Undecided(91)

“Enough about me,” I say determinedly. “What’s going on with you and Nate?”

Instead of their usual sniping, they’ve been studiously ignoring each other all afternoon, and Celestia has yet to make an appearance.

Marcela studies her fingernails, painted to look like clouds. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I narrow my eyes.

She holds up her hands defensively. “Nothing, I swear. But…”

I wait her out.

“But there’s something to be said for having things out in the open,” she adds hastily. “I mean, last year with the secret admirer stuff—it was easy to pretend I didn’t know who it was. And I think it was easier for him to pretend he believed I didn’t know. And this year, as bad as it’s been seeing them together, it was easier than admitting that maybe I’d made a mistake not acknowledging him.”

I blow out a breath. “Wow.”

“Yeah. So, who knows what—if anything—will happen next. But you started fresh this year, and I’m going to start fresh in January. That’s my resolution. No secrets, no mixed messages.”

“You’re going to tell Nate you like him?”

“No, of course not. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t, either.”

“I really feel like maybe you’re missing the point.”

She bites the back legs off a sugar cookie shaped like a reindeer. “Well, look what happened here. You and Crosbie put it all on the line, and that flopped.”

“You’re very sensitive.”

“I’m just saying, maybe the truth is a little more than we can handle right now, but lying only makes it worse.”

“You can say that again.”

“And you can hear me say it,” she says, “whenever you want, since we’ll be roommates.”

I stop polishing the silverware I’d picked up. “Come again?”

She licks the red sprinkles off the reindeer’s nose. “Well, you’re homeless, and I have a spare bedroom. What kind of friend am I if I don’t insist on having you move in?”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. It’ll be a boy-free zone. Kind of like what you and Kellan had, except without all the lying and gonorrhea.”

“You know how to woo a girl.”

“I’m going to Tahiti for two weeks; I’ll leave you my keys and you can move your stuff in. We’re talking, what? A duffel bag and a milk crate?”

“Two milk crates.”

“Look at you,” she coos, chucking me under the chin. “All grown up.”



*



To a perfect stranger, I’d look like anything but a grown up. In my efforts to keep my mind off Crosbie, I throw myself into studying, forsaking pretty much everything except my shifts at Beans, since I’ll now need the money more than ever. My hair is in a perpetual straggly bun, my daily uniform is the same pair of ratty jeans paired with a T-shirt and a hoodie. I haven’t made my bed since Chrisgiving, and the fitted sheet is just a crumpled ball lost under the duvet somewhere. It’s only when the last exam is written and it’s time to pack my bags to head home for the week that I survey the situation and realize what a mess I am. Perhaps it’s for the best that Crosbie’s been ignoring me since that awful night—if he came by and saw this, he’d hightail it right back out of here.

I blow out a heavy breath and grab my hamper, resolutely filling it with every washable item in the room. Every item of clothing, save the pair of sweatpants and T-shirt I’m currently wearing, every piece of bedding—nothing is safe. I march the entire thing into the kitchen and start what will probably be the first of five loads, doubling up on detergent. I won’t lie: it’s starting to smell, and I’m not going to take this mess with me into either the new year or my new apartment. It will be a fresh, clean start, in more ways than one.

My bus leaves at noon tomorrow and since Kellan’s in California until January second, I’ve booked a ticket back for New Year’s Eve to give myself a day and a half to finish packing and get everything carted over to Marcela’s before his return. With the room largely empty, there’s no way to ignore the obvious, and I stare at my desk and bed until my lower lip trembles, and not just because it’s sad to think about dismantling them only to rebuild them a week and a half from now. It’s sad because they make me think about Crosbie; this whole room makes me think about him. Everything does. I’ve taken to leaving my phone in my sock drawer so I can’t text him whenever the urge hits, which is still with embarrassing frequency. I know I can’t afford to go down this depressing road, so I trudge back into the kitchen to collect Kellan’s toolbox and decide the bed will be my first victim.

I drag off the mattresses and stash them in the living room, and that small act has my muscles burning and my breath coming in harsh pants, making me consider abandoning the bed altogether and crashing on the couch until I leave. But I don’t. Loose ends are my newest nemesis, and I’m going to see this thing through. At least, that’s the plan until I crouch next to the bed, wrench in hand, and spot the small red box on the floor.

I’ve definitely never seen it before. It’s flat and square, not quite as large as a CD, the velvet smooth and soft under my fingers. The wrench clatters when I drop it back into the toolbox, but I barely register the noise over the thudding of my heart. I know this room was empty when I moved in; I know I have never seen this box before. Sometime between Labor Day and today, this thing…materialized.