Undecided (27 page)

“Jesus.”

“Please
don’t…” I blink rapidly and try not to cry like an idiot. “Please don’t—”

“Tell
Crosbie?”

I nod,
knowing how heartbroken he would be. How horrible it would be to learn he’s
still coming in second, even in this.

“Of
course I won’t. I’m not going to tell anybody.”

I exhale
so heavily I almost fall over. “Thank you.”

“I’ll
just say I figured out who Red Corset was and she’s not the one.” He pauses.
“You’re not the one, are you?”

“No. I
promise. I checked.”

He sighs.
“Yeah. I think I know who it is, anyway. I finally got in touch with one of the
backpackers and she said she’s pretty sure her friend realized she had
something when they got home, so…”

“So the
search is over.”

“Almost.”

“That’s
good.”

He shakes
his head. “It’s not good at all. It’s so fucking ridiculous, this whole thing.
I mean, have you ever dug yourself a hole so deep you thought you’d never get
out? Because last year that’s what I did. I partied so much, slacked off,
thought I was above it all, and I almost got cut from the track team. That’s
why I was so drunk the night we…I… Well, you know.”

“We both
had our reasons for being there.”

A
terribly awkward moment of silence drags on. And on.

“I’m
sorry,” we blurt out at the same time.
He laughs sadly and shakes his head.
“It’ll never happen again.”

I frown.
“I wasn’t expecting it—”

“I mean,
screwing around like I did all of last year. I had this idea of what college
was supposed to be like, and I totally fucked it up.”

“I know
what you mean.”

We look
at each other for a long moment. “Okay,” he says finally. “Okay.”

I lick my
dry lips. “Okay.”

“So
we’re…okay?”

I’m still
trembling, the shock of being found out almost worse than the fear of it.
“We’re okay.”

“And this
stays between us, forever?”

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe we
should blood swear.”

“Get out
of the bathroom.”

He grins.
“I know what’s even better than a blood oath.”

“I can’t
imagine that’s true.”

He
retreats and returns a second later with an armful of easel paper, a lighter
caught between his teeth. Then I’m pretty sure he says, “Let’s burn it.”

“Let’s
burn down our whole apartment? Sure, that sounds reasonable.”

“Ha ha.
We’ll burn the list in the tub.”

“That’s a
terrible idea.” But even as I say it I’m wrapping the shower curtain over the
rod and helping him tear up the large piece of paper bearing the first batch of
names.

“I can’t
destroy the second one yet,” he says. “But once I confirm that
Backpacker
Two
—sorry, Janna—is the one, we’ll burn it, too.”

“Can’t
wait.”

I hold
the showerhead and prepare to put out an inferno as he carefully touches the
flame to one of the crumpled pieces. After a second it catches and starts to
crinkle and darken, folding in on itself, consuming all his sins, our shared
secret.

It never gets out of control, just spreads to
the next piece and the next, burning itself into a tidy pile of ashes I simply
wash down the drain. It’s as easy as painting over Crosbie’s name on the
bathroom wall; everything erased, swiftly and surely. It’s over.

We’re
safe.

Chrisgiving falls on Sunday, December seventeenth, smack in the middle
of finals. The last day of school is officially this Wednesday, but some
people, like Crosbie, have already finished their exams and are ready to
celebrate. People like me, however, have tests both tomorrow and Wednesday, and
really wish their apartment wasn’t hosting the inaugural Chrisgiving dinner.

“Smells
good!” Crosbie says when he arrives. He shucks his coat and heads straight to
the kitchen where Kellan and Marcela wear matching aprons and do things like
peer in the oven and drink wine. I’m on the sofa, frantically reading through
my most recently revised set of English Lit notes and wondering why my brain
has turned into a sieve.

Crosbie’s
pained shout has me looking up in time to see him clutch his hand, Kellan
wielding a wooden spoon and a stern expression. “Do not touch the potatoes!” he
orders. “Out of the kitchen!”

“Aren’t
there hors d’oeuvres at this party? Chrisgiving sucks.”

“Chrisgiving
is amazing, dipstick.”

“Merry
fucking Christmas.”

They grin
as they flip each other off, and Marcela and I exchange eye rolls. Crosbie snags
Kellan’s wine glass before strolling over to join me on the couch. As per the
evening’s strict dress code, he’s wearing a white button down with a pale green
tie and dark brown pants. I’m wearing a fitted gray knit dress and kitten
heels, and beneath their aprons, Marcela and Kellan are similarly attired.

“You look
nice,” Crosbie says, closing my laptop and setting it on the coffee table. “And
study time’s over. Have some wine.”

“I was
reading that.”

“Read my
lips instead: it’s Chrisgiving. Time to par-tay like it’s a fake holiday.”

I smile
in spite of myself. My stomach’s been in knots for days. Last year at this time
I’d been partying my face off, not bothering to crack a book, figuring I’d
retained enough information from the few lectures I’d actually attended to earn
a passing grade. I’d been wrong. But not nearly as wrong as I’d been a few
months later, when I employed the same study strategy and came out with two
failing grades to show for my non-efforts.

