Undecided(58)

I try not to laugh, but fail completely. “It’s sweet,” I protest when he glowers at me.

“It’s horrifying. How many of them are here?”

I don’t pretend not to know he’s referring to his track teammates. “I’m not sure,” I hedge. “A couple. The front row.”

“Oh my God.”

“They want to see you succeed! It’s nice.”

“I can’t do it.”

“You can.”

“Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“For the same reason you showed me the tri—the illusions. Because deep down you want to do this, you just needed a reason.”

“And you’re that reason?”

I arch a brow. “Is that not enough?”

He opens his mouth and closes it. “Of course you’re enough,” he says finally.

Now my phone buzzes with a text from Kellan. I can’t find Crosbie.

I show Crosbie. “What do you want me to tell him?” My frozen finger hovers over the reply button and I shiver.

“Shit,” Crosbie says, yanking open the door and grabbing my shoulder to steer me inside. “Why didn’t you say you were cold?”

“Why wasn’t it obvious? It’s snowing!”

The door slams shut, cocooning us in marginally warmer air and even less light.

“Look,” I say, “if you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. People bail all the time. Just go home and say you fell asleep. Or you got the date wrong. Or you have the flu. I’ll back you up.”

He stares at me for a long time. “Thank you, Nora.”

“You’re really going to bail?”

“No, I’m going to do this. And if it goes epically wrong, I’m blaming you.”

“That sounds totally mature and reasonable.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“When? When you’re performing?”

“Yeah.”

“On the floor. Serving, watching, whatever. I’m working, remember?”

He nods. “Right.”

“Do you want me to watch? I could not watch, if you prefer. I’ll duck down behind the counter and cover my ears.”

“No,” he says. “Be there.”

I lean in to kiss his cheek. “Promise.”

“Hey.” He catches my chin and backs me into the wall. “Don’t be a tease.”

“I was being encouraging.”

“Be more encouraging,” he suggests, before he kisses me. Really kisses me. So intense and thorough I have to wonder if this whole “stage fright” thing was just a set up to get me back here, hand inching its way under my shirt, a shameless grope in the name of consolation.

“Hey!” I finally pull away, snagging his inquisitive hand. “I’m working. And you’re up soon.”

He nudges me with his hips. “I’m kind of up right now.”

“Good luck out there. Not that you’ll need it.”

He smirks and reaches behind my ear, pulling out a quarter. “Of course I don’t need it.”



*



He really doesn’t, as it turns out. He does the handful of tricks—illusions—I’ve already seen, plus a few more that are totally new to me. After forty-five minutes of slam poetry, acoustic song covers, and two Salt-N-Pepa dance tributes, he’s a welcome change of pace.

I hover next to Kellan at the end of the second row and smile over his shoulder when I see him recording the whole performance on his phone. Crosbie glances at me from time to time, but as he settles into the show you can see his nervousness abate and his confidence grow. The audience eats it up, laughing when they’re supposed to, oohing and ahhing appropriately. At the end of the set he gets a standing ovation and blushes beet red as he gathers his things, offers an awkward bow, and rushes off the stage.

“That was great!” Kellan exclaims. Marcela’s seated to his left and he nudges her. “Wasn’t that great?”

Marcela’s watching Nate and Celestia in the front row. “So great,” she echoes distractedly. But when Nate takes the stage to introduce the next act, she suddenly turns to beam up at Kellan, knowing they now have an audience of one. “You must be so proud.”

I try not to gag and maneuver through the crowd. I saw Crosbie disappear down the short hall that leads to the bathrooms, and I shoulder my way through the throng in the same direction just as a blonde in a tasseled vest takes the stage to do her best Jewel impression.

The hallway is empty when I get there, both doors closed. I knock cautiously on the men’s room door, figuring I can just say I need to refill the soap if there’s anyone other than Crosbie inside. After a second the door opens and his head pokes through, brow furrowed.

“Did you knock?” he asks, looking confused.

“I wasn’t sure if you were alone.”

“Sure am.” He pulls open the door and gestures me inside. I’ve been in here before, of course, but it’s not exactly my favorite place to be. It’s a typical coffee shop bathroom, with two stalls, two urinals, and two sinks. It’s clean and cramped and smells like bleach.

“Feeling better?” I ask. Now that I’m in here I can see his face and hairline are wet, like he’d just splashed them with water. I watch as he grabs a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and dries off as best he can.