Undecided(27)

“I don’t want your disgusting pizza,” I mutter. “Thanks anyway.”

“It’s only half disgusting,” he replies. “The other half is boring.”

My stomach perks up again. We’ve had this discussion before: I like pepperoni and extra cheese, which Crosbie and Kellan unanimously declared the dullest pizza on earth.

I get up and pull open the door, making Crosbie jump back like he’s been zapped. I look around suspiciously. “Is there really pizza?”

“Yeah.” He points at the coffee table where a closed box awaits.

“Are you lying about the boring half?”

“I wish.” Even as he speaks I see his eyes flicker over my shoulder, and I know he sees the crumpled dress at the foot of the bed, the forgotten red heels toppled over beside it. Let him think whatever he wants.

I shut the door and trudge out of the bedroom, grabbing a plate from the cupboard in the kitchen. There’s a two-liter bottle of Pepsi sitting next to the pizza and that looks good, too. I grab a glass and handful of napkins from some of Kellan’s leftover takeout, and head to the couch to take a couple of slices.

I open the box and confirm Crosbie was telling the truth: one half is blissfully untarnished by his horrible toppings. I grab two pieces and stick them on my plate. He approaches, almost shyly, and sits on the couch with his own plate and takes a piece for himself.

“Are you going to stay?” he asks when I pour a glass of Pepsi without sitting down. “Take a break and watch TV with me.”

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s got a smudge of tomato sauce on his upper lip and licks it away as he reaches for the remote.

“There’s nothing on,” I say, if only to be disagreeable.

“There’s always something.”

Though this is the very opposite of my “avoid and forget Crosbie Lucas” plan, I’m not exactly eager to return to my room, so I take a seat on the far end of the couch and curl up my legs, tucking my bare toes between the cushions. My first bite of pizza makes my eyes roll back in my head a little bit.

Crosbie flips through the channels until he finds an old true crime show, one that reenacts a decade-old mystery and its eventual conclusion. I tell myself I’m only going to stay until I finish the pizza, but the story of a young wife and mother murdered in her home on a sunny Sunday afternoon keeps me glued to my seat, my morbid side unwilling to leave without answers.

“Totally the husband,” Crosbie says at the first commercial break. “He was having an affair and didn’t want to pay child support, so he killed her.”

“It’s the helpful neighbor,” I counter. “The way he started that volunteer search party—he totally knew she was in the attic. Murderers always try to be involved.”

“You know a lot about killers, huh?”

I give him a look. “You’d be surprised.”

He laughs and grimaces. “Jesus, Nora.”

I don’t want to, but I smile. By the time the show ends, I’ve eaten three and a half pieces of pizza and I feel like a bloated, satisfied whale.

“I can’t believe it was the kindergarten teacher,” Crosbie says, turning off the TV and looking at me. “What a psychopath.” She’d developed a dangerous infatuation with the oblivious husband and viewed the wife as unnecessary competition.

“Yeah.” We fall silent, staring at the dark television screen. I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my pants and Crosbie drums his fingers on his knees.

“Nora,” he says eventually.

I don’t look at him. “What?”

“I’m really sorry about the library.”

Even though I half-expected him to bring it up, I still feel an uncomfortable tightening in my chest, all the stinging memories of that night surging to the surface. “Forget about it,” I say, though the instructions are more for me than him.

“That was the guy from the coffee shop, right?”

“So?” I make a move to stand, which seems to prompt him to ask, “Is he your boyfriend?”

I try not to look to disdainful. “Nate? No. He’s in love with Marcela, like every guy who sees her.” I think of Kellan asking about her that night at the coffee shop. How every head turns when she walks by. How even though I live here and we had plans, Kellan still managed to forget about me. And how I suddenly care less about his absence than Crosbie’s unexpected company. How this keeps happening.

“Oh. I thought maybe you were together.”

“Not in the way you and your…friend were together.”

“We’re not together.”

“Whatever.” This time I do stand up, snagging my glass and plate from the table and bringing them to the kitchen. After a second, Crosbie follows with his plate, standing next to me as I rinse mine and stick it in the tiny dishwasher. Kellan didn’t lie about this—he really does do dishes and take out the trash. He’s a decent roommate, just a terrible date.

“I feel like a jerk about it,” Crosbie blurts out. “I saw the look on your face and I just—”

The hurt I’m feeling about Kellan’s rejection twines with the burn of the reminder of Crosbie’s makeout session and when he doesn’t finish the sentence I snap, “You just what?” It’s possible I’m jealous and a little sexually frustrated.