Undecided (30 page)

“Get in,”
they say, reaching for the passenger side doors of both vehicles.

“Were two
cars really necessary?” I ask tiredly. “When we’re going to the same house?”

“It’s a
duplex,” my dad points out.

“It’s the
same structure.”

“But two
homes.”

“Yes, I
get it. But you’re wasting gas.” And truthfully—no matter who I choose, no
matter the reason, someone’s feelings are going to get hurt. There are only two
sides in this equation, much like there are two sides in the duplex. There’s no
safe, neutral territory. Maybe that’s why a comfortable middle balance is at
once so appealing and so difficult to achieve.

“Fine,” I
say, when neither of them gives in. My dad is parked at the end of the aisle,
which means the door opens wider so I can stuff my bag in easily. “I choose
this car. See you at the two homes.”

My mom
looks wounded. “But I—”

“You
wanted me to choose. I chose. Let’s go.”

They look
startled as I sling my bag into the footwell and follow, buckling my seatbelt.
In previous years I’d bemoaned their behavior and pleaded with them not to do
things like this. It’s not a competition. I love them both, as much as they
frustrate me. But their unspoken war has more to do with each other than it
ever has with me.

My dad
seems pleased as we ride home, telling me about his current girlfriend, Sandy,
who works at a gym, and their plans to go to Antigua in the spring. “Your
mother’s going to Mexico,” he says, his tone almost pitying. “That’s a
little...done, don’t you think?”

“Is
Mexico ‘done?’” I echo. “I don’t know. I’ve never been.”

He’s
been, three times. My mother’s been as well. But I’ve never been invited.

We stop
for a red light and he turns to look at me, expression serious. “Are you okay,
Nora? You seem a little tense.”

“It was a
long bus ride, that’s all.” It’s late afternoon but the sky is already growing
dark. I feign a yawn and he seems to buy it.

We make
our way silently through the center of town, the icy streets still busy as
people finish up their last-minute shopping. It’s Christmas Eve, so shops will
be open for another few hours, and when we pass a grocery store, I sit up in my
seat.

“Who has
the turkey?” I ask.

“Hmm?”

“The
turkey. Who’s making it this year? You or mom?”

“Oh, your
mother, I believe. Don’t worry—I bought hamburgers, just in case.”

We stop
for another light, my mother idling right beside us. I roll down my window and
gesture for her to do the same. “Do you have a turkey?” I shout.

“What?”

“Do you
have a turkey?”

“Your
father’s making it!”

“He said
you were!”

“Robert!”
she yells past me. “You said you would get it!”

“I
offered,” he hollers back, “but you said I would lose it!”

“And then
you said—”

I roll up
the window on the argument. “Stop at Carters.”

* * *

We end up with a small but obnoxiously overpriced bird that sits in the
laundry sink in my mother’s basement overnight, presumably thawing. I explain
I’ll be alternating sides of the duplex during my stay, starting with mom’s
house tonight so I can keep an eye on the turkey.

Christmas
morning is the usual strained affair. My parents act as though everything is
all right and I sit there in pajamas opening too many presents as they try to
outdo each other with things like perfume and scarves and gaudy jewelry—none of
which I would ever wear, but thank them for all the same. I think we’re all
relieved when the last gift is unwrapped and I head down to the basement to
grab the turkey from its chilly bath.

Kellan
had insisted on explaining the whole turkey process as he performed it, gross
things like grabbing the innards that are stashed inside and sewing parts to
other parts so it stays together. I skip the “brining,” mostly because I don’t
know what brine is, and skim the recipe he’d texted me, mixing up breadcrumbs
and diced vegetables and a variety of spices rescued from the depths of my
mother’s pantry.

I gag a
little as I stuff the bird and rub butter under its pebbled skin, then stick
the whole thing in the oven. I threaten to go home immediately if this bird
disappears for even one second, and both my parents promise to remain hands
off. To be honest, they look a little frightened by my uncharacteristic
decisiveness.

All too
soon it’s time for dinner. I make my way downstairs where I’m introduced to
dad’s girlfriend, Sandy, and Byron, mom’s new boyfriend. Each relationship is
still in its early stages, far too early for Christmas dinner with each other’s
ex, if their strained expressions are any indication.

