“Really,” I say, putting up a hand to stop him when he tries to follow. “Don’t. It’s a flight of stairs. I can handle it.”
“I think the guys might say—”
I shoot him a terse smile. “I think they ‘might’ too,” I interrupt, my meaning clear. He’s worried they might make some sort of generally inappropriate comment; I’m worried about a more specific type of rumor. And I see the dark and offended look shift into his eyes when he realizes what I’m implying.
“Right,” he says, stepping back and folding his arms across his chest. “Suit yourself.”
I feel bad, but I don’t change my mind. “Good luck on your test tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Then he closes the door in my face.
chapter four
I arrive at Beans for my shift, entering the kitchen just in time to see Nate and Marcela laughing as they arrange pre-made cookie dough on a baking sheet. In itself, that’s hardly incriminating. The suspicious part is how Nate leaps away as though the cookies are radioactive and he’s only just now remembering it.
I’ve always known that Nate was in love with Marcela. The three of us are the same age—twenty-one—but Nate’s our boss and often acts like an old man. He tries to be professional and grown up, and apart from a two-month period last spring where he sent her gifts from a “secret admirer,” I don’t think he’s ever acted on it. I think the fact that she never figured out it was him was pretty discouraging, and since then I assumed he’d given up the dream.
“Hey,” I say, pausing mid-stride to peer between them.
“Hey,” Nate says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He has a handsome, model-like face—too pretty, Marcela used to say—and super blue eyes. Right now those eyes are having a difficult time meeting mine, though Marcela appears completely oblivious. Though it could just be her determined effort to give me the silent treatment.
I arch a brow at Nate as I walk past, then head out front. The shop is pretty low-key, and there are half a dozen patrons seated randomly around the room, reading, texting, and drinking coffee. I grab a bus bin and amble around clearing off tables, and when I get back to the counter Nate is standing next to the register, looking uncomfortable.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” he says quickly.
“No?”
We both glance over as Marcela comes out with a tray of clean mugs and starts to stack them with the rest. Nate’s eyes linger a second too long and I harrumph and return to the kitchen with the dirty dishes. Since it’s slow out there I grab a leftover croissant and count inventory as I eat, and when I eventually make my way back to the front, I see Nate say something to Marcela, his expression stern, and the tight set of her mouth as she stands at his side. She looks like a reprimanded child who’s being made to apologize.
“What’s going on?” A quick look around the shop shows we’re down to three customers, all of whom are sufficiently absorbed in their own activities.
“I have to leave early tonight,” Nate says. “You two need to close and do the bank deposit. Together.”
“There are like, eight people in this whole town right now,” Marcela argues, clearly not for the first time. “And this place is dead. One of us can do it.”
“You’ll stay and do it together,” he says, his voice remarkably firm. “I’m leaving at six, you’ll lock the doors at nine-thirty and be out of here by ten. Together.”
Marcela rolls her eyes but drops the argument. Once he’s got our unspoken agreement, Marcela heads off for her break, Nate disappears into his small office to work on payroll, and I tend to the random customers who stroll in over the next couple of hours. Marcela keeps herself busy in the back and I don’t even think about her again until Nate comes up with his jacket on, car keys in hand.
“Think you two can be civil for a few hours?”
“We’re always civil.”
“Like the Civil War,” he replies dryly. “Don’t burn this place down.”
“Me? Never.”
“And keep all your clothes on.”
“I told you. I turned over a new leaf.”
“A new leaf that’s living with Kellan McVey?”
“How did you—” I break off when I spot Marcela over his shoulder, halfway out the kitchen doors and most definitely having overheard that last bit about Kellan if her stunned expression is any indication.
Nate winks at me. “There are no secrets in this town.”
I shoot him a warning look. “Are too.”
He points between Marcela and me as he backs away. “Best behavior.”
“Aye aye,” Marcela replies, sounding bored.
I give him a thumbs up and watch Marcela retreat into the kitchen, a festering feeling of guilt growing in my stomach. I know it’s not fair of me to be the one to end our friendship and then resent the fact that we’re not friends, but I do. It wasn’t like she had to work to convince me to do any of the stuff we did, but she’s a gateway drug. A super fun, loyal, sensitive gateway drug in a black sweater dress, fishnets, and red platform heels.
