threw the turkey into the
street and it got run over by a bus.”

“Tell me
you filmed it.”

“I wish.
My favorite is the two times the turkey just disappeared.”

“
Disappeared
?”

“Yep.
There was just an empty roasting pan in the oven and a wishbone sitting on the
counter. I wished for a turkey.”

“Twice?”

I lift a
shoulder. “Point is, it’s not worth the trip.”

“What
about Christmas?”

“I’ll
take the bus on Christmas Eve and make up some excuse about why I have to come
back on Christmas Day. They know I work—they’re usually pretty willing to
believe me. That way they don’t have to keep up the ‘functional, friendly,
former’ charade any longer than necessary.”

“That’s
really sad, Nora.”

“The
distance helps.”

“I
couldn’t help but overhear your turkey sob story,” Marcela says, flitting over
and collecting the empty plate.

“You’ve
heard it before,” I say, recognizing the glint in her eye and hoping to end
whatever it is she’s plotting before it can get underway.

She
barrels ahead. “Since I’ll be in Mexico for Thanksgiving, why don’t we make our
own post-Thanksgiving turkey dinner? You and Crosbie, me and Kellan. A double
date.”

She says
“double date” unnecessarily loudly, and entirely for Nate’s benefit. Not that
the raised voice is required, since he’s clearly hanging onto every word she
says, anyway.

I shake
my head and start to stand. Break’s over. “I don’t—”

“The more
turkey, the merrier,” Crosbie says, oblivious of my murderous stare. “Why don’t
we do it right before the Christmas break? That way everybody gets some
turkey.” He glances at me and must interpret my glare as more turkey terrors,
because he just pats my hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Nora. I’ll keep an eye
on it the whole time. That turkey won’t go anywhere.”

Since
he’s immune, I turn my glower to Marcela, who smiles smugly.

It’s time
for this little emotional tug-of-war she and Nate have going on to come to an
end. “You know,” I say, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “A whole turkey is a lot
of food for just four people. Why don’t we invite someone else?”

Her
eyebrows shoot up when she realizes where I’m going with this. “No—” she
begins.

“Nate!” I
call. “Turkey dinner at my place. You and Celestia are invited.”

He’s
polishing silverware, and I see his mouth quirk up. “Wouldn’t miss it for the
world,” he says.

I beam at
Marcela. “That settles it.” I do my best to pretend her fulminous glare isn’t
legitimately frightening. “And would you look at that? My shift’s over.”

She
hustles after me into the kitchen when I retrieve my coat. “Why would you do
that?” she demands. “Are you trying to be the queen of terrible dinners?”

“Maybe
I’m trying to be a grown up,” I counter, swapping my flats for rain boots. The
weather has finally eased up a few degrees, the snow rapidly transforming into
slushy puddles and soggy grass. “If you can’t fake a relationship with Kellan
for a few hours three weeks from now, why don’t you just call it off?”

“It’s not
a fake relationship!”

“It’s
incredibly fake. If he was the one dating Celestia, you wouldn’t bat an eye.”

She makes
a face. “He would never date her.”

“Yeah,
because he learned her name.”

“What?”

I shake
my head. “Never mind. Take notes while you’re in Mexico—you’re going to need to
stuff a turkey soon.”

She rolls
her eyes and huffs as I leave, meeting Crosbie up front and calling goodbye to
Nate before heading outside. The morning’s rain has let up, though the clouds
are still gray and heavy overhead, making three o’clock in the afternoon look
and feel much later.

“Ready
for your chem lab tomorrow?” I ask Crosbie, stepping over an especially large
puddle. He’d walked over straight from class so he doesn’t have his car.

“A couple
more hours should do it.”

“Seriously?
That much?”

He
shrugs. “I want to do well.” He’d been studying at Beans for the past three
hours while I worked, getting Nate, Marcela and I to quiz him on each section
he reviewed.

“You’ll
do fine,” I assure him. “I feel like even
I
know everything there is to
know about cell division by now.”

“Yes,” he
says, elbowing me. “But you’re a nerd.”

“Better
than being the girl who lost her scholarship and had to return home to work at
a gas station for the rest of her life.”

“There’s
no way you were that bad.”

“It
wasn’t good.”

“Tell
me.”

I exhale.
“I guess it’s a matter of perspective. For me, pretty bad.” I think of the
moment the flashlight beam cut across my bare knees while I squatted naked
behind the compost bin. The moment of unbearable shame as I slowly lifted my
eyes to face the cop who had found me.

“What’s
bad, though?” he presses. “B minus? Because I’d take that, any day.”

“Ha.” I
scoff. “B minus was something to aspire to. I skipped a lot of classes, drank
too much, did stupid stuff.”

“Yeah?”
He looks intrigued. “Like what?”

I try to
hide my flinch. We were at the same parties.

“Just…” I
don’t want to talk about frat parties. I don’t want to talk about the mistakes
I made there, one in particular. “I got arrested,” I blurt out. If I sound
guilty he’ll think it’s because I’m embarrassed about the arrest—which I am.
But I’m only telling him this to throw him off the trail of the real source of
my guilty conscience.

Crosbie
stops in his tracks. “Come again?”

I scrub a
mittened hand over my chin. “You heard me.”

“Nora
Kincaid got arrested? For what? Wait.” He holds up a hand when I start to
reply. “I want to guess. Hmm. Shoplifting?”

“No.”

We resume
walking as he ponders. “Vandalism?”

“Nope.”

“Dognapping.”

“Is this
really what you think of me?”

“I’ll be
honest, Nora. I don’t care what you did—the thought of you in an orange
jumpsuit is totally turning me on.”

I laugh
in spite of myself. “Shut up.”

“Fine.
What’d you do?”

I sigh
and hold up two fingers.

He gasps.
“You got arrested twice?”