For the
first time in years, we sit down to a meal that involves actual turkey cooked
in our oven. Everyone makes appreciative noises as my dad carves it up, and I
feel a tiny, satisfied thrill when we start eating and no one pulls any
supplementary food items from their pockets. It’s already more successful than
Chrisgiving.

“So,”
Byron says, peering at me over his wine glass. “You’re at Burnham, is that
right?”

“I am.”

“My alma
mater,” my father chimes in, uninvited.

Byron
just glances at him before returning his attention to me. “What are you
studying?”

“I’m
undecided.”

“I
thought this was your second year.”

“It is.”

My mom
smiles reassuringly. “There’s no timeline for finding your way,” she assures
me. “When you get there, you’ll know.”

Dad and
Sandy scoff in unison.

“I’m
sorry, Robert,” my mom says tersely. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?”
he asks. “No, Diane, nothing’s wrong. Why would it be?”

“I—”

“Though
there
is
a timeline,” he continues. “It’s four years. And each one costs
a small fortune.”

I cut my
turkey into miniscule pieces and try to avoid eye contact. Though my
grades—and, for the most part, my behavior—this year have been much improved, I
still don’t think they’d be thrilled to learn I’m newly evicted—or why.

“So what
does one learn when they’re ‘undecided?’” Sandy asks, not unkindly. I’d really
rather be eating under the table than having this discussion, but I recognize
that she’s just trying to deflate the tense bubble blooming between my parents.

I shoot
her a tiny smile and recap my classes from this year and last.

“That’s a
very broad selection,” Byron remarks.

“She’s
twenty-one,” mom says dismissively. “Not everyone knows what they want when
they’re twenty-one. Sometimes you have to try on a few pairs of shoes before
you find the ones that fit.” She looks proud of her analogy, but my dad rolls
his eyes.

“She’s
not Cinderella, Diane.” Then he quickly glances at me. “Though you’ll always be
my princess.”

Now
everyone
rolls their eyes.

“I have
an engineering degree,” he continues, undeterred. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Mom
narrows her eyes. “You edit cookbooks. Where does engineering come into play?”

“It looks
good on a resume.”

“You were a philosophy major in first year, and
a biology major in second. You were undecided for quite a while, yourself,
Robert. There’s no rush, Nora.” She pats my hand.

My dad
scowls. “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one paying the tuition.”

“You’re
the one who insisted she go to Burnham. Let her test the waters a little bit
and find out what she really wants. When she’s ready, she’ll make her choice.
Won’t you, honey?”

I shift
in my seat and think of Crosbie. “Yeah.”

Dinner
drags on interminably, and Sandy and Byron book it out the door as soon as
they’re able.

“Well
done, Diane,” my father remarks, bringing dishes into the kitchen.

“Me?” she
protests. “You’re the one painting people into corners.”

“How? By
hoping our daughter actually learns something at college? Is having some
expectation of her really that ridiculous?”

“I’m
right here,” I point out, standing two feet away with a stack of plates.

“You’re
making her feel bad!” my mom snaps.

“She
feels fine,” my dad retorts. “And maybe if—”

“Could we
stop talking about how I feel?” I interrupt. “And maybe talk about how you two
feel? For once?”

They
freeze and turn slowly, as though just now remembering I’m here. “Nora, honey,”
my mom says. “Everything is fine. We’re just talking.”

“Because
we care,” my dad adds.

“You’re
lying,” I say flatly. “To me. To each other. To Sandy and to Byron. To
everyone. You’re stuck in this charade of pretending everything is okay because
you think that’s the best thing for me, but it’s not. I’d really much rather
have you be honest about everything, once and for all. Keeping this all bottled
up is only making everyone miserable.”

“We’re
not—”

“Just say
it,” I interrupt before they can start to argue. “Tell the truth. Put
everything out in the open. And if you can overcome it, great. And if not,
that’s fine, too. It’ll hurt, but you’ll live.”

I’m still
living, after all, and I’m tired of these tortured holidays. Tired of swapping
sides of the duplex and making small talk with strangers and never having any
turkey. To date my efforts to be different have involved a fair bit of lying—to
myself, to other people. It’s time for the truth.

