Undecided(22)

“Nora, I—”

“Please.” I think I might cry. And it’s so stupid—I don’t care about Crosbie, I don’t want to care about Crosbie, and I never thought he cared about me.

I grab my bag and stride toward the stairs at the far end of the floor, my route keeping me parallel to Crosbie and his friend. But their pace is no match for mine and I reach the top of the stairs just in time to hear her demand to know why they can’t take the elevator.

I jog down the stairs and maneuver my way through the main level and out the front doors to my bike, locked up in the rack on the sidewalk. My fingers tremble as I fumble for the combination, and the tumblers align just as I hear the front doors open and Crosbie’s date’s shrill inquiry about why they have to walk so fast.

I sling my leg over the seat and don’t look back as I pedal home as fast as I can. The sidewalk is damp and edged in the first fallen leaves of the season, but not even the welcome signs of fall improve my mood.

I know I’m being stupid.

Just like I knew streaking down Main Street was a bad idea.

Just like I knew blowing off Art History—five weeks in a row—was not smart.

How I knew partying the night before my Linguistics midterm was a mistake.

I know things are bad for me, but I do them anyway. And letting those stray shoots of feelings for Crosbie stay when I should have gotten down on my hands and knees and torn them up before they could take root—that was a mistake.

And I am done making mistakes.

I usually chain my bike to the handrail, but tonight I drag it up the front steps and ditch it in the foyer of our apartment. I stomp upstairs but there’s no one to impress with my bad mood because Kellan’s not home—as usual. I turn off all the lights to make it look like I’m not home, either, like I have plenty of interesting places to be while some people are getting off in the library.

I flop onto my bed and stare at the dark ceiling. My heart is pounding and my temples are damp with sweat.

I mean, what the f*ck.



*



“Sorry about last night.”

I glance up at Nate as I tie on my apron in the kitchen at Beans. “It’s no big deal.”

Marcela’s there too, not pretending not to eavesdrop. Not pretending Nate didn’t fill her in on the whole humiliating debacle.

“I tried calling you a couple of times—you didn’t pick up.”

“I was listening to the French lessons.” Technically true, but my phone was on my milk crate nightstand and I heard it vibrate, I just refused to look at the display. Just as I heard a tentative knock at the front door but didn’t dare get up to answer. I didn’t know what I’d say if it were Crosbie, and if it wasn’t him, that would have somehow been worse. So I did what I always do: I chose one end of the spectrum and I stayed there. Confront my demons or ignore them? Hello, denial. I’m Nora.

“I thought you had a thing for Kellan,” Marcela remarks. She sticks a tray of muffins in the convection oven, a wave of heat wafting over me as I walk toward the swinging door to the shop.

“Me too,” I say.

They follow me out front, and I sigh when there’s just one customer in the shop, an old man who always comes to browse the artwork but never buys anything.

“I was just surprised,” I say. “That’s all. I barely know Crosbie. I’m worried things might be awkward at home. He’s there all the time.”

Nate and Marcela share a look.

“What?”

“He came here last night,” Marcela says.

I grow very still. “What?”

“Around nine. He came in asking for you. He looked stressed.”

I take a breath. “He was probably trying to find Kellan.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe he just wanted another brownie.”

“He didn’t flirt with me at all.”

“Huh.” That is weird. Though it’s hardly placating to know that after he dropped off his date he came looking for me, his second choice. It doesn’t mean anything, and I can’t let it. I’m barely a month into my new life and despite my best efforts, I’m failing. Again.

And I really can’t afford to. It’s not like I come from nothing. My parents worked hard, saved their money, and instilled in me the importance of doing the same. And I did—all through high school. I never got into trouble, never rebelled, never so much as dyed my hair. And it’s not like I had dreams of robbing banks or getting a dozen tattoos, I just wanted to have fun last year. Just for a little bit, I wanted to let loose.

Nate clears his throat and wanders over to chat up the old man, and for a second Marcela and I just stand side-by-side at the counter and watch. She uses one fingernail, painted black, to pick at a sticker someone stuck on the counter, and I don’t know what to do. This is where I want to be, even though I shouldn’t.

Story of my life.

“I’m sorry you got arrested,” she says eventually, watching the corners of the sticker peel up. “And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

I keep watching her fingernail. “It’s not your fault.”

“Well, it was my idea.”

“Okay, so it was mostly your fault.”

She laughs a little. “And if I made you fail your classes last year, I’m sorry for that too. I know you have a scholarship and you need to keep your grades up.”