Undecided(60)

“Hey,” comes a breathless voice from over my shoulder.

I turn around to see Crosbie holding two bottles of the beer we’d had on Halloween. He’s unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a tight wife beater underneath, and I want so badly to run my hands under that shirt, feel the contrast of smooth warm skin and hard muscle and know that it’s mine to explore. But I can’t.

“Hey.” I return the smile even as his falters when he sees the beer in my hand. “Kellan,” I explain. “He just gave it to me.”

“Crosbie!” Two guys from the track team approach, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. “We figured it out, the way you tore that card in half and then repaired it.” A dramatic pause. “You had another card somewhere.”

Crosbie shakes his head. “A good magician never reveals his secrets.”

The guys nod in unison, though they’re obviously disappointed. “Right, man. You have a code. That’s cool.”

The pair leaves, but before Crosbie and I can speak, Marcela and Kellan take their place. “Let’s dance!” Marcela exclaims, bouncing on her toes to eye the writhing dance floor that makes up half the pub.

“C’mon!” Kellan grips Crosbie’s wrist. “You remember Miss Maryland from Halloween? She’s here and she still wants to meet you. Don’t blow this!”

Crosbie shoots me a helpless look before Kellan steals both bottles of beer and sticks them in my free hand. “For safe keeping!” he shouts, then the trio disappears into the crowd.

I watch them go, chastising myself for feeling disappointed. I’m the one who wants to keep Crosbie and me a secret. I’m the one making it so we can’t hold each other’s hands and drag each other onto the dance floor. I’m also the one standing here alone, feeling like an idiot.

“I’ve heard of double fisting,” says a voice from over my shoulder, “but triple fisting? I guess you’re on a mission.”

I glance up to see Max—the Walking Douche—grinning down at me. He’s already got a drink of his own and I hold up my three. “Think you can keep up?”

He laughs. “With you? I’m not sure.”

“Were you at the coffee shop? I didn’t see you.”

“I was,” he says. “It was great. I didn’t know you worked there.”

“Yeah, a few nights a week. I—”

The song changes to something fast and popular, and everyone cheers, crowding onto the floor. “Come on,” Max says, clinking one of my bottles with his. “Drink up and let’s dance.”

What am I going to do? Insist on lingering on the perimeter and safeguarding the drinks? “Sounds good,” I say. I down half a bottle, then stick the trio on a nearby table and let Max lead me onto the dance floor. It’s been far too long since I’ve just let go, and it’s fun. It’s not hard to gravitate toward the track team since half of them are still wearing their jackets, and soon we’re part of a big, writhing circle of bodies, all moving to the same up tempo beat.

I didn’t have anything to change into so I’m still in my skinny jeans and long-sleeve top from work. I feel sweat beading along my nape and gathering in the small of my back, but I don’t stop, not when one song turns into two which turns into five. Because even though Max is beside me, his hand occasionally grazing my hip or my shoulder, it’s Crosbie I’m watching, and he’s watching me. On the opposite side of the circle, Miss Maryland doing her best to steal his focus, he’s dancing too. This is as near as we can get, thanks to my whole secretiveness kick, the reasons for which I’m having a lot of trouble remembering at the moment. Because he looks so hot, six feet away, his eyes searing me all over, stopping on parts of my body that so desperately want to feel more than his gaze.

But this is as close as we come for the rest of the night, just two casual acquaintances in a group that gradually dwindles until it’s one o’clock and time for last call. Soon the four of us—Kellan, Crosbie, Marcela and I—are huddled on the sidewalk, shivering in the cold as Kellan confirms that everybody’s okay to drive.

Crosbie looks at me in frustration, but there’s not a whole lot we can do about it. Kellan and I live together—it would be weird if I insisted on getting a ride with someone else. We all hug goodnight, and Crosbie squeezes my hip harder than necessary, a promise or a warning or something in between. I shoot him an apologetic look he returns with a look of his own, one that clearly says, “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

But if I invite him over I’m breaking my promise to Kellan, and if I go to the frat house I’m a Crosbabe. There’s a clear lesser-of-two-evils option here, but I’m not ready to pick it.

“Bye, guys.” Kellan and I wave and trudge down the slippery sidewalk to his car, parked a block over.

“Do you want me to drive?” I offer when we round the corner. “I only had one drink.”

“Nah,” he says. “I’m good. I didn’t have anything.”

I look up at him in surprise, belatedly realizing I never saw him drink anything other than water the whole night. “Why not?”

He shrugs, leaving his shoulders hunched up to ward against the cold. “Just not in the mood.”

I think about his strangely asexual relationship with Marcela. Just how many things is he not “in the mood” for? I wonder but don’t dare ask, not sure what I’d do with the answer.