Authors: Julianna Keyes
I shampoo
my hair, finger combing out tangles as I work in conditioner, then washing my
face and willing the hot water to carry away my bad mood. I shouldn’t even care
if Kellan thinks Marcela’s hot—everyone thinks she is. Hell, even I think she
is. It just…stings. I’ll get over it.
Eventually
I climb out and towel off, scrubbing a hole in the foggy mirror and watching as
I brush my teeth. I smear on moisturizer, then tighten the tie on the robe
before darting back into my room as the guys continue to play their game. I
usually shower in the morning so typically there wouldn’t be an issue with
having an audience on my way back from the bathroom. Today, however, I swear I
can feel a hot gaze on my bare legs, tracking my return.
When I
close the door behind me I feel strangely exposed, and I suppose I am. Who
really wants Kellan McVey—or Crosbie Lucas—to see them straight out of the
shower, hair wet and makeup-free, wearing a ratty old robe printed with a
bizarre owl pattern? Then I laugh. Until now I’ve been sulking about Kellan not
noticing me, and suddenly I’m worried that he will.
I swap
the robe for shorts and a sweatshirt, then sit on the yoga mat that’ll serve as
my bed for one more night. I have two classes tomorrow, both in the morning, so
I’ll be around for the bed and desk delivery scheduled for mid-afternoon.
I kill a couple of hours on my laptop and
eventually the faint explosions coming through the wall fade to background
noise. It’s only when they stop shortly after midnight that I remember them at
all.
I yawn
into the crook of my elbow and shut off the computer, then lie down and try to
get comfortable, which isn’t the easiest task, given the mat’s all of a quarter
inch thick. The second my eyes close, there’s a soft knock on the door. I sit
up and switch on the desk lamp—currently a floor lamp—and shove the comforter
to the side. I’m expecting Kellan, but when I open the door, it’s Crosbie.
“Hey,” he
whispers, taking in my hair, still damp and tumbled over my shoulders.
“What’s
up?”
“Can I
talk to you for a sec?”
“Um,
yeah.” I half-expect him to ask me to secretly sign him up for open mic night.
He nods
over my shoulder at my room. “In there?”
I
hesitate. “Wh—”
“Relax.”
He makes a face. “Kellan’s not going to spread rumors about you.”
“That’s
not what I—” I blow out a breath. “Fine. Come in.”
I step
back and he enters, closing the door. His expression is equal parts horrified
and amused when he takes in my shoddy set-up: the closet is half-f, every
item of clothing I own either hanging inside or still stashed in an open duffel
bag on the floor, since I don’t have a dresser. My laptop sits on one of the
overturned milk crates, the other still holds all my books, and the yoga mat is
unrolled in the corner, my crumpled comforter and pillow crushed against the
wall.
“What the
fuck?” he whispers.
“The
furniture’s coming tomorrow.” I scratch my elbow, embarrassed. “I lived in
residence, remember? I didn’t need a desk.”
“Or a
bed.”
I cross
my arms. “What can I help you with?”
“Nice
artwork.”
I follow
his gaze over my shoulder to the framed paper with “Steve Holt!” written on it
in Marcela’s best handwriting. It’s a character/quote from
Arrested
Development
, and no one ever knows what it means. It probably took her five
minutes to make, but I love it.
“Thanks.
So…?”
He grows
serious. “Right. So. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s Kellan’s
twenty-first birthday on Friday, and some of us want to have a party for him.”
“Uh-huh.”
After the countless “you’re forgettable” references, no part of me thinks I’m
about to be invited, even though I—and everyone else on campus—know about
Kellan McVey’s birthday. Not that I could go, anyway, since I’m on the straight
and narrow now.
“But…” He
looks at me from under his lashes, probably trying to be cute, and only sort of
succeeding. “Not everybody’s twenty-one, so they can’t get into the bars…or
strip clubs.”
I feel my
eye twitch. “Uh-huh…”
“And
since Burnham polices the Frat Farm pretty seriously during September, we were
hoping we could have the party here.”
“Here? In
this apartment?”
“Yeah,”
he says quickly. “It would just be this one time, ever. I promise.”
“You want
to have a bunch of drunk frat guys and strippers here, in my apartment? The one
I moved into with the express understanding it was for studious homebodies
only?”
