Undecided(7)

“Yes, please. I’ll have a small iced half-caf double non-fat peppermint mocha with coconut milk. No whip.”

Nate’s lingering at my side and she shoots him a shy smile he barely notices. For once I’m grateful for her complicated order. Welcoming the opportunity to avoid follow up questions, I take an absurdly long time to make sure the cup is perfectly full before sliding it across the counter.

“Thank you.” She flicks another glance at Nate, who’s carefully restocking a tray of brownies, and leaves.

“So,” Nate says when Mink Coat is gone. “You moved?”

“Yeah.” I add the extra change to our tip jar. “Just to the edge of campus. Off campus. Barely.”

His brow furrows. “Just off campus is a pretty nice area.”

“Safe and studious.”

He rolls his eyes. He knows all about my life changes, and while he wasn’t exactly cheering when I got arrested last year, he does think I’m taking things way too seriously. That’s just the way I am, though. Always have been. I’m hot or I’m cold, never in between. Invisible or under arrest.

I started to develop when I was thirteen, cringing at the newfound unwanted attention my boobs were getting. Because I’d gone from being an awkward, gangly teen to the subject of catcalls and leers with no transitional stage, I’d rebelled the best way I could: baggy sweatshirts and jeans, sneakers, no makeup. And for the most part, it did the trick. I got no attention. I also got no dates. No one asked me to the Christmas dance or homecoming or even to prom. I had to go with my neighbor Charlie, who was a grade behind. When I moved to Burnham from my home in Washington, I decided it was time for a change of pace. I wasn’t going to bury myself in oversized clothing I found on the discount racks, I was going to come out of my self-imposed shell and live my life. When I met Marcela on my second day at school, I knew she was the ideal accomplice and the perfect guide to the Burnham party scene. And it wasn’t like I was particularly shy or awkward—I’d just never embraced my outgoing, sexy side.

Until last year.

Repeatedly. Endlessly. And sometimes illegally.

I went from zero to sixty without ever tapping the brakes, and eventually I spun out. So here I am, back to zero, hunkered down, paying for all my fun. Was it worth it? Yes, I’d say so. Am I completely aware that I’m reversing course, going from sixty to zero without ever finding a reasonable middle ground? Yes again.

I got good grades in high school, but high school wasn’t hard. College is. Burnham is my dad’s alma mater, which is the only reason I got in, and it’s prestigious for a reason. Their alumni boast two presidents, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, and a Supreme Court Justice. Professors will fail you if they don’t think you’re trying hard enough or if they think you’re phoning it in. It’s not enough to show up and complete all your assignments—they want to know you tried. And last year, I did not try. Hence my scholarship getting slashed in half, my parents kicking in for the missing tuition this year, and me moving in with Kellan McVey, my new study buddy.

I may have gotten a C-in Stats last year, but even I know the odds of this arrangement failing.





chapter three


Okay, so it’s possible I’ve been making a bigger deal out of this “Kellan McVey’s my roommate thing” than is strictly necessary. I mean, he’s just a guy. A guy who comes home after a mid-morning soccer game in the rain, strips off his soaking wet jersey as he crosses the living room, and grins at me before disappearing into the bathroom.

Have I mentioned that Kellan is ripped? Like, how-is-that-real ripped? Because he is. And while I’d like to pretend it’s the peanut butter sandwich I’m eating that has my mouth watering, it’s not. The heated feeling spreading through my belly has nothing to do with mealtime, either, and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t actually been with anybody since that time in the closet with Kellan.

Four long months ago.

I firmly close and lock the door on the dirty thoughts trying to penetrate my studious haze, and focus on taking my plate to the sink when Kellan comes out of the bathroom in shorts and…that’s it. Just shorts. His dark curls wet and shiny, a tiny drop of water working its way between his pecs and down over his six pack and—

“Any plans today?” Kellan asks, joining me in the tiny kitchen and pulling a leftover bowl of mac and cheese out of the fridge. He sticks it in the microwave and punches a few buttons, the soft whir of the fans filling the air.

“Ah, just work,” I say. “I start at two.”

“No last act of rebellion before school starts?” It’s Labor Day, and classes officially begin tomorrow. I’ve got five courses and two tutorials, and juggling school and work should be more than enough to keep me out of trouble.

I shake my head, since forming words poses a greater challenge than I’m up for. I’ve already seen Kellan’s soap in the bathroom, but smelling it on his freshly washed body is its own brand of olfactory torture. I rack my brain to think of something witty or intelligent to say, but can only come up with, “What are you going to do?”

“Eat,” he says promptly, the microwave obeying the command and politely beeping. Kellan removes the bowl, stirs, and takes a bite, nodding his satisfaction. If I have learned one thing about Kellan in our three days as roommates, it’s that he wasn’t lying when he said he loves mac and cheese. He buys it in bulk and one of our four kitchen cupboards is stocked with boxes of it. I mean, I like a bowl of mac and cheese as much as the next girl, but in this quantity it’s kind of gross. Though it’s hard to think of mac and cheese as anything but sexy and delicious when it’s being forked into the mouth of a shirtless Kellan McVey.