Undecided

by Julianna Keyes

  I rack my brain, filtering past the Dean-Ripley-gave-me-a-sex-talk horror until I come to something I know she’ll like. “I got invited to the Alpha Sigma Phi Halloween party.”

  Her eyes light up. “You’re kidding!”

  “It’s true.”

  “We have to go. I’ve been trying to think of ways to get in, but my best guess was tracking down that army man you hooked up with, except I don’t think we ever saw his face when it wasn’t painted green.”

  I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Right. Sorry. Now let’s talk about our costumes. Slutty cat? Slutty aliens? Slutty nurses? No, what am I saying? We’re modern women. Slutty doctors!”

  I laugh too. “No slutty anything. How about you go and tell me about it later?”

  She gasps in offense. “Absolutely not. We’re a team. Where you go, I go— Actually, never mind. You spend a lot of time at the library. But where I say we’ll go, we go. And we’re going to this party. We can be the Black Swan and…the white one.”

  “What?”

  “Or the two broke girls from TV.”

  I gesture to my apron. “Perfect. I won’t need to change.”

  She claps her hands, bits of cream cheese frosting flying from the tips of her fingers. “Thelma and Louise!”

  “We—”

  But she’s on a roll. “It’s perfect. They’re classic, they’re best friends, they’re gorgeous, and—”

  “They die at the end?”

  “And Thelma bangs Brad Pitt. In the name of friendship, you can be Thelma. I think you could use a Brad Pitt.”

  “You realize he robs her, right?”

  “Your belongings fit in a milk crate. You’re safe.”

  “I don’t think—”

  She presses her frosted fingers over my lips. “You need to stop thinking and take the night off. Halloween is the Saturday after midterms. You can bury your nose in a book until then, but on October thirty-first, you’re mine. And we’re hitting the road.”

  “They drive off a cliff.”

  She winks at me. “That’s the spirit.”

  * * *

  The sensible part of my brain tells me to steer clear of all Alpha Sigma Phi parties, but when Nate closes shop early so the window guys can do their job, I detour one block over to Duds, Burnham’s only second-store. I can’t stop thinking about driving off a cliff, so to speak. It’s been a long time since I’ve “driven” anywhere with anyone, and though I have good reason for hunkering down to atone for last year’s mistakes, it hasn’t exactly been easy. Or interesting. Or satisfying.

  It’s on exactly that unsatisfying note that I step into the musty-smelling store and bump into Kellan. The front row is lined with all manner of Halloween costumes and paraphernalia, and Kellan is, for some reason, pushing a shopping cart.

  “Nora!” he exclaims. “I thought you were working.”

  “I was. We closed up early, so I figured I’d come get some costume inspiration.”

  His face lights up. “Me too. Clark Kent needs a good suit, and where better to find one than Duds?”

  “Don’t you already own a suit?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to get…bodily fluids on it.”

  “Thank you for that imagery.”

  “Are you going as Lois Lane, then? Because this is perfect. We can coordinate our outfits. My tie, your shoes—”

  “I’m not going as Lois.”

  His face falls, then immediately lights up when he spots a French maid outfit, still in its vacuum-sealed bag. “Slutty maid?” he tries, holding it up.

  “No slutty anything.”

  “Who’s slutty? I’m interested.” Crosbie skids onto the scene, sneakers squeaking across the tiled floor. Duds is a big store for Burnham, full of countless racks of clothing and walls lined with shelves of shoes and housewares. It’s mostly empty at this time of day, so the noise attracts nothing more than a single disapproving stare from an employee hanging up jackets nearby.

  Kellan sighs and replaces the French maid outfit. “Not Nora.”

  Crosbie scoffs. “Obviously. I thought we were talking about someone cool.”

  I shoulder my way past the duo. “This has been fun.”

  “Aw,” Kellan calls to my back. “Come on, Nora. Now that you’re here you can help me choose a costume.”

  “Your costume is just a suit.”

  “But when I model for Crosbie he tells me I’m fat.”

