Undecided(28)

He blinks, startled. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly. “I’d had a bad day and she was a friend of a friend and…I don’t know. I thought I’d forget things for a bit. But I made them worse.”

“It didn’t seem like you felt ‘worse’ when I saw you.”

“Not then,” he says, meeting my eyes. “But after.”

I realize I’m clenching my hand around the dishwasher door and I force my fingers to uncurl. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”

Neither one of us moves, and the kitchen is small enough that it feels crowded with two people. “I think I do,” he says, scuffing his foot on the floor. For a long moment, we both watch our feet, his gray wool socks, my nails painted red in anticipation of tonight’s date. As much as I want to close the short distance between us and feel something—anything—besides this rejection and frustration and sadness, I don’t move a muscle. Because maybe my “forget Crosbie Lucas” plan has failed, but my “don’t f*ck up, Nora” plan hasn’t, and messing around with someone who only knows how to mess around isn’t on the agenda.

He’s about to say something else when we hear the front door open, a car horn honk, and Kellan’s slightly drunk laugh from the entryway. Crosbie shoots me one last, meaningful look before retreating to the living room and grabbing his bag from the floor, putting plenty of space between us before Kellan comes up.

“Hey, guys,” he says with a grin. The smile falters a little as he looks between us. “What are you two doing here? Together? Alone?”

“Together alone’s not a thing,” Crosbie says, hefting the satchel over his shoulder and snagging his jacket from the back of a chair. “And I came over to get Target Ops: Fury.”

That is most definitely not the game he mentioned when he first arrived, and if I had any doubts about my memory, Fire of Vengeance is still sitting on the coffee table. I’m contemplating this when Kellan says, “You should have come to the game, Cros. It was epic. Huge brawl on center ice.”

At the mention of “ice” I remember seeing posters around campus touting a pre-season game between Burnham’s top-ranked hockey team and some other college. And that’s when it finally dawns on me: Crosbie didn’t come here looking for Kellan.

As though he knows I’m piecing this together, I see Crosbie’s ears turn red and he jogs down the stairs. I hear the rustle of clothing as he puts on his shoes and shrugs into his jacket, then the creak of the door as it opens.

“Dude,” Kellan calls. “We can play right now if you want. Don’t be mad.”

The only response is the front door slamming shut, an ominous chill wafting up the steps.

“Wow.” Kellan runs his hands over his hair. “Can you believe this? That guy has not been himself lately. I’m getting kind of worried.”

His eyes are glazed, his shirt is buttoned incorrectly, and suddenly I’m exhausted. Whatever heat had been brewing in this kitchen was extinguished by Kellan’s untimely arrival, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed. When I look at him, however, I feel nothing but tired.

“I’m going to bed,” I mutter, rounding the breakfast bar and heading for my room.

“Do you want to play Target Ops: Fury?” he calls. In all the countless hours he’s spent playing that stupid game, he’s never once asked me, and no part of me wants to join him now. Plus I’m pretty sure that if I agreed he’d find some way to disappear, anyway.

“No,” I say, tugging my bedroom door closed. “I don’t.”





chapter eight


The next morning I emerge from my room to find Kellan sitting on the couch, studying. “Hey,” he says.

I frown and swipe a self-conscious hand over my tangled hair. “What are you doing here?” Kellan never comes home on Friday night—or Saturday, for that matter—so even though I’d seen him, I’d somehow assumed he would vanish again before sunrise.

I shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing my bleary eyes and wishing my hair didn’t look like it had exploded over night. My plan was to grab a glass of water and some crackers—prison fare, or a perfectly normal breakfast if you’re a college student who doesn’t know how to meal plan—then trek to the grocery store before heading to work at three.

“Nora.”

I close the fridge door and turn to see Kellan standing at the entrance to the kitchen, clutching a small bouquet of flowers wrapped in pink cellophane. “What’s happening?”

“I’m so sorry,” he says earnestly, my second kitchen apology in twelve hours. “I totally f*cked up last night. I absolutely forgot we had plans—I made the reservation and everything—and I feel like such an *. I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.”

I stare at the flowers like they might be covered in anthrax. How many girls would die to get flowers from Kellan McVey? Okay, fine—a tiny part of me still wants to raise her hand. But standing here holding my crackers, the position is a stark reminder of last night’s disappointment and a few flowers aren’t going to fix it.

“That was really rude,” I say.

“I know. I’m so—”

“I waited for you.”