I didn’t come to the decision to call things off easily. But my scolding visit to the Dean’s office was followed up with half a dozen irate phone calls from my parents and a very stern talking-to from the judge when I got called in to be reprimanded for my drunk, naked sprint through town. There’s only so much a girl can take. If only to get everyone off my back, I swore up and down I’d make things right, and “make things right” involved giving my friendship with Marcela the ax. It’s not like she’s Miss Perfect—the streaking was her idea, after all. She’s just a faster runner. And better at hiding. Because while I got caught crouched naked behind a compost bin, she never got found at all, even though I knew where she was hiding. I also refused to supply her name, which resulted in an additional fifty hours of community service for me.
Marcela was a lot of fun, but staying friends with her and not going to parties is like a recovering addict saying they’ll just go to the movies with their former dealer—nobody’s watching a movie. If I fail another class, my scholarship is over and I’m out of here. My parents can’t afford another year of tuition, and my income from the coffee shop is barely enough to cover minimal rent and groceries. This is it for me, and that, more than anything, is what has me picking up a dishtowel and heading off to wipe down tables instead of following Marcela into the kitchen to clear the air.
* * *
By eight, things in the shop are pretty much dead. I’m working on the Sudoku puzzle in yesterday’s Portland Press Herald, and Marcela’s sitting at one of the tables doing some sort of glitter polish thing on her fingernails. Nate doesn’t care so much about the Sudoku, but the nail polish is strictly off limits and I know Marcela’s just doing it to get back at him for sticking her with me tonight. Oh well—if her fury is directed at someone else, hopefully she’ll forget to aim it at me for once.
I’ve finally figured out which number goes in the upper right corner of the puzzle when the door swings open and Kellan and Crosbie stroll in. Despite the chilly night air, they’re wearing T-shirts, shorts and sneakers, and both are drenched in sweat.
“Hey,” Kellan says, grinning as they approach.
Crosbie follows at his shoulder, and is it wrong if I notice that Crosbie’s shirt strains across his chest just a little more than Kellan’s? That his biceps look like they could snap the seams of his sleeves if he flexed, just a little?
Focus, Nora.
“Hi,” I say. My eyes flicker to Crosbie and he gives me a little nod. Between him and Marcela, I have officially pissed off half the people in this room. “What are you guys doing here?”
Kellan links his fingers behind his back and stretches. “We figured we should get in a few runs while we could, so here we are. I’ve gotta step up my game. I came in third in nationals last year—I can’t let that happen again.”
“Third in the country sounds pretty good.”
“It’s not.”
Er… “It’s better than fourth?”
Kellan jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Crosbie came fourth.”
Crosbie nods at me. “’Sup.”
Frick. “Are you guys hungry?”
Fortunately the subject of food is an easy way to distract Kellan. “Maybe a bit.”
“We don’t have any mac and cheese,” I warn, and hear Crosbie snicker.
“Ha ha,” Kellan says. “I’m here for the brownies.”
“Anything for you?” I ask Crosbie.
“Yeah,” he says, looking at the Sudoku puzzle. “Same.”
I open the display case. “We’ve got triple chocolate or chocolate banana. What’s your preference?”
“Triple chocolate,” Kellan says. “For both of us.”
I look at Crosbie for confirmation and he nods. Seeing the look, Kellan explains that Crosbie hates bananas.
I try not to laugh. “What? Who hates bananas?”
“They’re awful,” Crosbie replies seriously. “They taste like dirt and they’re impossible to peel. It’s a sign.”
I’m pretty sure I’ll just laugh if I respond so instead I bite my tongue and plate up two inoffensive triple chocolate brownies. I’m entirely aware that Marcela has stopped painting her nails and is openly watching us, and a little thrill goes through me when I realize that neither Kellan nor Crosbie has gawked at her, as so many guys do. They’re only talking to me.
“How often do you work here?” Kellan asks, scarfing half the brownie in a single bite.
“Three shifts a week, now that school’s starting.”
“Is this the sign up sheet?” Crosbie speaks through a mouthful of brownie, and licks off his finger before flicking open the binder labeled “Open Mic Night.”
“Yeah,” I say, still feeling guilty about offending him earlier, even if every bit of it was true. “Do you want to sign up? We only do four each year and it’s coming up in a few weeks—”
“Dude, no,” Kellan interrupts. “For the love of all that is holy, do not.”
