Undecided(66)

In record time I’m thrusting back and biting my lip to stifle my cries. His fingers squeeze my hips too hard and my flesh burns, but I don’t try to stop him. Next thing I know I’m coming, fingers clawing the couch, muscles straining, clasping, squeezing. Crosbie’s grunting behind me, powering through my body’s contractions, and soon I hear him come, too, hunching over me, one hand tangled in my hair as though anchoring himself.

“Nora,” he groans on a ragged breath, his hips bumping mine artlessly as he forgets finesse and just gives in to his body’s demands. “Nora, Nora, Nora.”

I reach up weakly and cup the back of his neck, the only thing I have the strength for. “Crosbie.”





chapter sixteen


Two nights later I’m trudging down the sidewalk toward my apartment. It’s quarter to eight and Kellan had texted mid-afternoon to ask if I wouldn’t mind coming home until after seven. I figured he’d put enough time between the gonorrhea news and treatment that he’s ready to get back in the game, and if I’m not mistaken, he’d planned some sort of date night for Marcela. Nate’s still bringing Celestia by the shop and Marcela is still bitter, so even though I can think of a million better things—and people—for them to do, this is their mistake to make. And everybody makes mistakes. I should know.

I squint up at our living room window. There’s a faint glow shining through, as though a light has been left on in one of the bedrooms. I’m really not looking forward to the prospect of walking in on my roommate and my best friend, but I’m cold and I’m hungry and I just spent two hours memorizing irregular French verbs and I want to go home. If need be I’ll creep quietly into my bedroom with my eyes closed and my ears covered, and sleep with headphones.

I make as much noise as I reasonably can as I let myself in, but I’m not greeted by the sight of naked, writhing bodies. Instead I inhale the stomach-pleasing scent of garlic and tomatoes and warm bread. I eagerly tug off my boots and hang my jacket on the rail, then climb the stairs, praying there’s some food left.

On the top step, I come to an abrupt halt.

There’s Kellan. There’s candlelight. There’s a table set for two.

And there’s no Marcela.

My eyes skip around the room, taking in the strangely romantic set up. “Er…what’s going on?”

He’s standing in the kitchen in dark pants and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his strong forearms. His feet are bare and if I’m not mistaken, the apron he’s wearing was “borrowed” from Beans. He’s stirring a pot of what smells like tomato sauce and appears to have been waiting. For me.

I hope not. “Are you expecting someone?”

He grins, the devilishly handsome guy in every romantic comedy, the one you know doesn’t exist in real life. Except he does. And he’s right here. “I was,” he says. “Have a seat. I hope you’re hungry.”

I stare at the table like it’s a bomb. “What’s going on?”

He tastes his sauce, nodding appreciatively. “I’ve been thinking about how great you are,” he says. “How nice you’ve been about this whole situation lately, and just what a good roommate you’ve been. Then I remembered we were supposed to go out to dinner that time and I totally flaked so I thought I’d plan something special.”

I can’t convince my feet to move. The vibe in here is not special, it’s weird. He’s moved the dining table into the living room so there’s more space, and it’s covered in what looks like a white bed sheet folded in half. It’s set with plates and wine glasses and candles. There are even half a dozen votives spaced around the room, making for a very cozy—and confusing—ambiance.

The oven timer dings and Kellan pulls out a loaf of garlic bread, so hot and perfect the butter is still sizzling when he sets it on a cutting board. My stomach urges me to get my ass in a chair. My heart tells me this is going to send someone the very wrong message. And my head is telling me this will only end badly.

“Come on,” Kellan says, garlic bread in hand. I feel the gentle press of his fingers in the small of my back as he guides me to the table, then sets down the bread and pulls out my chair, resting his hands on my shoulder to urge me into the seat. This, of course, is the moment Crosbie walks through the front door.

The three of us freeze, a complicated, decidedly unromantic, garlicky tableau. Crosbie’s still wearing his jacket and holds a video game, mouth open in surprise. He stares at us, his gaze locked on Kellan’s hands on my shoulders, before shifting to take in the candles, the wine glasses, every damning detail.

“Crosbie—” I begin.

“Hey,” Kellan says.

Crosbie’s mouth moves, but for a second no words come out. “I wanted to drop off your game,” he says finally. Very stiffly he reaches out to place the game on the counter, and even Kellan—delightfully obtuse Kellan—realizes something is wrong.

“Are you okay?” he asks, dropping his hands and stepping toward his friend. “Cros?”

But Crosbie’s only looking at me now, his brown eyes hurt and bewildered all at once. I know he’s never had a girlfriend before—not that I am his girlfriend—and he’s definitely never been in a position to be cheated on. But I also know he’s the sidekick in Kellan’s story; Kellan gets Miss Louisiana, Crosbie gets the runner up. All those questions about whether or not I was into Kellan—I’d finally convinced him, and now this.