He’s
trying not to laugh. “Yes.”
“Crosbie,
no. Get out.”
“It’ll
just be this once, Nora. I swear. I’ll never ask you for anything again.”
“Stop
looking at me like that. It’s not working.” I think about how awkward I felt
hurrying past Crosbie and Kellan on my way to the bathroom; what would I do
with a bunch of drunk guys and strippers? Hunker down in my bedroom and hope I
didn’t have to pee all night?
“What’s
the problem?” he asks. “I’m sorry we can’t invite you, but it’s guys only,
unless you’re there to strip.”
“That’s
sweet.”
“I
promise to keep everyone out of your room,” he says. “All this…” He gestures to
my meager belongings, “will be safe.”
“What am
I supposed to do during this party, Crosbie? I don’t—” I stop myself before I
can blurt out that I don’t have any friends or anywhere else to stay. I could
go to work or hang out at the library until it closes at eleven, but after that
I’d be wandering around on my own, and I don’t imagine the party will wind down
early.
I see
realization dawn. “You can…you can stay in my room,” he announces, sounding
pleased with himself. “The door locks, I’ll stay here all night, most of the
guys will be here, and no one will know you’re there. I’ll even change the
sheets for you.”
I shake
my head. “This isn’t—”
“One
night,” he says. “And I’ll owe you.”
How the
hell did my plan to stay away from the Frat Farm fall to pieces so quickly? Now
I’m about to agree to not only spend the night there, but spend the night in
Crosbie Lucas’s room.
“If it’s
the Crosbabes thing, I swear to God I’ll kill anyone who talks about you. No
one will think we…whatever.”
I run a
hand across my brow. “It’s not that.”
“Then—”
“Show me
a magic trick.”
His grin
freezes. “What?”
“Right
now. Show me a magic trick.”
He stares
at me for a long moment. “Why?”
“Because
I want to see one.”
“And then
what?”
“Then
I’ll let you throw your party here.”
He
scrutinizes my face, and I really wish I wasn’t standing here with messy hair
and no makeup, ready for bed, with Crosbie Lucas eight inches away, peering at
me with so much doubt that I know no one has ever asked to see his tricks
without fully intending to mock him afterward.
“I won’t
laugh,” I promise.
His chest
puffs up a bit. “I don’t care if you laugh.”
“Then I—”
“You need
cash for this one. Two bills.”
I hear
the stubborn note in his voice, the unwillingness to back down from a
challenge. This is the guy who studies for a class that hasn’t even begun, then
spends an hour on the elliptical and runs ten miles that same night. I don’t
even care if the trick is stupid or disastrous; I’m not going to laugh at him
when he’s trying. Instead I crouch next to my “bed” and dig in my purse,
glancing over when Crosbie sits on the mat facing me.
“Are a
five and a one okay?”
“Yeah.
Perfect.”
I pass
him the bills then sit down too, cross-legged, so I can watch. He sets the five
on his knee then folds the one lengthwise and shows it to me. “A normal one
dollar bill, folded in half. Any questions?”
“No.”
“All
right. Do the same with the five.” He hands me the bill and I carefully fold it
lengthwise. When I finish he’s waiting patiently, still holding the first bill
between his fingers. “Good. Fold it in half again, the other way.”
I do, and
he takes the folded five back and places the one behind it. He flips the bills
back and forth so I can see that it’s the folded one pressed to the back of the
folded five like a lowercase
t
. “Pretty straight forward,” he says. “Now
count to three.”
I know
there has to be something shady going on here, but whatever it is, I can’t see
it. “One…two…three.”
As I
count he jerks his hand slightly, and on the third count the one dollar bill
suddenly slips through the folded halves of the five so it’s scissored in
between. “How did you—”
“Shh. I’m
not done. See how it’s in there?” He tugs the one so it bumps against the edge
of the five, trapped inside.
“Crosbie,
seriously, how—”
He
ignores me. “Now watch.” I stare closely as he tugs the one against the solid
folded edge. “One,” he says. “Two. Three.” On the count of three the one dollar
bill pops through the five and comes free in his hand.
I’ve only
just managed to shut my mouth when it falls open again. My eyes fly to his.
“Tell me how you did that.”
