Undecided (26 page)

“Okay,
I’m convinced,” he says quickly.

I tug his
sweatpants and briefs down as I kneel, urging him to sit, then slowly press his
knees apart, hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel. I’m excited too, but having
just come from painting over the names of twenty-five girls who might have
excelled at this very thing, I can’t help but fret.

“You all
right?” he asks, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

“Yes,” I
say softly, leaning forward to take him in my mouth. I’m instantly rewarded
with a sharp groan and the tensing of his thighs against my shoulders. He
strokes my hair and mutters my name and a bunch of other incoherent things, and
though I know it’s not perfect, he seems to like it. He murmurs praise and
pleas in equal amounts, and before he comes he pulls out and grabs a tissue
from a box conveniently located nearby, finishing in his hand.

His head
falls forward and he sighs, then weakly reaches down to tug up his pants. I sit
beside him on the bed, quiet, and look over when I feel him turn. He smiles
faintly and reaches over to brush my cheek, pulling back to reveal a quarter
pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Ta da.”

“You’re a
master magician.”

He leans
in to kiss me. “Thank you.”

“I’m never
saying it again, so enjoy it.”

He
laughs. “Not for the compliment, Nora.”

I bite my
lip, pleased and still slightly embarrassed. “No problem.”

He smiles
and bears me back onto the bed, deftly opening the buttons on my top. “What are
you doing?” I ask, stilling his hand.

“You said
it yourself,” he says, working his hand free and resuming his task. “I’m a
master. And now I’m going to show you some of my other tricks.”

“I said
you were a master magician.”

“You also
said you wouldn’t say it again, so you can’t be trusted.”

I laugh
until he slides his rough hand over my stomach and under the waistband of my
jeans, right into my panties. “Crosbie,” I breathe.

“Master,”
he corrects.

I snort
with laughter. “Fuck off.”

He kisses
me again. “All in good time.”

On Saturday afternoon I’m at home, studying on the couch with Crosbie to
make up for our lack of studying the other night. Kellan’s in the kitchen
cooking up a storm—a potentially dangerous one—as he tests recipes for next
Sunday’s post-Thanksgiving pre-Christmas dinner party. A venture I have been
unsuccessful in derailing.

“All
right,” he says, holding up a spoon, steam rising from its contents. “Whose
turn is it to try?”

Crosbie
slants a look at me. “Yours,” he says in a low voice.

“I went
last time!”

“My
tongue is still burnt!”

“All the
more reason for you to test it!”

“Just go
over there, Nora!”

“No! You
go.”

“This is
hurting my feelings,” Kellan calls. “I can hear you. I’m not that far away.”

“How many
variations on gravy can there possibly be?” I moan, shoving to my feet. “I
can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t think I ever want any more gravy.”

“Relax.”
Kellan holds out the spoon for me to taste. “This is the last batch.”

“Thank
God.”

“Next up:
stuffing.”

Crosbie
groans from the couch. “I can’t believe you came up with this dinner party
idea, Nora.”

“Marcela
came up with it,” I point out, “and you seconded it.”

He closes
his textbook and joins us in the kitchen. “Speaking of Marcela, why isn’t she
here suffering? I mean, sharing in the fun?”
Kellan glares at him. “She has plans.”

“For a
girlfriend, she seems to have an awful lot of plans that don’t involve you.”

“You both
know she’s not my girlfriend. She’s like, my beard, except I’m not gay.”

There’s a
moment of startled silence, then Crosbie and I both burst out laughing. “What?”
I exclaim.

Kellan
scowls. “Look. I started feeling weird in October, but I put off going to the
doctor. I knew the news wouldn’t be good, so I stopped hooking up.”

“That’s
why you didn’t sleep with Miss Louisiana on Halloween!” Crosbie crows. “I knew
it wasn’t out of concern for me.”

“It was
out of concern for you,” Kellan snaps. “And also Miss Louisiana.”

“You’re a
gentleman.”

“Anyway,
I have a reputation to keep up and I didn’t want people to talk and Marcela
wanted to make that guy you work with jealous—”

“Nate.”

“The
point is, we’re helping each other.”

Crosbie’s face is red with glee. “So she’s your
gonorrhea beard?”

Kellan smacks him in the arm. “It sounds gross
when you say it out loud.”

I gag a
little bit. “Trust me, it’s gross even if you just think it.”

“Both of
you shut up and try the gravy.”

