Undecided(43)

“Two out of three ain’t bad?”

He smirks and kicks a piece of smashed pumpkin off the sidewalk. “Two out of three is sixty-six percent. It ain’t great.”

“Who says you aren’t good with numbers?”

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “I’m sorry.”

I look at him. “For what?”

“For messing up your night back there. If you’re leaving because of Max or whatever, I didn’t mean—”

I wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe tonight just wasn’t meant to be.”

“It was your one night to blow off steam.”

“There’ll be other nights. Like, between Christmas and New Years, or spring break…”

He laughs at the depressing timeline. “You don’t think you’ll regret it?”

We pass a quiet block that’s a dedicated dog park, mulch running paths and stands of bare trees marking the grass.

“Not flunking out?”

“Missing out on the things you want because you’re trying so hard to be good.”

“I am good.”

“I know you are.”

“Well, what about you?” I counter.

“What about me?”

“I saw the bathrooms in the student building a couple of weeks ago. Your ‘list’ doesn’t have any new names on it.”

He’s quiet for a second. I expect him to say something cocky, like maybe he just hasn’t updated it yet, but he surprises me when he says, “I got tired of that.”

“What? Being popular?”

“Being a dick.”

The second surprise in as many seconds. “You—”

“Look, Nora.” He stops at the corner, a tall cluster of trees blocking the street lamps and houses so we’re folded in darkness, only the faintest slashes of light making it through. I stop, my back to the trees, and when he steps into me, I feel the cold bark through my coat and my jeans. “I’m just going to do this,” he says, lifting a hand to rest on the trunk beside my head. “And if you don’t want me to, say no.”

He’s so close. With his head dipped his mouth is only a couple of inches away from mine, and though we’ve been in close proximity before, this is the first time there’s ever been any intention in his gaze. The only time he’s ever shown it, at least. He lowers his head another inch, then another, until his lips are only millimeters from mine, giving me every opportunity to push him back, run away, not do something ridiculous.

But my hands remain fisted squarely in the sleeves of my jacket, my feet planted on the soft grass, my head tipped up to his. Waiting for something I’m finally ready to admit I want.

I see his eyes drift closed and then his mouth brushes over mine. I’d never allowed myself to give kissing Crosbie Lucas much thought, but if I had I’d have predicted it to be hard or invasive, grabby hands and lewdly thrusting hips. But it’s nothing like that at all. The hand on the tree stays where it is while his other finds the dip of my waist and rests there on top of my coat. I feel the chill of his nose bumping mine, the contrasting warmth of his lips, and though shock and awe are currently duking it out for top billing in the feelings department, I’m starting to feel some very unexpected other things, too.

A tiny sigh escapes and Crosbie seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth, very gently finding mine. My fingers uncurl themselves long enough to fist in the front of his coat, and the permissive action has him stepping into me even more, so I’m caught squarely between him and the tree. The hand resting on my side slides up to tangle in my silly wig, and when he tries to tug my head back the wig falls off.

“What the—” he mutters, frowning at the mop of hair in his hand.

This isn’t really the time for laughing but I do, my forehead bumping his shoulder as my body shakes from the force of it. I’d hoped to do some new things tonight, but at no point was Crosbie Lucas on the list.

“I forgot,” he explains. “I’m sorry.”

I laugh harder.

“Nora.”

I feel his fingers under my chin, tilting my face back up to his, and even in the darkness I can feel the intensity in his gaze, the seriousness there, and I stop laughing when he kisses me again, this time a little harder, a little more sure. He’s not waiting for me to take him up on his offer to stop, and he shouldn’t. I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him back, teeth and tongues and lips, feeling his raspy breath, hearing the hungry sounds he makes as he winds his fingers through my real hair and—

“Shit,” he whispers, jerking back. “Fuck.”

Then I hear it too. Raucous mixed laughter, male and female, approaching from the next block. They’re heading toward the Frat Farm and there’s really no way for me to step out of a copse of trees with Crosbie Lucas without starting rumors. As though he’s thinking the same thing, Crosbie nudges me backward into the trees, and then we just stand there, hot and cold, waiting for the group to pass. They stumble by a minute later, not even glancing our way.

We stare at each other for a long time. I don’t know quite how this happened, but parts of me that have been quashed beneath my responsible new veneer have whirred back to life and they’re not ready to end whatever this is just yet.