  Crosbie shrugs. “You are.”

  Kellan socks him in the shoulder. “Dick. I’m going to look at ties. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to begin modeling.”

  “Remember blue is slimming!”

  Kellan flips him off and wanders away, leaving Crosbie and I next to the costume display. For a second we just stare at each other, Crosbie rubbing his newly injured shoulder, me trying to come up with something to say that doesn’t reveal just how much I noticed his absence these past few weeks. Or how hot he looks. His hair is damp, like he’d just taken a shower, and he’s wearing jeans and a puffy black jacket that makes his brown eyes look darker than usual as they take me in.

  “What’s it going to be?” he finally asks.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your costume. What is it?” He nods at the options. “Witch? Scarecrow? Viking?”

  “Ah, Thelma.”

  “Who?”

  “Thelma. From Thelma & Louise? Marcela’s going to be Louise.”

  “Which one was Thelma, Geena Davis or Susan Sarandon?”

  “Geena Davis. I came to shop for some high-waisted jeans and sunglasses.”

  He looks me over. “I can see it.”

  “What about you? Browsing for a cape? Maybe some new tights?”

  “I’ve already got my Superman costume at home. I sleep in it every night.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” I make my way over to the women’s clothing and Crosbie comes with me, thumbing through the long rack of jeans for a suitably tight, acid-washed pair. After a minute I get warm and unzip my coat, realizing my mistake the second Crosbie’s eyes lock on my chest, then slide up to the prim Peter Pan collar of my dress.

  His brows tug together and he gestures at me with one finger. “Let’s talk about this,” he says. “Did you have a big date today? Or perhaps a…very pleasant date?”

  I smile thinly, remembering the afternoon’s unpleasantness. “I had a meeting with…someone.”

  He leans in conspiratorially. “Was it a boy?”

  I snort and push him away. “Why? Are you jealous?”

  For a second he doesn’t react. Our eyes lock and my hand feels like it’s stuck to his chest, my fingertips digging into his pecs. And then he shakes his head and smirks and I take away my hand. “You see right through me, Nora.”

  “Ha. I haven’t seen you much at all since pizza night.” The night he pretended to be looking for Kellan, but really came looking for me.

  He turns his attention back to the jeans. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I see.”

  “With school.”

  “Right. Me too.”

  A pause. “And Kellan told me you had some trouble last year and really need to study, so you can’t afford any distractions.”

  “You don’t distract me.” The words come out a little too quickly.

  “He said maybe the video games were a problem.”

  “I just tune them out, like I do with most of your comments. It’s kind of like white noise now.”

  He glances at me. “So what you’re saying is…I help you.”

  “That’s exactly it.”

  “I make you better.”

  “Shut up, Crosbie.”

  “You’ve missed me.”

  Our eyes meet again, and even though he’d said the words in jest, I think we both know they’re a little bit true. Maybe a lot true.

  “Kellan’s right that I have to keep my grades up, but it’s not terrible, having company sometimes.”

  “Oh yeah?” He look
s decidedly pleased and more than a little smug.

  “Occasionally.”

  “I’m your best friend, aren’t I?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. The video games are a real problem.”

  “Is that why you’re coming to the Halloween party?”

  “Is what why? The video games?”

  “To talk to someone. To meet people. To do what people do at parties.” He waggles his eyebrows and leans in a little, close enough I can smell the faint scent of shampoo on his still-damp hair.

  Even though I know exactly what he’s referring to, I pretend I’m not sniffing him and ask, “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever been to a party, Nora?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t mean birthday parties when you were a kid.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh. In that case, no.”

  “Yeah? What are you like at parties? Do you stand in the corner? Hide in the bathroom? Take a couple of pictures to show you were there, post them on Facebook, then run home to read?”

  I stick out my tongue. “I’ll have you know I’m great at parties.” Or rather, Marcela was great at parties; I was okay after two drinks had loosened my inhibitions.

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, first I like to head right to the snack table.”

  “Ooh.”