Crosbie and I both sigh, then carefully taste.
If I’m being honest, Kellan’s had more hits than misses today, I’m just really
tired of being a guinea pig.

“Not
bad,” I say, wiping a drop from the corner of my mouth. “But it might be
missing something.”

“Yeah,”
Crosbie agrees. “It’s the best one yet, though.”

Kellan
thoughtfully licks a spoon. “You’re right. I think I know what will fix it.
This Chrisgiving is going to feature the best gravy any of you have ever
tasted.”

“Chrisgiving?”

“Christmas
plus Thanksgiving,” he explains.

Crosbie’s
shaking his head. “Everyone is going to be confused by that.”

“They
will not, it’s crystal clear.” He’s already ignoring us, grabbing spices from
the shelf.

Crosbie
and I exchange helpless looks and retreat to the couch. “Speaking of girlfriend
duties,” he says, tossing the chemistry textbook in my lap. “Stop trying to
jump my bones and help me study.”

“I tried
to help you study,” I remind him, “and you thought ‘green’ was an element.”

Kellan
snorts in the kitchen and Crosbie shifts to glower at him.

“That’s
because chemistry is the worst,” he says, turning the evil eye on me.

“Then why
did you take it?”

“I don’t
know. To appear well-rounded?”

I laugh
and open the book. “You’re very round, Cros.”

“Are you
calling me fat? I knew that was too much gravy. Dammit, Kell!”

“Stop
stalling and focus,” I say, kicking him in the knee. “Now, where were we? Oh,
that’s right. Still on question one. What are the ten most abundant elements in
the universe?”

He sighs,
aggrieved. “Hydrogen, oxygen, neon, helium, nitrogen…um…iron, carbon, silicon,
magnesium, and…green.”

I give
him a high five. “You’re ready.”

He
laughs. “Sulfur.”

“Even
better. Look, this doesn’t have to be so hard. Chemistry is cool. And the
periodic table is actually really interesting.”

“It’s a
bunch of gibberish.”

“The
elements are arranged according to their atomic number, which is determined by
how many protons they have. All of the elements on this side…” I tap the right
side of the table, “are stable, while the elements on the left are unstable.
What’s another word for stable?”

“Please
kill me.”

“The
answer is ‘inert.’”

“Is there
such a word as ‘ert?’”

“There’s
such a word as ‘fail,’ is that what you were looking for?”

“I’m
looking for a new tutor. Kellan?”

“Busy.”

I warm to
the topic. “When the periodic table was first created, they only knew
sixty-something elements. But based on the way it was arranged, they were able
to predict the existence of yet-unknown elements and their properties. If you
think about it, it’s kind of like magic. And if you fold it in half—”

Kellan
suddenly starts coughing, the nose-running, eyes-streaming kind of coughing.
“Are you all right?” I call.

“Too much
pepper,” he gasps, running the faucet and shoveling water into his mouth with
his hand. “Definitely too much pepper.”

The oven
timer dings and he snatches out a muffin pan, each cup filled with various
versions of his stuffing recipe.

Crosbie whimpers. “Do you need a guinea pig? I
mean, a willing victim?”

“No.”
Kellan wipes his eyes. He won’t even look at us anymore, just yanks off his
apron and stuffs it on the counter. “I have to…nap.”

Crosbie
frowns. “At three o’clock?”

“Cooking’s
exhausting, man. Not that you’d know.” Without another look back, he strides
into his room and shuts the door. Firmly.

* * *

Normally when my phone rings it’s Crosbie or Marcela, so my only excuse
for answering without checking the display is that I dangerously assumed it was
either of them. But it’s not. It’s much worse.

“Hi,
Dad.” I try not to yawn directly into the phone. It’s seven o’clock on Thursday
morning and my alarm went off four minutes ago. This is what I get for not
jumping out of bed immediately.

“Hi,
sweetie. How are you?”

“Just
fine. Really busy. I have work in—”

“Great,
that’s great. Listen, I’m calling to talk to you about Christmas.”

I perk
up. “Oh? Are you…going somewhere?”

“What?
No. I wanted to make sure you were still coming.”

My heart
sinks. “Oh. Yeah. I’m coming.” My parents did this last year, too. Each trying
to one up the other, calling earlier and earlier, trying to ascertain whose
side of the house I would be staying on, where I would wake up on Christmas
morning. It’s telephone tug of war and if it weren’t so cold, I’d just camp out
in the neutral front yard.

