Undecided(57)

Kellan and Marcela have some sort of painfully immature sixth grade-style relationship going on. They text, talk on the phone late at night and go on group dates, but they never actually seem to…do anything. I know why Marcela’s reluctant to get physical—she’s into Nate and this thing with Kellan is simply to make him jealous. But while she’s relieved not to have to pry his hands out of her pants at every turn, she’s equally perplexed as to why she doesn’t have to.

“And here comes my ‘friend’ now,” Kellan murmurs, putting away his phone and grinning over my head. He’s so handsome when he smiles. Hell, he’s handsome all the time. And now, in the muted lighting, wearing a white button-up shirt and fitted dark trousers, he looks like the world’s most handsome waiter. But when he slings an arm around Marcela’s shoulder and kisses her cheek, I feel nothing. Not an ounce of envy. Because this secret, unexpected, and extraordinarily hot thing Crosbie and I have going leaves no room for jealousy. It’s that good.

It’s not good enough to block the death rays Nate’s shooting from behind the counter, however. I peer over my shoulder and widen my eyes in warning. Celestia is here, after all, fur coat draped in her lap, pretentious drink in hand, ready to watch the show in the prime front row seat Nate reserved for her. The second the track team filed in and filled the remaining seats you could see him kicking himself, but there wasn’t much he could do save drag her chair to the back row and pretend it offered a better view.

As much as I’d love to remain immersed in their petty dramas, I’m working tonight—so is Marcela, though it’s hard to tell the way she’s running her fingers through Kellan’s hair and gazing up at him adoringly, doing a pretty great job convincing anyone who’s looking that they’re hooking up left, right, and center, when in fact they’ve only kissed twice, and neither time “with tongue.” This is Marcela’s recounting; Crosbie confirmed the details when he spoke to Kellan, and we both agreed we didn’t want to know anything more.

My phone buzzes against my leg and I know it’s Crosbie. “I’m going to grab more supplies,” I say to absolutely no one, since they’re all fixated on each other. The low murmur of voices is amplified in the acoustic space, and though we’re at the maximum number of occupants allowed by the fire code, a hundred and thirty people manage to sound like a thousand.

I grab my phone out of my apron pocket and shoulder my way through the swinging door into the kitchen. We’re busy enough that Nate asked our part-time dishwasher to come in for the night, and two other staff members are hurriedly filling trays with freshly made donuts and brownies. The air is warm and smells like coffee and sugar, but I won’t find privacy or quiet in the kitchen, so I head into the dark, narrow hall that leads to the fire exit.

It’s colder and quieter here, and I shiver as I rest against the wall and pull up Crosbie’s text. Come out back, it reads. Assuming he’s actually here, “out back” means the alley, which is currently coated in a thin layer of snow.

I march to the end of the hall and push open the door, the rush of cold November air making me shiver. Fat snowflakes fall, gleaming in the yellow glare of emergency lights that showcase our stuffed trash cans and recycling bins. “Crosbie?” I whisper.

“What took you so long?”

I jump. He’s standing behind the door, so I have to step outside and close it to see him. “What are you doing out here?” I fold my arms around my middle. Beneath my polka dot apron I’m wearing dark skinny jeans and a long-sleeve top, neither of which are warm enough for this.

He rubs his hands over his face and I frown. He looks pale and sick. “Crosbie?” I put a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” He’s wearing a black dress shirt and pants; no magician’s hat and cape, despite my pleas. He’s trembling a little bit, and I don’t think it’s because of the cold. I press the back of my hand to his forehead—his skin is hot and clammy.

“Do you have the flu?”

He shakes his head miserably. “Stage fright.”

Huh. For a guy who’s very much at home in the spotlight, be it at parties, on the track team, or just strolling around campus, this is very unexpected. But instead of offering an unhelpful “Whaaat?” I say, “Everybody gets nervous. It’s normal.”

“I haven’t been able to concentrate all day. I just keep picturing this whole thing…failing.”

“You’re not going to fail.” He’d shown me a few of the tricks he planned for tonight, and they were great. “You’re good at this, Crosbie. And everyone’s going to love you.”

“Everyone?” He looks terrified. “How many people is ‘everyone?’”

I hesitate. “Um…a few.”

“More than twenty?”

“How long have you been back here?” The shop has been full for close to an hour as everyone showed up early to claim seats and snacks.

His head falls back and he groans unhappily. “A while.”

A muted buzzing sound interrupts and we both pull out our phones. Crosbie’s is lit up with a new message.

“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters.

“What is it?”

He shows me the screen. It’s a picture of a bunch of hands gripping wrists, forming a solid circle. “Kellan,” he explains. “He’s been sending me supportive messages all day.” He glares at the screen. “This one says, ‘We’ve got you, brother.’”