Undecided(84)

“No. I promise. I checked.”

He sighs. “Yeah. I think I know who it is, anyway. I finally got in touch with one of the backpackers and she said she’s pretty sure her friend realized she had something when they got home, so…”

“So the search is over.”

“Almost.”

“That’s good.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not good at all. It’s so f*cking ridiculous, this whole thing. I mean, have you ever dug yourself a hole so deep you thought you’d never get out? Because last year that’s what I did. I partied so much, slacked off, thought I was above it all, and I almost got cut from the track team. That’s why I was so drunk the night we…I… Well, you know.”

“We both had our reasons for being there.”

A terribly awkward moment of silence drags on. And on.

“I’m sorry,” we blurt out at the same time.

He laughs sadly and shakes his head. “It’ll never happen again.”

I frown. “I wasn’t expecting it—”

“I mean, screwing around like I did all of last year. I had this idea of what college was supposed to be like, and I totally f*cked it up.”

“I know what you mean.”

We look at each other for a long moment. “Okay,” he says finally. “Okay.”

I lick my dry lips. “Okay.”

“So we’re…okay?”

I’m still trembling, the shock of being found out almost worse than the fear of it. “We’re okay.”

“And this stays between us, forever?”

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe we should blood swear.”

“Get out of the bathroom.”

He grins. “I know what’s even better than a blood oath.”

“I can’t imagine that’s true.”

He retreats and returns a second later with an armful of easel paper, a lighter caught between his teeth. Then I’m pretty sure he says, “Let’s burn it.”

“Let’s burn down our whole apartment? Sure, that sounds reasonable.”

“Ha ha. We’ll burn the list in the tub.”

“That’s a terrible idea.” But even as I say it I’m wrapping the shower curtain over the rod and helping him tear up the large piece of paper bearing the first batch of names.

“I can’t destroy the second one yet,” he says. “But once I confirm that Backpacker Two—sorry, Janna—is the one, we’ll burn it, too.”

“Can’t wait.”

I hold the showerhead and prepare to put out an inferno as he carefully touches the flame to one of the crumpled pieces. After a second it catches and starts to crinkle and darken, folding in on itself, consuming all his sins, our shared secret.

It never gets out of control, just spreads to the next piece and the next, burning itself into a tidy pile of ashes I simply wash down the drain. It’s as easy as painting over Crosbie’s name on the bathroom wall; everything erased, swiftly and surely. It’s over.

We’re safe.





chapter nineteen


Chrisgiving falls on Sunday, December seventeenth, smack in the middle of finals. The last day of school is officially this Wednesday, but some people, like Crosbie, have already finished their exams and are ready to celebrate. People like me, however, have tests both tomorrow and Wednesday, and really wish their apartment wasn’t hosting the inaugural Chrisgiving dinner.

“Smells good!” Crosbie says when he arrives. He shucks his coat and heads straight to the kitchen where Kellan and Marcela wear matching aprons and do things like peer in the oven and drink wine. I’m on the sofa, frantically reading through my most recently revised set of English Lit notes and wondering why my brain has turned into a sieve.

Crosbie’s pained shout has me looking up in time to see him clutch his hand, Kellan wielding a wooden spoon and a stern expression. “Do not touch the potatoes!” he orders. “Out of the kitchen!”

“Aren’t there hors d’oeuvres at this party? Chrisgiving sucks.”

“Chrisgiving is amazing, dipstick.”

“Merry f*cking Christmas.”

They grin as they flip each other off, and Marcela and I exchange eye rolls. Crosbie snags Kellan’s wine glass before strolling over to join me on the couch. As per the evening’s strict dress code, he’s wearing a white button down with a pale green tie and dark brown pants. I’m wearing a fitted gray knit dress and kitten heels, and beneath their aprons, Marcela and Kellan are similarly attired.

“You look nice,” Crosbie says, closing my laptop and setting it on the coffee table. “And study time’s over. Have some wine.”

“I was reading that.”

“Read my lips instead: it’s Chrisgiving. Time to par-tay like it’s a fake holiday.”

I smile in spite of myself. My stomach’s been in knots for days. Last year at this time I’d been partying my face off, not bothering to crack a book, figuring I’d retained enough information from the few lectures I’d actually attended to earn a passing grade. I’d been wrong. But not nearly as wrong as I’d been a few months later, when I employed the same study strategy and came out with two failing grades to show for my non-efforts.