  “I really go to town on the free chips.”

  “This is a wild story, Nora.”

  “Then I study all the family pictures on the wall, and ask the host questions about them.”

  Crosbie grins. “I know you’re trying to sound like you’re joking, but I think this is true.”

  “And then I go home. In bed by nine.”

  He laughs. “What I always suspected.”

  I find a couple of pairs of jeans and drape them over my forearm. “Okay, tell me your party strategy.”

  “All right. Listen closely. Not a lot of girls get this type of intel. Mostly they’re too amazed by me to appreciate the process.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  “First I put on a T-shirt.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Then I add a pair of jeans.”

  “I don’t think I can take much more.”

  “Then I show up. Bam. Game over.” He brushes his hands together, mission accomplished.

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  He shrugs, exaggeratedly cocky. “For some of us, it is.”

  “Yo! Gossip queens!”

  We turn to see Kellan waving from the changing rooms in the corner. “I’m about to get dressed. Prepare yourselves for the thrill of a lifetime.”

  I snag another pair of jeans before following Crosbie to the back of the store to see Kellan’s show. He grabs two cheap wooden chairs from a dining room display and arranges them side-by-side, and when we sit down it’s like we’re the only people at a strange discount theater.

  “So what have you been up to these past couple of weeks?” he asks, taking one pair of jeans and holding them up to study.

  “Why?” I ask, echoing his earlier joke. “Did you miss me?”

  He looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Desperately.”

  I laugh. “Well—”

  “Hey, Crosbie.”

  We turn as two girls stroll by, arms laden with costume options. While I don’t appreciate them interrupting the conversation, I do appreciate that they have at least steered clear of the slutty French maid outfit.

  “Hey,” Crosbie responds, stretching one arm along the back of my chair as he grins at them. If I were an idiot I might think the gesture was a possessive one, an action meant to say, Hey, I’m busy here. But because I have two eyes, I know the gesture has more to do with allowing his coat to gape open, revealing a well-defined chest beneath his thin white T-shirt.

  I sigh inwardly as the trio makes small talk. My gaze shifts around the store, landing on a display of sunglasses. I need a pair anyway, and now suddenly seems like the perfect time to check them out. When I stand, however, Crosbie circles my wrist with his calloused fingers and keeps me in my seat.

  “Don’t go,” he says in a low voice. To the girls he adds, “See you at the Halloween party, ladies.”

  They take the cue and say goodbye, but I don’t miss the way their eyes flit to the still-closed door of the change room before they leave.

  “I need to look at the sunglasses,” I say before Crosbie can accuse me of being jealous or anything equally ridiculous and untrue. But this time it’s not his fingers that stop me from standing, it’s his words.

  “They’re only talking to me to get close to Kellan.”

  I freeze. “What?”

  He strums his fingers on the back of my chair and focuses on something over my shoulder, avoiding eye contact. Which is probably for the best, because there are only about ten inches separating us, and I’m all too aware of the warm length of his arm along my shoulders, the way his big knee presses into the outside of my thigh.

  “You heard me.”

  “And that’s…a problem?” The Crosbie I know—thought I knew—wouldn’t have cared why he was getting the attention, as long as he was getting it.

  His nostrils flare slightly as he exhales. “I wasn’t complaining about it last year. I met a lot of girls I wouldn’t have met otherwise. But this year…the girls Kellan attracts just don’t do it for me.”

  I recoil, stung. “I see.” My chest suddenly feels tight and I blink to clear my vision.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  The change room door bangs open to reveal Kellan propped against the cheap plywood wall, hands tucked into his pockets, one foot crossed over the other at the ankle. He’s wearing a navy suit with a red and white striped tie, shiny loafers, and a pair of black-framed glasses. He looks more like a fashion model than a journalist, but who’s complaining?

  “Thoughts?” he asks, strutting out of the stall and taking ten steps down the nearest aisle before executing an exaggerated turn and strolling back. He poses, jutting out his jaw, then tipping down the glasses to fix me with a laughably intense stare.