“I hate
you, Robert,” my mother says finally. “I just really hate you.”

My dad
looks stunned. “Diane! Nora is—”

“An
adult,” she finishes firmly, if a bit sadly. “She’s an adult and just like she
knows Santa didn’t bring any of those gifts this morning, she knows this whole
‘getting along’ charade is just that—a charade. And a dreadful one, at that.”

His mouth
works, but nothing emerges until, “I suppose I hate you too,” he offers
grudgingly. “And I hate this duplex. You never mow your side of the front yard
and it always looks lopsided.”

“Oh, you
and that grass obsession! At least I don’t insist on walking up the stairs like
an injured hippo—the whole house shakes.”

“You beep
the car four times to lock the door—four! It only takes one. How many people
have to be disturbed…”

I snag an
extra piece of pie and back out of the room, passing the dining table where the
remaining turkey sits guilelessly on its holly-rimmed platter. It had taken far
too long for us to have this dinner, and though it wasn’t exactly the easiest
meal to choke down, I can’t help but think how many things would be different
if we’d only had it sooner.

Though it
was only four months ago that I moved in with Kellan, it feels much longer when
I make three round-trips through Burnham’s quiet streets as I cart my things
over to Marcela’s. In addition to leaving me the keys to her—our—home, she’d
also loaned me her car, and now I park at the curb and jog back up the steps to
my—Kellan’s—apartment to contemplate how best to get the long slats of the bed
frame into the tiny trunk.

It’s
nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve and everything else is already gone. I’d gotten
home at three to finish packing and start moving, determined to wake up
tomorrow in a newer, better place, both literally and metaphorically. But now,
faced with the final pieces of the puzzle, I’m exhausted. I’d stopped in town
for Chinese food on one of my runs, and now I slump on the couch with a carton
of cold noodles and a glass of orange juice to see the ball drop in Times
Square. Last year my parents and I had stood in the front yard to watch
neighbors shoot off fireworks. They’d pretended it was because they had a keen
interest in pyrotechnics, but we all knew it was because neither wanted to
concede the holiday by going to the other’s home to watch the countdown on TV.

The
counting begins and ends and New York explodes in cheer, everyone kissing and
hugging and smiling, happy and unburdened. I change the channel until I find an
old black and white movie, wishing things were that simple, then mentally
kicking myself for being so maudlin. Yes, I’m a twenty-one-year-old girl who’s
spending New Year’s alone. Yes, I was recently evicted. Yes, I was recently
dumped. But if I consider my list of goals for this year, “do not get evicted”
and “do not get dumped” were never on it. I’m not flunking any classes and I
haven’t gotten arrested, so technically I’m still on track.

I turn to
look out the window where a light snow has started to fall, sifting over tree
branches and clinging to the grass. I don’t know what the forecast is, but if I
want to complete this move tonight, I can’t waste any more time feeling sorry
for myself. Not here, anyway. I can do it at my new apartment.

I throw
the empty carton in the trash, rinse out my glass and stick it in the
dishwasher, then start the cycle so Kellan comes home to a clean kitchen. Fresh
starts for everybody.

I’ve just
carted all the pieces of the bed frame down the stairs to the front door and am
reaching for my boots when there’s a sudden knock. I freeze, then slowly
straighten. After a second, another knock. I already know Burnham is deserted.
I’d passed only three other people on my trips back and forth from Marcela’s
apartment, and none of them have reason to visit me at nearly ten o’clock on
New Year’s Eve.

I rise
onto my tiptoes to peer warily through the peephole. And for the second time in
as many minutes, I freeze.

It’s Crosbie.

Though
I’m perfectly warm in my jeans and fitted wool sweater, my fingers are numb as
I fumble with the deadbolt and twist the knob to pull open the door. Frigid
night air rushes in and I shiver. Even though I knew it was him, I’m still
stunned to see Crosbie two feet away, head ducked down against the cold, hands
jammed in the pockets of his jeans. His puffy black jacket is zipped to his
chin and he shifts from foot to foot, stopping only when he looks up to meet my
eye.

