Undecided(53)

“That’s because she’s just doing this to hurt Nate, and I’m going to be stuck in the middle and work will be awkward. That’s it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Can we see Kill Glory 3 now?”

“Will I be able to follow along if I haven’t seen the first two?”

“Probably not. But I expect you’ll have your eyes covered most of the time anyway, so it won’t matter.”

He pushes open his door. “You’re buying your own popcorn.”



*



Two and a half hours later, we’re sitting in the adjacent chain restaurant, sharing a plate of nachos. “For the hundredth time,” Crosbie is saying, “that wasn’t a yelp. I stubbed my toe. It was a manly grunt of pain.”

I stare at him earnestly. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I absolutely won’t re-enact it for Kellan.”

“You’re a monster.”

I twist a chip until the string of cheese connecting it to the plate gives up the fight and snaps in half. I’m on a date with Crosbie Lucas. I’d met him tonight expecting some frenzied, cramped sex in the backseat of his car, but here we are, movie, dinner, the works. I know I’d vowed to do this year completely differently, but this isn’t exactly the “different” I’d envisioned.

“Have you given any more thought to open mic night?” I ask, steering the subject away from his fear of scary movies.

He sips his orange soda. “That hasn’t passed already?”

“It’s in two weeks.”

“Huh.”

“You should do it. I liked that trick you showed me.”

He smiles. “It was an illusion.”

“Do you know any more illusions?”

“Of course I do.”

“Let’s see one.”

He stares at me for a second. “Do you have any change?”

“Are all these illusions going to cost me money?”

“This way you know there’s no shady business going on, Nora. Two pennies or two dimes, whatever you have will do.”

I fish around in my purse until I find two dimes, then place them in his outstretched hand. He moves the plate of nachos to the side so the center of the table is clear, then holds out both his hands, palms up, a dime in the center of each.

“Two coins, one in each hand,” he says. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

He flips his hands over and I hear the clack of the coins hitting the table, hidden from view. “Pick a hand,” he says.

I hesitate, then tap the right.

“Good choice. You know why?”

“Tell me.”

“Because that’s where the money is.” Slowly, dramatically, he lifts his right hand to reveal two dimes. I gape as he lifts the left, which has nothing underneath.

“How did you do that?”

“Magic.”

“Crosbie, seriously. Tell me.”

“Never.”

“Do it again.”

He slides the dimes across the table and eats another nacho. “Don’t be greedy. There are other things I want to do to you instead.”

I’d really like to say that those other things won’t be happening if he doesn’t tell me how he did that trick, but I’ve told enough lies for one day. I really want to know the secret, but even more than that, I want Crosbie.

Still.

“Just give me a hint.”

He laughs and scoops up guacamole with his chip. “Forget it.”

“How about—” The words fade as the doors open and a group of guys wearing Burnham hockey team jackets struts in, the standard cluster of fans trailing in their wake. Crosbie has his back to the door but turns to follow my horrified stare. Slowly, he shifts back to face me, eyes narrowed.

“Problem?”

I swallow and watch with relief as the hostess leads the rowdy group to the opposite side of the restaurant. I don’t personally know any of them, but their names occupy more than a few bathroom stalls, and I know at least two of those girls have black markers ready and waiting. If I’m spotted eating nachos with Crosbie Lucas, the rumors will start. And even if they don’t care enough to learn my name, I’ll be another blank space next to a double-digit number on another guy’s list, which is quite possibly even worse.

“No,” I say, as my plan to quit lying dies a quick death. My appetite has fled so I push the nachos in his direction and finish the last of my drink. “Are you ready to go?”

He arches a brow. “Do you know them?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

There’s obviously a problem so I exhale and study my fingernails. “I don’t want to be a Crosbabe.” I glance up through my lashes to see his jaw tense as he watches me.

“You know I’m not in there updating that list, right? Your name’s not even on it.”

“I don’t want it to be.”

“Then—”

I shoot a pointed look across the room and he finally clues in. “You’re being paranoid,” he says. “What do you want me to do? Put a bag over your head and lead you out of here through the kitchen?”