“Well,
your room’s ready for you. Remember that quilt you saw last year? The one with
the stars? I bought it!”

I have no
recollection of this quilt. Or any quilts. “Thanks,” I say, hoping I sound
grateful. “Listen, I—”

He
interrupts. “And honey, I wanted to let you know I spoke with Phil—Dean
Ripley—and he assured me you were doing great. I’m so glad you got that wild
behavior out of your system last year.”

I flop
back onto my bed and twist a piece of hair around my finger. “All gone.”

“Now,” he
says, finally noting the fact that I’m maybe not quite as enthused about this
conversation as he is, “that’s not to say you can’t have any fun. Are
you…enjoying your life?”

Ugh.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Really busy, with work and classes. I actually have to go to
work—”

“Any new
friends? Boyfriends?”

He makes
this same inquiry on each of his once-monthly phone calls, and every time I’ve
answered no. As far as my parents are aware, I live with an equally studious
roommate and we have no other friends. In fact, we’re barely friends with each
other. Since Crosbie now most definitely falls into the category of “boyfriend,”
this is a pretty open window for me to explain that I’m seeing someone and it’s
going well and please can I hang up the phone. But when I open my mouth to
answer in the affirmative, all that comes out is a simple and rather
convincing, “Nope.”

I close
my eyes and try not to picture the easel in the living room. One more lie to
add to my own list. But is it really wrong if I’m just trying to avoid
unnecessary grief?

“Okay,”
he says. “Well, listen. We can’t wait to see you. We’re hosting one of those
murder mystery parties for New Years, and I’ve already selected your role.
You’ll be Lucy Loo—”

I frown,
thinking of the actress.

“…owner
of a high-end plumbing store, who’s a little behind on her bills, giving her
the perfect motive for—”

“Dad?”

He
finally stops talking.

“I’m
sorry to interrupt, but I really have to get to work.”

“Oh, of
course, honey. You’re still at that coffee shop?”

“I am.
Thanks for calling.”

“Okay.
We’ll see you soon.”

I hang up
and exhale. That part wasn’t a lie—I actually do start work in forty-five
minutes, and I’m still in my pajamas. I roll out of bed and drag on jeans and a
fitted sweater, then head for the bathroom to wash up.

The front
door opens and closes, and I hear feet on the steps. I stick out my head and wave
at Kellan, who’s returning from a run. “Hey.”

He nods
at me. “Hey.”

I quickly
wash and dry my face, and when I lower the cloth, I’m startled to see Kellan
standing in the doorway. “Jesus!” I stick the towel on the rack and reach for
the moisturizer. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.”
He studies his socked toes, looking uncomfortable, and in the process, making
me uncomfortable.

“What’s
going on?” I ask, rubbing lotion on my skin. “Please don’t tell me there’s more
gravy.”

He smiles
politely at my lame joke, and finally lifts his head to meet my eye in the
mirror. “It’s you,” he says.

I study
my reflection. “So it is.”

He holds
my stare for a long moment. “Red Corset.” The words are so quiet that for a
second I actually convince myself I didn’t hear them.

“I—Wh—What?”
I stammer. The hand holding the mascara wand is suddenly shaking so hard I have
to set it on the counter or risk losing an eye.

“The
party,” he says. “The closet. The corset. It was you.”

“How do
you—”

“You
talked about the periodic table, Nora. I’m pretty sure no one else has ever
used that as foreplay before.”

Oh my
God. Why didn’t I think about that before prattling on yesterday like the
world’s stupidest know-it-all?

“Kellan,
I—”

“Did you
know?” he asks, cocking his head. “I know we had a lot to drink that night, but
did you remember any of it?”

I can
barely stand up. My knees have turned to mush and I’m bracing myself on the
counter like it can teleport me out of here. I’d like to lie and assure him
he’s mistaken—hell, I’d love for it to be true—but I can’t do it. My voice,
when it comes, is a whisper. “I knew.”

His face
crumples, just for a second. “
Nora
.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“You’re
sorry? I’m the one who didn’t remember. Who put your name on that fucking easel
and said…said whatever.”

I shrug
weakly. “You didn’t know.”

“When you
showed up here that first day, did you know then?”

“I didn’t
know it would be you. You said your name was Matthew.”

“But you
remembered me? From before?”

I nod,
guilty. “I swear I had no intention of moving in when I realized it was you,
but you had obviously forgotten what happened and then the whole break on the
rent thing and I… I just…”