Crosbie
kisses my cheek. “You okay?”

“Just
nervous about exams.”

“You’re
going to be fine. If I can pass, you can pass.”

“You
don’t know that you passed.”

“There’s
that supportive spirit I know and love.”

I laugh
and take a sip of his wine. “Sorry.”

“No
problem. It looks great in here. Who decorated?”

“Guess.”

“Mr.
Chrisgiving?”

“Mm hmm.”

To be
fair, it does look nice. A little over the top, maybe, but nice. We’ve got
everything minus a Christmas tree, though Kellan drew one on the easel, strung
lights and garland around the frame, and stuck presents underneath. There’s
fake snow sprayed on the window, fairy lights line the perimeter of the entire
apartment, and evergreen boughs hang along the television console. He’s added a
leaf to the dining table so it’ll now seat six, we’d borrowed chairs from our
neighbor so everyone can sit down without taking turns, and the white sheet is
back to serve as a tablecloth, though the votive candles are thankfully absent.

Old
Christmas carols play on a low volume, and with the scents of turkey and pine
in the air, it really does feel like Chrisgiving.

“Are you
looking forward to going home tomorrow?”

Crosbie
shrugs. “Yeah. It’ll be nice to see my family. Not so nice not to see you until
the New Year.”

“That’s
what Skype is for.”

“I
thought that’s what porn was for.”

I laugh
and drink more wine. “Whatever works, pal.”

The
doorbell rings and Marcela and I immediately lock eyes. “I’ll get it,” I
announce, standing and hurrying down the stairs.

Despite
her fur coat, Celestia is shivering on the front stoop. Nate’s not faring much
better, clutching an umbrella overhead to protect them from the not-quite-rain
but not-quite-snow that’s been spitting down all day, making the streets a
slippery, treacherous mess.

“Come in,
come in,” I urge, stepping back. “Welcome.”

Nate
passes me a bottle of wine. “Burnham’s finest.”

“Thank
you. Hi, Celestia.”

“Hi,
Nora. It smells good in here.”

“It’s
going to taste good in about ten minutes,” Kellan says from the top of the
stairs, looking like a movie star. “Glad you guys could make it.”

Nate’s
jaw twitches. “Glad to be here.”

“A triple
date,” Kellan muses. “How rare.”

I make a
face at him and he retreats as I lead Nate and Celestia to the living room.
“Something to drink?” I offer. “There’s a bottle of white already open, or we
could open this. And we’ve got beer.”

“What
kind of white is it?” Celestia asks.

I draw a
blank and turn around to read the bottle Marcela hands me. “Tell her it’s a
no-fat, half-decaf nectar blend from the wilds of Papua New Guinea,” she
whispers.

“Chardonnay,”
I say instead, extending the bottle.

Celestia
studies it and purses her lips. “Maybe I’ll just have Perrier.”

We all
pause.

“We have
tap water,” Kellan offers tentatively. “And ice?”
Marcela is glaring daggers at Nate, as
though it’s his fault his girlfriend likes the finer things in life. Nate, in
response, is glaring right back, seeing through the matching aprons for the
charade this whole thing is.

“Maybe
beer,” Celestia says. “Any type is fine.”

“I’ll
have the same,” Nate adds.

I grab
two bottles from the fridge and hand them over.

“Very
festive,” Nate offers, nodding at the easel. “Your work, Nora?”

I choke a
little on my wine. “Ah, no. Kellan drew it. And collected the branches.” I
point at the greenery decorating the television console, desperate to draw
attention away from the easel, despite the fact that it is quite literally lit
up like a Christmas tree. Because beneath the drawing on the top page is the
remaining page of the sex list. Kellan crossed out
Red Corset
like he’d
done with the others, leaving only the remaining backpacker behind, but refuses
to toss the list until her identity is officially confirmed.

“They’re
pine boughs,” Kellan says, straddling one of the dining chairs and pointing at
the console. “I like the scent.”

“It does
smell great in here,” Celestia agrees.

Marcela
pulls up a chair and crosses her legs, exposing miles of skin beneath her
mini-skirt. “You said that already.”

“Did I?”

“Are
those real gifts or did you just wrap up cereal boxes?” Crosbie asks, changing
the subject and earning himself a very grateful hand squeeze.

“Fake,”
Kellan says. “It’s too early to start shopping.”

“Christmas
is a week away.”

Nate
looks intrigued. “Surely you two have exchanged gifts,” he says, looking
between Marcela and Kellan. “What did you get each other?”

“You
heard him,” Marcela snaps. “It’s too early.”

“I got
Nate earmuffs,” Celestia chimes in. “They’re lined with fur.”

I die a
little.

Marcela’s
face turns red.

“The food
must be ready by now!” I exclaim, jumping to my feet. “Why don’t we eat? I’m
starving.”

