Undecided (24 page)

“That
doesn’t even make sense.”

Nate
doesn’t respond as he strides through the swinging door back into the kitchen,
lifting a hand in acknowledgment.

Marcela
turns to me. “He totally heard.”

“What are
you talking about?”

“‘She
just wears fur?’ That’s obviously a dig at me because I don’t ‘wear fur!’”

“Don’t
you think you’re stretching things, just a little bit?”
The front door bangs open and the same
group of catalogue models that have been frequenting the shop since Crosbie
started spending time here filters in. They’re dressed in adorable
pastel-colored pea coats and tiny hats with pompoms, and their convoluted drink
orders put Celestia to shame. Even Marcela grumbles as she gets to work.

“It’s
quiet in here,” one of the girls remarks. She’s got pin straight white-blond
hair that gleams against her lemon yellow jacket.

“Slow
day,” I agree, sliding her a half-sweet almond milk mocha.

“Where’s
Crosbie?”

I pass
her the change and she sticks a dollar in the tip jar. “I’m not sure.”

“Hmm.”
She studies me for a moment, then turns to rejoin her group at the table in the
corner.

“What was
that about?” Marcela asks under her breath.

“It
happens,” I say, trying not to sound bothered.

“What
happens?”

“People.
Ever since Crosbie and I started dating openly, it seems like people are
watching, gossiping, whatever.”

“Does the
Dean know?”

“We have
a meeting next week. If my grades are good and I’m not arrested for anything,
it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Right.
Until he shows you a picture of your name on the bathroom wall in the Student
Union building and asks which part of the sex talk you misunderstood.”

My heart
stops beating. “What are you talking about? My name—”

“Hey.”
She holds up her hands in surrender. “That was a joke. I’m sorry.”

I take a
deep breath. “It doesn’t matter,” I say firmly. “Because it’s different.
We’re
different. I’m not a Crosbabe.”

She pats
my arm. “I know.”

But my
protest sounds lame even to me, and the words are still ringing in my ears when
we close up the shop at eight and I swear to myself I’m going to bike straight
home, even as I take the route that will get me to the Student Union building
in half the time.

I lock up
my bike and speed walk through the mostly empty lobby, trying to appear casual.
As I ride up in the elevator my pulse is throbbing in my temples and all I can
think about is seeing my name on a list I would have been stupidly proud of
last year and horrified by now. Because that statement was true: I am
different.
We’re
different.

The
bathroom is empty when I push through the door, striding right to the stall
that houses the track team lists. My fervent prayers that the walls have been
painted are not answered, and the stall is as I remember it.

I exhale
as I force my eyes to Crosbie’s list, trailing down the names until I reach the
bottom. No Nora Kincaid.

Then I
look again.

My
name may not be on there, but the last time I visited Crosbie’s list ended at
twenty-five. Now it ends at twenty-eight. And all of the dates are during the
week of the mock meet road trip.

I stumble
back, staring at the list in shock. Part of me thinks there’s no way he would
do this, and part of me thinks he most definitely would. Especially after my
emotional explosion two days before he’d left. I think back to the night he’d
returned, showing me that “trick”—was it an apology?

My lower
lip trembles and I fight back tears.
He wouldn’t do this
, I tell myself
as I storm out of the bathroom and stomp my way down the steps, too angry and
confused to wait for an elevator. I think about how he reacted the night he
walked in on Kellan and I sitting down to dinner—he wouldn’t do something to
make me feel that way. He wouldn’t. We’re not in love, but we’re not casual,
either.

We are—or
we were—on the road to something better.

Once
again my brain tries to direct me toward home, but my heart and my feet steer
me straight to the Frat Farm. I drop my bike on the front lawn and jog up the
steps, knocking loudly. Without the sun to moderate, the night is dark and cold
and I shiver as I wait, shifting from foot to foot. Finally Dane opens the
door, smiling when he sees me. I’ve never spent the night here but I’ve been
back a few times since Crosbie and I got together, and the guys seem more
amused by our relationship than bothered by it.

“Hey,
Nora,” he says.

“Hi,
Dane. Is he here?”

“Yeah. Go
on up.”

“Thanks.”
The welcome mat is predictably absent, so I wipe my feet as best I can before
hurrying up the stairs, trying to calm myself. I will be rational. I will be
patient. And if he didn’t cheat on me with three girls last week, I will be
totally fine. Because if he did…

Then I don’t understand.

All the
doors on the upper level are closed, and when I try Crosbie’s it’s locked. I
can hear the familiar thud-whir of the elliptical and I knock hard enough for
him to hear me even if he’s got earbuds in. After a second the thud-whir stops
and he pulls open the door, looking surprised to see me. He’s wearing an old
T-shirt that’s wet with perspiration, green basketball shorts, and nothing on
his feet. His hair sticks out helplessly, as though he’d run his fingers
through it before answering.

Like an
idiot, I feel my eyes start to sting with the threat of tears, and for a second
I stare at him, too many thoughts rattling around my brain for just one to come
out. Finally I cut to the chase. “Why?”

He wipes
his mouth with the back of his arm. “Why what?”

“Why…” I
step into his room when he shifts back and gestures for me to enter. I shut the
door and take a breath. “Why did—Why is—” I look around frantically, for words
or proof or something I don’t have a name for. “There are three new names on
your list,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level. It comes out cold, but
that’s better than shrill and desperate. “And they’re all from last week. When
you went on that trip.”

It takes
him a full ten seconds, then finally his expression turns from confusion to
shock. “Are you talking about the Student Union bathroom?”

“Of
course I am.”