He looks
decidedly pleased with my reaction. “You wanted a trick, and you got one. I’ll
give you the key to my place on Friday and you can spend the night. I’ll
protect your trusty yoga mat while you’re gone.”
“I don’t
even do yoga.”
“No?” He
glances down at my bare legs, pale against the dark blue of my shorts. “Could
have fooled me.”
He
returns the money and stands, and I do too. If he were any taller, he’d be too
big, but I’m five-five, and he’s not even six feet. I like his height. He’s so
broad that any taller would be too tall; he’d be enormous. Right now he just
feels like he takes up a lot of space. Suddenly I’m too warm in my sweatshirt;
I’m wide awake when I should be falling asleep.
He’s
about to say something when a sharp rap on the door startles us, and we both
turn to see Kellan peering in. “Cros?” he says, looking between us. “What are
you…?”
“Just
showing Nora a trick,” he says.
Kellan
looks suspicious. “What kind of trick? I promised you wouldn’t bother her.”
“He
wasn’t bothering me,” I say quickly. “And it was a pretty good trick. You
should see it sometime.”
The
suspicion fades to surprise. “Oh yeah?”
I try to
sound casual. “If you want.”
“Maybe I
will.”
He steps
back as Crosbie exits. “Good night, Nora,” he says, before Kellan closes the
door on him.
“Good
night, Crosbie,” I say to no one.
My full
class load and shifts at Beans keep me busy, but the real reason I haven’t
opened the boxes containing the pieces of my bed frame and desk is because I
don’t want to. I’ve set up the box spring and mattress in a corner of the room,
dutifully covered them in a fitted sheet and comforter, and now inch out of my room
whenever Kellan’s around so he doesn’t see that I have neither the inclination
nor the know-how to build things.
It’s
Friday evening, the night of Kellan’s twenty-first birthday, and I have to be
at work for five. I met Crosbie on campus earlier and he gave me his house key
and promised every guy in the frat would be gone by ten. This suits me just
fine, since that’s when I finish work and the last thing I need is to be the
lone girl in a house full of horny frat guys on a Friday night.
At least,
not this year.
Anyway,
Crosbie told Kellan his parents were coming to take them out for dinner and
they’d head back to the frat afterward to party, so Kellan’s sitting on the
couch in a suit and tie, a textbook open on his lap, video game controller in
his hand, trying to straddle the line between college kid and dutiful son.
“Hey,” I
say, slipping on my jacket. I close my bedroom door behind me and wish not for
the first time that it had a lock. As it stands, I’ll have to trust Crosbie
that he’ll keep everyone out. Not that I have anything worth stealing—I’ve got
my laptop in my bag, and nothing else I own is valuable. Or built.
Kellan
pauses the game. “Off to work?”
“As
always.”
“You
know, for roommates, we don’t see very much of each other.”
It’s true.
Most of my classes are in the morning so I can work in the afternoons and
evenings, and Kellan picked afternoon classes so he could sleep in or run in
the morning. If I’m not working I spend my evenings in the library studying—I
really didn’t think “applying myself” would be this difficult, but it is—and
when I get home Kellan’s either out or asleep.
To his
credit, he’s been keeping up his end of the bargain about not bringing people
home. With the exception of Crosbie, he’s done all his socializing away from
the apartment. I pretend I’m doing the same, though I mostly just spend time by
myself. Even though I know it has to be killing her, Marcela has not brought up
the “roommates with Kellan McVey” thing, and Nate’s too nice to really tease me
about it.
Strangely
enough, the person I talk to most…is Crosbie.
I’m not
going to think about that.
I shoot
him a smile. “Happy birthday. Enjoy your dinner.” What I really mean is, “Coat
this place in spray bleach after the strippers are gone,” but when he grins
back and says thanks, I do nothing more than wave goodbye and head downstairs
to grab my bike.
Beans is
bustling when I arrive. From five until eight we’re pretty much run off our
feet. We could use more staff, but the place is small enough that there
wouldn’t actually be room for more people behind the counter. As it stands
Nate, Marcela and I bump hips and elbows and stomp on each other’s feet with
such regularity that we no longer bother with “ouches” and “sorrys.”
When we
finally catch a lull we slump against the counter as Nate makes us each an
espresso. The silence has more to do with our tiredness than any lingering
awkwardness, but Nate changes that when he says, “So. Kellan McVey’s birthday.”