“Hi,” I
say, when I can’t come up with anything else.

He nods
briefly. “Hey.”

Whatever
small, desperate hope had been blooming quickly withers. “He’s not here,” I
say, nodding over my shoulder. “He’s not back until the second.”

“I know.”
He’s watching me, face expressionless, the shadows beneath his eyes deepened by
the yellow porch light.

“Then
what are you…” I shiver again. “Did you forget something? Do you want to come
in?”

A slight
hesitation. “Yeah.”

I step
back as he enters, scuffing his feet on the mat and closing the door behind
him. Without the white noise of the night, it feels deathly quiet in here, the
tension thick and painful. He finally looks away, taking in the familiar slats
of wood resting against the wall. “What are you doing?” His voice is raspy and
he clears his throat, looking embarrassed.

“I’m
moving,” I say, also looking at the frame. “To Marcela’s. This is my last
trip.”

He nods
and looks over my shoulder, up the stairs. “No kidding.”

“No
kidding.”

More
silence.

“Did you
need something?” I ask when I can’t take it anymore. “A video game or
something? Why are you back so soon? There’s no one else in town.”

He meets
my eye again. “I know.”

My heart
thumps so hard in my chest it feels like it’ll bruise. “You know?”

“Yeah. I
know.”

“Then…what?”
I think about all my unanswered texts. The apologies. The Christmas present.
“The necklace?” I ask softly. “It’s on the counter. I can get it. I was going to
ask Kellan to return—”

“Not the
fucking necklace, Nora.”

I’m
mid-turn, one foot on the bottom stair, when the quiet words bring me to a
halt. There’s no vehemence there, no anger, only sadness. Exhaustion. As though
being angry has left him wrung out and raw. I know the feeling.

For a
long, exposed minute, we just look at each other, and then I can’t do it
anymore. I blink away tears as best I can, but I feel them catch on the ends of
my lashes and finally I give up and shrug helplessly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I
texted you a thousand times, I left messages. I’m sorry, Crosbie. I’m so sorry.
I don’t have anything else to say.”

His jaw
flexes and he nods. “Right.”

“Do you
want me to say something else? To say I regret it? That I regret not telling
you? That I regret going to that stupid party? Because I do. I regret
everything. But how was I supposed to know you—I—this—” I gesture between us
weakly, “was going to happen? I couldn’t know—I didn’t know—” I break off when
the tears are too heavy and I taste them on my lips. “I need a tissue.” What I
really need is space. Because though I’ve spent the past two weeks wanting
nothing more than to see Crosbie, talk to Crosbie, the reality of him is so
much different now.

The
reality of me is different for him, too.

I’m Nora
Bora and Red Corset and everything in between.

I grab a
tissue from the bathroom and mop up my eyes, dragging in deep breaths and
willing myself to calm down. When I come back out, Crosbie’s sitting on the arm
of the couch, jacket unzipped. With the exception of the now-missing
Chrisgiving decorations, the place looks pretty much the same. My life had been
contained to my room, and unless he went to the door and peered inside, there’s
really no way to tell I’d ever been here.

I just
stare at him. I don’t know what else to do.

“It’s not
fair,” he says, scuffing his socked toe on the hardwood floor.

I
swallow. “I know.”

He shakes
his head. “It’s not fair that I have a list I have to fucking paint over, and
you have, what—five minutes in a closet?—that gets you a nickname and a witch
hunt.”

I’m not
sure I’m breathing anymore. “Wh-what?”
“I mean, it’s not fair that my girlfriend
had sex with my best friend, but how could we have known?”

“Cros—”

“I was at
that party, Nora. And I never saw you. You were wearing a fucking
red corset
and I never saw you. Then you show up here, trying to be invisible, and all
of a sudden I couldn’t see anybody else.”

“Wh—”

He scrubs
his hands on his thighs, as though his palms are sweaty. “I had to think about
things. You broke my fucking heart that night. I know you didn’t mean to, but
it doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

I wince.
“I know.”

His gaze
travels across the room to the little red box sitting on the counter. “I guess
you do.”

“I’m
sorry, Crosbie.”

