Undecided(17)

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?”

I clear my throat. “It’s on my to-do list.”

“You need a hand with anything?”

A strange tingling starts in my feet and shoots straight up my legs, converging between my thighs. There is something I could use a hand with, Crosbie…

And last year, maybe I would have said those words. But this year? Nora Bora 2.0? Even with a three-month sexual hiatus? She’s going to say no.

“If you don’t mind.”

He slaps his hands against his thighs. “I don’t mind. I like this sort of thing.”

I stomp all over the strange warm feelings that are trying to bloom, like they’re a patch of weeds that needs to be destroyed. It’s not easy, and maybe one or two twisted tendrils remain, but I do a pretty decent job. Especially when Crosbie takes off the button-up so he’s just in jeans and the wife beater, muscles flexing as he grabs the box holding the pieces of my soon-to-be desk and lays it on the floor.

“Do you have a box cutter?”

“Sure. I sleep with one under my pillow.”

It takes him a second to realize I’m being sarcastic. “Jerk.” He makes a face at me. “Kellan’s got a toolbox under the sink. Want to grab it?”

I come back with the toolbox, then join Crosbie on the floor as he cuts open the box and finds the instructions. To my surprise, he reads them. Or, rather, looks at the pictures, since there are no words. In any case, he doesn’t try to pretend he knows everything, like he’s a desk building master. Once he’s done with the paper he sets it aside and starts assembling pieces, telling me what to hold, what to look for, what to do. I should be annoyed, but I really didn’t want to do this so I don’t mind at all. And after an entire summer of solitude, it’s kind of nice to have someone to hang out with.

“What’d you get up to last night?” he asks. He’s got his lips pursed around two screws he’s holding in his mouth as he twists a third one into the wood.

“Not much.” I concentrate on holding the boards at a ninety degree angle so my desk isn’t tilted. “I just worked then went to bed.”

“On a Friday?”

“I’m not very exciting.”