Undecided(16)

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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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.