Undecided(62)

“So what’s the notebook for?”

He sighs and stares at it. “It’s a list.”

“Of?” I’m wondering how many STIs he may have had.

“Girls,” he answers, putting an end to that theory. “The doctor said symptoms normally show up within a few weeks, but sometimes they can take months. And since I’ve had a few…partners, I don’t know where or when I got it. I’m supposed to contact every girl I’ve been with and let them know they need to get tested.”

I think about the very lengthy lists on the bathroom walls in the Student Union building. “That’s awkward.”

He turns the notebook around so I can see. The list is two columns long and there are approximately fifty names. And four blank spaces.

Now I’m the one who needs a hot compress.

“A few months,” I say, trying to sound casual. “You’ve been with all those girls since September?”

“I’m going back to January,” he says soberly. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?” I’m desperately trying not to sound, well, desperate. Because even though we’d used a condom during our poorly thought-out closet session, my name—or rather, my blank space—is on that list. I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything, but I’m most definitely feverish. And nauseous. What are the symptoms of gonorrhea?

“Nora?”

I blink and realize he’s said my name a few times.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I’m just…glad you’re okay.”

“Me too. Though I’m going to have a lot of awkward phone calls to make. And some intense Facebook stalking. I mean, I don’t even remember a lot of these girls. That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Speaking from experience, it certainly is. Until it works in your favor. I squint at the list and realize some of the entries aren’t names at all, but notes. Kitchen at Beta Theta Pi house party. Pool at community center. Redhead from science lab.

Kellan rubs his hands over his face and stares at me beseechingly. “When the doctor asked how many girls I’d been with and I took a minute to count, he gave me a look.”

“A look?”

“Yeah. A disapproving look.” He gives me just such a look now, as an example. It’s mostly funny, but also disapproving.

“Ooh.”

“He was shaming me!”

I try not to laugh. I mean, he’s free to do whatever and whomever he pleases, but that list isn’t exactly bolstering his self-righteous case at the moment. Instead of responding I slump onto the floor, wrapping my arms around my bent legs. I’m feeling too many things right now. I’m surprised Kellan confided in me; not surprised he caught something over the course of fifty-plus random hookups. I’m worried I might have something; relieved he’ll never be able to figure out I’m one of those blank spaces. Nervous he might try to figure it out; confident he never will.

“I’m glad you told me,” I say, when I realize he’s waiting for me to say something. “And you have nothing to be ashamed of.” I’m not a great actress and it takes everything I have to utter those words with a straight face. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says quickly. “That’s the only thing. I’m going to work on figuring out how to find these girls, then…it’ll be over.”

“Over,” I repeat. “Excellent.” I don’t point out that somehow, over the course of fifty-plus notifications, the likelihood of this secret slipping out grows exponentially.

The confession seems to have lifted a serious weight from his shoulders because he finally grins at me, a big, unburdened smile. “Thanks, Nora,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here. Too bad we didn’t meet sooner, huh? Maybe then I wouldn’t be in this mess.”



*



I normally work on Tuesday afternoons, but I have an archaeology paper due on Friday so I’d booked the day off to give myself time to prepare. Instead of heading straight home after my morning class, however, I bike over to the student health center for a hastily-made appointment. Even though I know that the odds of having an STI are slim—I’ve been with six guys and always used condoms—I’m still shaking when I pee in a cup and hand it to a nurse who promises to call with the results in a few days.

By the time I get home I’m only slightly calmer than I was, and the last thing I want to find is Kellan and Crosbie huddled at the dining table poring over Kellan’s sex-partner notebook. Fuck. Another thing I shouldn’t really worry about, but most definitely will. Because with the exception of a positive test result, the last thing I want is for Crosbie to help Kellan cross names off his long list of sexcapades, knowing that mine is supposed to be on there.

“Still working on that, huh?” I hope I sound casual and not shrill as I dump my things in my room before joining them at the table. I’d overheard Kellan calling Crosbie last night and correctly assumed he’d told him everything, and now here he is, like a good best friend, comparing the names/descriptions Kellan had jotted down with something on his phone. “What are you doing, exactly?”

Kellan and I are at either end of the table, Crosbie seated in between, and now he turns his phone so I can see the display: it’s a close up shot of the bathroom wall in the Student Union building. Kellan’s list.