“I went
home because I thought the distance would make it easier, that not seeing you
would make it easier, but it didn’t. I think about you all the time. I have,
ever since September. And I tried going out, doing whatever, and I just
couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t turn it off. Because I don’t want to be that
guy on the bathroom wall, anymore than you wanted to be the girl on Kellan’s
stupid list.”

Even
though I know we’ve been broken up for weeks, the thought of him going out and
“doing whatever” still makes my heart crack in two. “Did you—”

He shakes
his head, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. “I didn’t mess around with
anybody. I was home by nine every night. That’s when my parents knew something
was up.”

“What did
you tell them?”

“That
there was a girl.”

“What’d
they say?”

He smiles
faintly. “That it was about time.”

“Did you
tell them about…” I can’t say the words. Now that they’re out there, I can’t
say them anymore than I can take them back.

“No. Of
course not. That’s your secret to tell. Or not.”

“I’d
really rather not.”

“Me
either.”
The silence stretches thin again.

“Crosbie.”
The word sounds scratchy. “Why are you here?”

He lifts
a shoulder helplessly. “Because I wanted to see you. I always have.”

“Even—”

“I got
your texts.”

I stop.

“All one
hundred and fourteen of them.”

I cringe.
“I didn’t—”

“It’s
okay. Kellan sent three hundred and twenty-two. Compared to him, you were
completely uninterested in my well-being.”

I laugh
weakly. “Did he tell you he kicked me out? That’s why I’m moving.”

“Yeah. He
told me.”

“Did he
tell you bros before hos?”

His
eyebrows shoot up. “He said that? Out loud? To you?”

“Well, it
was more like,
bros before ho-roommates
.”

Now
Crosbie laughs. “Smooth.”

“I mean,
I’m also leaving because I never should have moved in to begin with.”

“I was
here that first day,” he reminds me. “When you realized you’d probably get to
bump into me from time to time, you never really stood a chance.”

“That’s
exactly what decided it.”

More
silence.

“Remember
when you told me that you don’t know how to balance things?” he asks
eventually. “That it’s one extreme or the other? Nora Bora or…Red Corset?”

I bite
the inside of my lip and nod.

“You know
what I was thinking?”

“What?”
“That on Halloween, we met right in the
middle. That dog park, it’s halfway between here and the Frat Farm.”

My mouth
opens then flaps closed, surprised. “That’s very…insightful.”

“I know.
I also realized we were both in costume. You were this wild woman on the run,
and I was, quite naturally, a superhero.”

“Naturally.”
But my mind is whirling, zipping around frantically to pick up scattered
pieces, putting together a new picture of that night. He’d been Superman,
somebody’s alter ego, the side the public saw. And when we’d gotten back here
the cape had come off and he’d been Crosbie and I’d been Nora, and we’d just
been ourselves. And that had been more than enough.

He
studies his fingernails, then glances up at me. “Do you have anymore secrets,
Nora?”

I shake
my head. “No. Definitely not.”

“Me
either.”

Beside me
the movie ends, the programming promptly switching as the Chicago New Year’s
countdown begins.

“It’s
eleven o’clock,” I say, startled into moving.

“Yeah.
So?”

“So I
told myself I was going to start this new year in a better place. Marcela’s
place, specifically. Without…you know.”

“Me.”

I gesture
vaguely to the whole apartment. “This.”

“You need
a hand?”

“There’s
only the bed frame left.”

“Come on,
I’ll help you. Where does Marcela live?”

“About
five minutes from Beans.”

“Okay.”

It takes
four trips to get the pieces wedged into both trunks, and even then Crosbie has
to use a scarf to tie his closed, since the latch won’t catch. The snow has
picked up and the whole street is blanketed in white. He waits on the doorstep as
I give the apartment one last once-over, turn off all the lights, and lock the
door behind me.

We drive
slowly through the powdery, dark streets, the fresh snow grinding under the
tires. Crosbie trails me for the ten-minute drive, pulling into the adjacent
space when I park at Marcela’s building.

We climb
out of our cars and meet at the trunks. “This is it.”

“I
figured.” He unties the scarf and scoops up the wood slats, then insists on
carrying half of mine as well. “Lead the way.”