Undecided(31)

Another slice of disappointment at the thought of seeing less of Crosbie. Who could have predicted this?

“Really,” I say. “He’s fine.”

And that’s the understatement of the year.



*



Unfortunately, Kellan is true to his word. I don’t see Crosbie before they leave for the road trip, and when they get back it’s mid-October, and I don’t see him then, either. He’s around—I hear Kellan talking to him on the phone, or sometimes he’ll tell me about something Crosbie said or did when they were hanging out that day, but he doesn’t come to the apartment. Not when I’m there, anyway. He doesn’t come to Beans, either, and though I try not to, I start to obsess. What did Kellan say to him? Stay away from Nora, she needs her education? Or does it have nothing at all to do with Kellan and everything to do with what didn’t happen in the kitchen that night? Is he embarrassed? Does he regret it? Does he hate me?

Okay, I really don’t think I’ve done anything to be hated for, but after exhausting all other avenues, that’s where my mind goes.

“Hey,” I say abruptly. I’m eating a plate of spaghetti at the dining table and Kellan’s watching one of the Die Hard movies.

“What’s up?” he asks, pausing the show.

“Do you know if Crosbie’s still interested in doing open mic night at Beans?”

Kellan frowns and rubs a finger between his eyebrows. “Has he been badgering you with his ‘magic’ again?” he asks with a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him about it.”

“No,” I say hastily. “I haven’t even seen him, that’s why I’m asking you. I thought he was interested, but he hasn’t signed up and all the slots are almost taken.” That’s technically true, though I haven’t actually given open mic night or Crosbie’s “magic” much thought recently. I just don’t know how else to ask Kellan what the hell his best friend has been up to without fielding certain questions in return.

“Oh,” he says. “He hasn’t mentioned it. I can check with him if you want.”

I swallow. “Sure. That would be great.” I don’t have Crosbie’s number, and I’ve never given him mine. I don’t know his class schedule, either, so short of skulking around outside the frat house, I have no way to run into him. I know I’m being contrary. It was my plan to forget him, but now that he’s the one who seems to have forgotten me, I can’t seem to think about much else besides getting him to notice me again.

“Want to watch this with me?” Kellan asks, nodding at the TV. “It just started. I can rewind it if you want.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Thanks, but I have to—”

“Study,” he finishes for me, giving me a big thumbs up. “Got it.”

I take my plate to the kitchen. I’m glad I ate most of the spaghetti before our conversation, because my appetite seems to have fled. I rinse the plate and stick it in the dishwasher, then head into my room to grab my jacket and bag.

“See you later,” I call, heading outside.

“Have fun at the library.”

I don’t respond, shivering as the foggy night air greets me. It’s dark and quiet, the air so dense it’s impossible to see more than ten feet in front. I climb on my bike and pedal in the direction of the library, though for once that’s not my destination. Despite my determination to be smarter this year, it has taken me way too long to figure out how to learn what Crosbie Lucas has been up to: I will quite literally read the writing on the wall.

It’s an antiquated and distasteful tradition and the school puts up a token protest and paints them every couple of years, but the fourth floor bathrooms in the Student Union building are notorious for listing frat house hookups. The more popular the guy, the longer the list. The lists appear in both the men and women’s bathrooms, and for some it’s about the bragging rights, while for others it’s just plain embarrassing. Last year I’d come up here daily in the week after my hookup with Kellan to see if my name appeared on his very lengthy list, but it never had. At the time I’d been a confusing mix of relieved and disappointed; now I’m just relieved.

At six o’clock on a Wednesday, the building is relatively quiet. I pass a few people as I approach the elevator, but ride up to the fourth floor alone. There’s a girl coming out of the bathroom as I enter, and then it’s just me. I take a breath and study the long row of stalls. If I recall correctly, the third one is dedicated to the Alpha Sigma Phi guys. I’d seen Crosbie’s name on there last year when I checked Kellan’s list, but I hadn’t paid it any attention. Now it’s the only one I’m interested in.

The stalls are the standard cramped metal affairs with chipped gray paint. The lists are written mostly in black marker, with the guy’s name at the top and his conquests scrawled beneath. A lot of them are dated, too, like a time stamp. It’s a mix of handwriting, some neat, some sloppy, updated by random people with random intel. Out of curiosity, I check out Kellan’s list. There’s a whopping sixty-two names listed on it, dating back to last September when he first started at Burnham. I can’t help it: my jaw drops. I know he’s…prolific, but that’s more than I expected. I had sex with five guys last year and I thought that was a lot.