Right on
cue, the buzzer sounds and Kellan smiles. “Perfect timing. Let’s go get the
food, sweetie.” He strokes Marcela’s hair and turns that gorgeous smile on her.
It’s fake and awful and I feel nauseous.

“If I
weren’t so hungry, I’d fake an illness and leave,” Crosbie mutters.

“Don’t
you dare abandon me,” I whisper back.

In order
to keep Celestia and Nate apart from Marcela, Crosbie and I take seats on
either side of the table, Celestia next to me, Nate next to Crosbie. This
leaves only the opposing end seats for Kellan and Marcela, and once they’ve
loaded the table with turkey, potatoes, cranberries, rolls, and the perfect
gravy, they sit down. Crosbie and I now serve as a buffer between Marcela,
Nate, and Celestia, and I figure Kellan can fend for himself, since he’s
wielding the carving fork and slicing the turkey like a pro.

“You’re
good at that,” Celestia says. “And the turkey looks perfect.”

Truth be
told, it does look pretty good. As someone who has only succeeded in eating
roast turkey twice in the past fifteen years, the fact that there’s any turkey
at all is noteworthy.

“Dark
meat or white?” Kellan asks.

“Oh, I’m
vegetarian,” Celestia says.

Marcela
mumbles something that sounds like
you have to be fucking kidding me.

“But I brought some fake turkey,”
she continues, pulling a little plastic-wrapped lump out of her purse and
setting it on her plate. “It’s just as good!”

Kellan
looks alarmed, but Crosbie quickly stands and extends his plate. “White or dark
is fine by me,” he says. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Me too,”
I say, shoving my plate forward.

We all
proceed to load our plates in even more loaded silence, the quiet cut by the
sound of Celestia sawing through what might just be a piece of gray putty. The
only other items on her plate are half a dinner roll and a cranberry.

Marcela
looks ready to have a conniption fit and when I see her mouth open to make some
offensive remark, I blurt out, “So, Nate. Earmuffs. They must be handy on days
like today!”

He’s got
a mouthful of food so he looks around, chewing as fast as he can. “Very warm,”
he agrees, the words garbled.

“They’re
fur-lined,” Celestia reminds us.

“Isn’t
that weird?” Kellan asks. “Being a vegetarian and wearing fur?”

She
stares at him. “How do you figure?”

“What did
you get Celestia?” I ask Nate, sensing Marcela winding up again.

“An
angel,” he mumbles. “For her tree.”

“Oh.
That’s nice.”

“He said
it looked like me,” Celestia adds. “It’s beautiful.”

A
lengthy, painful silence follows.

“What’d
you two get each other?” Kellan asks eventually, using his knife to point
between Crosbie and me, nearly taking out Nate’s eye.

Crosbie
and I both freeze. We hadn’t actually talked about gifts, though I’d secretly
gotten him something. I hid it beneath the passenger seat of his car, figuring
I could text him on Christmas morning to tell him where to find it.

“That’s a
surprise,” Crosbie says, taking a gulp of wine. “For…later.”

“Yes,” I
say, as though I too, have not bought a gift. “Later.”

“Huh.”

“And
you?” Celestia says. “What did you buy for Marcela?”

“Lingerie,”
Kellan answers promptly.

“I’m
wearing it now,” Marcela adds.

Celestia
looks startled. “Oh. How…personal.”

“How
about you, Marcela?” Nate asks. “What’d you get Kellan?”

“A video
game,” she lies. I know they didn’t get each other anything at all, since
they’re not actually in a relationship and this charade is fine so long as they
don’t have to spend any money.

“Oh,”
Nate says, doing an excellent-if-sarcastic Celestia impression. “How…personal.”

Marcela
glares at him.

“Kellan,
this gravy is amazing,” I say, pouring a little more than necessary on my
potatoes. “Well worth all the taste testing.”

“It’s the
white pepper,” he replies. “Who knew?”

Nate
polishes off his beer. “Who indeed?”

Celestia
pushes away her plate, half her tiny food portion still sitting untouched. “I’m
stuffed,” she announces. “Do you have any Perrier?”

“Still
no,” Marcela snaps.

With
Celestia just sitting there watching us placidly, the sound of everyone chewing
suddenly feels incredibly loud. And as though we all hear it, we all start to
chew faster, just so it’s over.

“Why
don’t we play this new video game of yours?” Crosbie asks when the tension
grows to unbearable proportions.

Kellan
face goes comically blank. “It’s…not here.”

“Where is
it?”

“At my
place,” Marcela supplies. “I bought a console so Kellan could be there all the
time.”

Nate
snorts.

Crosbie
shrugs. “Whatever. Let’s play something else, then.”

“Go
ahead,” I say. “Marcela and I will clean up.”

“I
cooked!” Marcela protests.

Now I
snort. Marcela can’t cook a piece of toast. She just wore the apron and stood
next to Kellan for a few hours.