I glance
over at him. “Uh-huh.”
“Big
plans?”
I gesture
to the shop. “This is my plan.”
“It’s his
twenty-first birthday and he’s not doing anything?”
“I didn’t
say he wasn’t doing anything.
I’m
not doing anything. New leaf,
remember?”
Marcela
snorts into her espresso but manages to bite her tongue. After all these weeks
I imagine she has a lot to say, but she’s been remarkably composed. Or maybe
she’s just bottling it up, ready to explode at any moment.
“I saw
this…” Nate starts, tugging his phone from his back pocket and pulling up his
Facebook page. Somehow Nate manages to be invited to absolutely everything,
though he never goes. I think it’s a combination of him seeming older than us
and therefore cooler, but not actually being older than us, and therefore not
creepy. Even though I shouldn’t look, both Marcela and I edge closer so we’re
standing on either side of Nate and peering down at his phone.
It’s a
group-only invite to a party at Kellan’s apartment—our apartment—to celebrate
TWENTY-ONE ROCKIN’ GOOD YEARS. It promises strippers, beer, and oh yeah,
strippers. It actually says strippers seven times.
Marcela
and Nate look at me, their expressions accusatory. “What?” I protest. “Look at
the contact list—I’m not even invited.”
“It’s at
your home,” Marcela points out.
“Guys
only, unless you’re a stripper.”
Nate
frowns. “So what are you doing tonight?”
I shrug
awkwardly. “Just…going somewhere else.”
Marcela
forgets she’s mad at me for a second. “Where somewhere else?”
“Just a
friend’s house.”
Her eyes
flash. “You were able to make some ‘decent’ new friends?” She uses air quotes
around “decent,” even though I never used that word when I broke things off.
“I didn’t
say I needed ‘decent’ friends, I said I needed
different
friends.”
“Better
friends.”
I try to
take a calming breath. “Friends who don’t like to party. Who didn’t hide in
backseats while I got arrested.”
She
recoils slightly, and I see the flash of pain on her face before it smoothes
back into that perfect, angry mask. “You shouldn’t have hidden behind a fucking
compost bin.”
“No
kidding!”
“Who’s
this ‘friend?’”
“It’s no
one.”
“Is it
Kellan McVey?”
“No!”
Her eyes
narrow. “It’s Crosbie Lucas.”
“No,” I
say too quickly. “It isn’t.”
“Are you
fucking him?”
“Keep
your voices down!” Nate finally snaps.
“Who my
friends are is none of your business.”
“It’s
hard to make ‘nobody’ my business,” Marcela retorts.
“Then
don’t.”
“Girls—”
Nate tries to interject.
“I’m
going to do inventory,” Marcela says, whirling on a black leather heel and
stomping into the kitchen.
I feel
hot and dizzy with anger, the espresso forgotten in my hand. I set it on the
counter with a clatter and try to compose myself.
“I’m
sorry,” Nate says after a moment. “I just thought—”
“It’s not
your fault,” I say stiffly. A customer has bravely approached the register and
orders a skim latte. I plaster on a smile as I make the drink and slide it
over.
“Are you
okay?” Nate asks, lingering uncomfortably.
“Just
fine.”
“I don’t
mean the fight. I mean, living there. And whatever you’re doing tonight.”
“Everything’s
fine.” But the words are less than convincing when I have to blink back tears
afterward.
* * *
I wake up
confused and disoriented. Warm orange light filters through the window, and
when I reach for my phone to check the time, it’s sitting on a desk, not an
overturned milk crate.
Too many
mornings last year I woke up much the same way, but this time when I warily
turn my head to look beside me, the strange bed is empty.
Crosbie
Lucas’s bed.
True to
his word, the house was empty when I arrived last night, and I’d dragged myself
up the stairs, swapped out my work clothes for pajamas, and crawled right into
bed. He’d washed the sheets as promised, and they’re soft and lemony, the
mattress the right balance between firm and giving.
Getting
comfortable in Crosbie Lucas’s bed is not a thing I am going to do. If the
rumors are to be believed, a lot of girls have been in here, but very few have
been invited back. And he’s never had a girlfriend. He’s committed to school
and track, and while he makes time for fun, it’s never serious. That’s totally
fine, it’s just not a road I’m about to go down. Not that that’s an option,
anyway.