“And
my
list has been updated?”

“Yes.”

“Whose
name is on it? Yours?”

“No,
Crosbie, not mine. Girls I don’t know. Three of them.”

He raises
an eyebrow. “What are you asking me?”

“I’m
asking
why
.”

He
finishes the water and casually sets the bottle on the desk behind him. “Why
the list got updated? I don’t know. I told you I don’t sneak up there with a
marker and add names to it.”

“Then who
did?”

“I don’t
know.”

“Why
would they?”

“I don’t
know that either.”

“Is
it…accurate?” I swipe my hand across my eyes, refusing to let any tears fall.

His
cheeks are flushed now, and it has nothing to do with the interrupted exercise.
He’s gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles are white, refusing
to show his anger. “Are you honestly asking me if I banged three girls on the
road trip? No, Nora, I didn’t. I was busy, and I thought I had a girlfriend.”

I shake
my head. He’s got the window propped open with a textbook, but it’s still too
hot in here. My skin is prickling and I feel like I’m smothering. Like my only
goal for this year—
don’t fuck up
—has just backfired in spectacularly
painful fashion.

“Tell me
the truth.”

“That
is
the truth.”

He holds
my stare but it’s hard for me to return, so my gaze flickers around the room.
The elliptical machine, a calendar with sports statistics for each month, the
neatly organized desk, the eternally unmade bed. And the man in the middle of
it all, who last year seemed so untouchable, but is just a guy. Flawed and
functional like the rest of us.

He sighs
and flexes his fingers. “I don’t know how to prove it, Nora. You heard what
Kellan said that night—I’ve wanted you since the first day I saw you. I
wouldn’t fuck this up when I finally got it.”

“What
about…” I feel so stupid. Stupid if I’m wrong, stupid if I’m right. “What about
when I freaked out that night about Kellan’s list?”

He
shrugs. “So what?”

“So maybe
you reconsidered this.”

“Because
a girl got upset about her roommate’s sex list, where the girls on it have
names like
Purple Hair
and
Smells Like French Fries
? No, I get
it. I get where Kellan’s coming from, too. Sometimes you mess around and it
doesn’t mean anything more than an hour or two, then you forget all about it.
And sometimes…” He steps closer, though not close enough to touch. “Sometimes
you mess around and you can’t stop thinking about it. And then you’re not
messing around at all.” He catches my chin between his fingers and makes me
look at him. “We’re not just messing around, Nora. At least I’m not. And I’m
not sleeping around. From the day I saw you until now, there hasn’t been
anybody else. I can’t say it any better.”

I suppose
he doesn’t have to say it at all. He could just open the door and usher me out
with a swat on the ass and a “Thanks for the memories.” But he’s not. He’s not
flipping out about me showing up and accusing him, he’s not protesting too much
and sealing his fate, he’s not doing anything other than being the guy I’ve
gotten to know these past months. He’s real. And he’s trying.

“I’m
sorry,” I mumble miserably. “I just…”

He waits,
but when I don’t finish he asks, “Why were you up there, anyway? What were you
looking for?”

I squint
at the ceiling, embarrassed. “My name.”

“And?”

“It
wasn’t there. But sometimes people stare at me or they whisper and I just
started worrying about the Dean giving me another sex talk or just…” I take a
breath. “I think last year I wouldn’t have cared if I were on that list, I’d
just be happy to have been noticed. And now I would care. I said I was going to
be different this year, and I really didn’t think I was making much progress,
but I have.”

“You
don’t want to be a Crosbabe, I know. I don’t want you to be one either. I
didn’t come up with that nickname, and I don’t use it, and I wish it didn’t
exist. But I can’t erase last year and neither can you, no matter how hard you
keep trying. I’m just focusing on doing things better this year. And I thought
I was.”

I meet
his stare. “You are. I’m sorry.”

He’s
silent for a second, then nods. “Fine. Hang around for a bit. I have to take a
shower, then I need you to quiz me for my chemistry exam.”

“I
thought that wasn’t for another two weeks.”

“It’s
not, but it’s the worst fucking class I’ve ever taken, and I need a head
start.” He grabs a towel and a change of clothes, then opens the door. “Don’t
go anywhere. I’ll be five minutes.”

“Okay.”

I take a
breath and slowly exhale, forcing myself to relax. That could have gone better,
but it could also have gone much, much worse. Though it’s kind of mortifying to
realize I could take lessons in maturity from a guy whose idea of hiding his
well-read copy of
Hustler
is sticking it inside his pillowcase.

I make
the bed and take a seat against the wall, playing a game on my phone while I
wait. When Crosbie returns a few minutes later, his hair is freshly wet and
he’s changed into sweats and a T-shirt. He smells like soap.

“Are you
cold with this open?” he asks, tossing the towel in the general direction of
his hamper while nodding at the window.

“No, I’m
all right.”

“Okay.”
He grabs his chemistry textbook from the elliptical and joins me, shunting his
newly fluffed pillows to the side and sitting at the head of the bed.

“Where do
you want to start?” I ask, flipping through the pages he’s marked with neon
green tabs. “Anywhere?”

“Sure.”

“Okay…
Let’s start with an easy one. What are the ten most abundant elements in the
universe?”

“Ah,
helium, hydrogen, oxygen…nitrogen…carbon…” He picks at a hangnail. “Calcium?”

“No.”

“Did I
already say helium?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Help me
out.”

I gesture
to the weight stack in the corner. “You like to pump…”

“Iron.”

I flick
one of the tabs in the book. “What color is this?”

“Green?”

“More
specifically.”

His brows
tug together. “Bright green.”