Undecided(89)

“You call her Cece?”

“Would you shut up?”

Kellan and I stand uncomfortably as Celestia descends, collecting her fur coat from the hook by the door and pulling on her boots. “Thanks for dinner,” she says, opening the door and frowning as she looks outside. “And Happy Chrisgiving.”

“Happy Chrisgiving,” we echo uncertainly, watching as she exits into the storm, presumably to walk…somewhere.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Nate mumbles, hurrying down the stairs. He snatches up his coat and stuffs his feet into his sneakers, not bothering with the laces. “Nora,” he begins, hand on the knob. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I—I have to go catch—I just—”

I wave him off. “Just go.”

He looks between Kellan and I, pained. “I had no idea.”

I shrug. “You’re not the only one.”

Kellan winces at the reminder, and we both shiver as icy wind whips in when Nate leaves.

After a moment we turn to see Marcela hesitating at the top of the stairs. “I guess I’ll go,” she says awkwardly. “Unless you need…”

“I think we’re all set,” I say.

“Right.”

We hover uncomfortably as she gets dressed and pulls her car keys from her pocket.

“Sorry about Crosbie,” she offers.

“Sorry about Nate,” I say.

“Sorry about Chrisgiving,” Kellan adds, just to be included.

Marcela leaves and then it’s just Kellan and I looking at each other until my teeth start to chatter.

“Do you think there’s any point in driving to the Frat Farm?” I ask, wrapping the towel more tightly around my shoulders. It makes me think of Crosbie’s Superman cape, which reminds me of watching him remove it the first night we’d slept together, and that makes me indescribably sad. I’m the world’s worst superhero; the antihero of this dreadful story. The lamest villain.

Kellan shakes his head. “We can try, but he knows we’d go there. He was planning to head to his parents’ place in the morning. He’s probably driving over right now.”

“Do you know the address?”

“No. Just that it’s in Chatterly. I’ve never been.”

“Me either.”

The intensely awkward silence is broken only by the snap of my teeth clacking together.

“Go take a shower,” Kellan says, placing a palm in the center of my back and urging me up the stairs. “Get warm. I’m sure… I mean, this thing… He knows you… We… I…”

“He knows everything,” I say. “Too much, too late.”

We stop in the living room and stare at that stupid easel, the flashing lights, the silly Christmas tree, the secret we tried to hide.

“We should have done this last time,” Kellan says, striding over and tearing off the page of names. “But better late than never.”

“It’s just late,” I say, trailing him as he grabs the lighter from the television console and heads into the bathroom. “Nothing’s better.”

He doesn’t answer, just tears the paper in half and half again, crumpling each piece and tossing it into the tub. We’re quiet as he lights the fire, the pages crackling as they catch. They burn quickly, turning into murky black ashes against the white porcelain.

When the fire is gone Kellan and I look at each other, and the only reason I know I’m crying is because the tears cut warm tracks over my frozen skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as though the tears remind him. “For everything.”

“Me too.”

He smiles sadly, then turns and walks out the door, tugging it shut behind him. I strip out of my wet dress and wring it out in the sink, then climb in the shower and turn on the water. I’m so cold that even lukewarm feels searing hot, and I watch the ashes swirl around my feet as the water beats against my shoulders. Every drop hurts.

I thought this was over the last time we did this, but I was wrong.

Now it’s over.



*



Breakfast the next morning is a torturously awkward affair. Kellan and I each have exams that start at one, so we’re both home to study. When I stumble out of my bedroom shortly after eight, Kellan’s already sitting down with a bowl of cereal. I’d much rather crawl back into bed and hide under the covers, but I can’t afford to do any of the things I really want to do, so I stick some frozen waffles in the toaster and eat them standing up.

For a long time the only sound is the scrape of Kellan’s spoon against the bowl and the crunch of my waffles.

“Sleep all right?” he asks eventually.

“I texted Crosbie a dozen times, no answer. I called too. No response.”

Kellan stirs through the flakes until he finds a blue marshmallow. “Me too.”

“You really think he went home? To Chatterly? In the storm?” The weather is now deceptively calm and clear, the sun out, the sidewalks dry, as though nothing had happened last night. As though everything is fine.

“Yeah,” Kellan says. “I do. Wouldn’t you?”

I think of my parents, living together but apart, making everyone miserable. “No.” I polish off my second waffle and wipe my fingers on my shorts, then glance at the clock on the microwave.