  I snicker, my hurt feelings subsiding for just a second. “Very nice.”

  He studies the price tags stapled to the jacket sleeve and the tie. “All for a grand total of…twenty-two dollars.”

  “You make it look like an even forty.”

  He winks at me. “I know.” Then he turns to Crosbie, who’s looking more than a little uneasy. “Don’t tell me I look fat, bro. This is navy. You said it was slimming.”

  Crosbie clears his throat. “Ten out of ten. Good call with the tie.”

  Kellan fingers it thoughtfully. “I like it.” He disappears back into the change room and I stand.

  “Nora,” Crosbie says.

  “Good night.” I hang the jeans on the closest rack, no longer interested in playing dress up or any other games. The burning humiliation I’d felt at his words is welling right back up, threatening to bubble over. I just want to go home.

  “Nora.” He follows me down an aisle of children’s clothes, fingers folding around the hem of my coat. “Would you stop?”

  “No,” I say, even as I stop. “Fuck off. I was just being nice—”

  “I didn’t mean you,” he interrupts. “You’re not the kind of girl he likes—”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ.” I yank my coat out of his grasp. “I mean it, Crosbie. Shut up.”

  “Come on. You know what I meant.”

  “No,” I bite out. “Obviously I don’t.”

  “He likes you,” he says, running a hand over the side of his face, frazzled. “And so do I. You know I do.”

  I glance away, more angry than I should be. No, not angry. Sad. Because I missed Crosbie, for reasons I don’t want to dwell on, and he hurt my feelings.

  “Come on,” he says again. “Thelma is super hot. I want to see you in those jeans. Don’t go home empty handed.”

  I scowl. “If you noticed me at a party, it would be the first time.”
>
  “What? There will be a lot of people, but—” He shakes his head. “Fine, I’ll set a trap. I’ll put family photos on the wall and wait until you approach.”

  “I don’t want to see your photos.”

  “And I’ll buy all the best chips.”

  I blow out a breath. “I have to go, Crosbie.”

  He shuffles closer. “Wait until Kellan’s ready and I’ll drive you back.”

  “I rode my bike.” I turn to go.

  “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

  The words make me pause. Maybe it’s just because he’s had a lot of experience issuing apologies, but he’s good at this. I’m already calming down and starting to feel a little embarrassed by my reaction. “Maybe I overreacted,” I mutter.

  He nudges my foot with his. “Yeah, you’re a fucking psychopath.”

  I meet his eye. “I live with Kellan, Crosbie. I don’t need to be nice to you to get close to him.”

  He frowns. “I know.”

  I watch him for a moment. “I really don’t think you do.”

  chapter ten

  At eight o’clock on Halloween night, I’m sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast bar in my Thelma get-up, a half-finished bottle of beer in one hand as the other hovers over my phone, ready to type a furious “How dare you do this, Louise!” message to Marcela.

  “Hey,” Kellan says, coming out of his room.

  “Hey,” I mutter, too disappointed and frustrated to manage many more words than that. I’m reading Marcela’s text— “Sorry, babe, but I’m dying—like for real dying, vomit everywhere dying—and I cannot be your Louise tonight. Find Brad Pitt and bang his brains out for me”—and trying not to cry.

  Kellan eyes me warily. “Everything okay?”

  I sigh. “Marcela can’t make it,” I mutter. “There’s no Thelma and Louise without Louise.” And there’s no way I’m about to show up to Alpha Sigma Phi solo—Marcela’s more than a wingman, she’s the tour guide, and I hate to admit it, but I still want her to hold my hand until I get warmed up for the evening.

  Kellan sets his briefcase down on the dining room table. It takes me a full five seconds of staring before I realize he’s in costume—and he looks good. Imagine the sexiest Clark Kent in the history of the world, and transplant him to my living room. He’s wearing the navy suit, polished black wingtips, and the red and white striped tie. Paired with gelled back hair and horn-rimmed glasses, he is the epitome of smart and sexy.