I change
into jeans and a T-shirt, hurry across the hall to splash water on my face and
brush my teeth, put on some mascara and lip gloss, then gather my things. I
hesitate at the top of the stairs, listening for voices, but the house is still
silent at this hour. I tiptoe down the steps as fast as I can, heart pounding
when I make it outside without being spotted. The combination of a hastily
packed overnight bag and my normally riotous hair has the two other girls
creeping out of frat houses in last night’s party clothes nodding at me as
though we’re partners in crime. I nod back even as I cringe inwardly. Because
last year, that was me. A bunch of times.
I start to bike home, then detour, pretty sure
whatever mess they made last night is still on full display. Instead I turn
around and bike into town, parking my bike in front of a small café and heading
inside to order an omelet. The combination of a good night’s sleep and a full
load of self pity has made me hungry. I pull out my laptop and bury myself in
an English Lit assignment, coming up for air only when the server asks if I
want a fourth cup of coffee. It’s nearly noon and I promised myself I’d tackle
building the desk and bed frame today. I turn down the coffee. It’s time to
face whatever horrors await me at the apartment.
I settle
the bill and bike home, the late summer air crisp and clean. Burnham’s campus
is normally deserted on weekend mornings, the students sleeping off last
night’s overindulgence, and I pass just a handful of people as I wind my way
along leafy side streets.
The
apartment is quiet when I arrive, chaining my bike to the handrail along the steps
before trudging up and sliding my key in the lock. The front entrance is tidy,
Kellan’s abundance of running shoes lined up neatly along one wall, my two
pairs on the other. I add my boots to the group and climb the steps to the
living room, expecting to find a dozen strangers sleeping on the floor, but
there’s only Crosbie, a dust rag in one hand, wiping down the coffee table.
“Hey,” I
say. No response. I realize he’s got earbuds in and say it again, louder. Still
nothing. I walk up and tap him on the shoulder. He leaps up and spins around so
quickly we both yelp and stumble back. I catch myself on the entertainment
console, shoulder blade smacking the TV, and he grabs the couch for balance.
“Fuck,
Nora!” he exclaims, laughing, embarrassed, as he turns off the mp3 player and
sticks it in his pocket. He’s wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned
over a wife beater. His feet are bare, short hair tousled, cheeks pink from the
near heart attack. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
I try not to laugh, but one sneaks out. “I said hi.”
He
pinches his brow. “I didn’t hear you.”
I glance
around the empty space. Both bedroom doors are closed. “Is everyone gone?”
“Yeah.
They left a little while ago.”
“How was
the party?”
“Pretty
epic.”
I turn
slowly to take in the apartment. With the exception of two full trash bags
waiting at the top of the stairs, a recycling bin overflowing with bottles, and
a blown up photo of Pamela Anderson from one of her Playboy spreads taped to
the wall, the place looks the same as usual. And it smells like Lysol.
“What’d
you do to get stuck with cleaning duty?”
He
shrugs. “Luck of the draw.” Then he spots Pam. “Shit.” He hurries to the wall
and yanks down the life-size picture.
“Were you
responsible for the décor, too?”
He blushes.
“Sorta.”
I pass
him his keys. “Thanks. I took pictures of all your things and posted them on
eBay.”
“That’s
great. And I kept my promise—nobody went into your room but me and a couple of
strippers.” I glare at him and he smiles sweetly. “You’re going to need some
new sheets.”
I head
for my door. “I know you’re kidding, but I’m still going to check.” I take a
breath and turn the knob. The room is exactly how I left it.
“About
this.”
I jump.
Crosbie’s right behind me. So close I can feel his breath on my hair when he
speaks. I don’t move a muscle, every traitorous part of me unwilling to step
away even though I know I have to. “About what?” I hear myself say, motionless.
“This.”
He pushes open the door farther and gestures at my lame set up. “Why haven’t
you built your stuff yet?”
I wilt a
bit, disappointed. I don’t know what I expected him to say.
“About this
strange chemistry we seem to have, Nora. About the fact that I’m the only one
left in your apartment, and you slept in my bed last night. What are we going
to do about this?”