Crosbie smirks at him. “Why not? I’ve got magic fingers, man. All the girls say so.”
Both Kellan and I roll our eyes. “I say this as your friend,” Kellan adds. “Spare yourself the embarrassment.”
Crosbie just laughs and elbows him in the side, but I swear a flicker of hurt crosses his face before he smoothes it away. He’d opened to the page for the next show, which at present is only half full, though we’re always booked solid when the night rolls around.
“It fills up pretty fast. You can put your name down now,” I suggest, “and if you change your mind just let me know and I’ll cross it out. You might not be able to get in, otherwise.”
He finally meets my eyes, and a strange sort of energy passes between us. Like he knows I know he wants to do this, just like I know he doesn’t want Kellan to know how much he does. “It’s fine,” he says, shaking his head. “Another time.”
I offer a conciliatory smile and close the book. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Hey.” Kellan leans in and lowers his voice. “That’s Marcela Lopes, right?” He nods his head in Marcela’s direction, where she’s finished with her nails and is now straightening a display of hand painted wooden spoons.
“Ah…” A sick kind of disappointment spreads through me, but I can’t very well pretend it’s not her. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s her.”
“I didn’t know she worked here.”
I force another smile. “Yep.”
“I saw her around a lot last year.” He looks contemplative and I want to shove him. You saw her? I want to yell. I was right beside her! You didn’t see me! Apparently not even when we were the only two people in the closet, you fucker.
“Well, she goes to school here.” I pick at a thread on my apron, and when I finally glance up, it’s not Kellan watching me, it’s Crosbie. And there’s that energy again. But this time he’s the one learning my secret.
“Let’s head out,” Crosbie says. The words are for Kellan, but he’s looking at me. “Three more miles.”
Kellan shoots one more look at Marcela, then tugs out his wallet and puts five dollars on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says. “See you at home.” He smiles and waves, and I stare at the money as they leave. The brownies are actually three dollars each, so I sigh and fish out a dollar from the tip jar.
* * *
What is just a light drizzle at the start of my bike ride home quickly turns into a downpour, and I’m drenched and cranky when I push through the front door, my jeans chafing painfully against my inner thighs with each step.
Kellan and Crosbie are on the couch playing video games, a bucket of fried chicken between them. It’s quarter past ten, my first class is at nine tomorrow, and all I want to do is take a shower and go to sleep, not listen to shoot ’em up sounds through the paper thin walls.
“Hey.” Kellan glances over when I enter, taking in my bare feet, wet socks in hand.
“Hey.”
Crosbie and I look at each other but say nothing, and I head into my room to exchange my sopping wet clothes for a robe and a towel. I don’t like the idea of cutting between the guys and the TV to get to the bathroom, but I don’t have a choice, so I duck past, self-consciously clutching the robe against my breasts. I climb into the shower and turn on the hot water, shuddering when it pounds my shoulders.
I shampoo my hair, finger combing out tangles as I work in conditioner, then washing my face and willing the hot water to carry away my bad mood. I shouldn’t even care if Kellan thinks Marcela’s hot—everyone thinks she is. Hell, even I think she is. It just…stings. I’ll get over it.
Eventually I climb out and towel off, scrubbing a hole in the foggy mirror and watching as I brush my teeth. I smear on moisturizer, then tighten the tie on the robe before darting back into my room as the guys continue to play their game. I usually shower in the morning so typically there wouldn’t be an issue with having an audience on my way back from the bathroom. Today, however, I swear I can feel a hot gaze on my bare legs, tracking my return.
When I close the door behind me I feel strangely exposed, and I suppose I am. Who really wants Kellan McVey—or Crosbie Lucas—to see them straight out of the shower, hair wet and makeup-free, wearing a ratty old robe printed with a bizarre owl pattern? Then I laugh. Until now I’ve been sulking about Kellan not noticing me, and suddenly I’m worried that he will.
I swap the robe for shorts and a sweatshirt, then sit on the yoga mat that’ll serve as my bed for one more night. I have two classes tomorrow, both in the morning, so I’ll be around for the bed and desk delivery scheduled for mid-afternoon.
I kill a couple of hours on my laptop and eventually the faint explosions coming through the wall fade to background noise. It’s only when they stop shortly after midnight that I remember them at all.
I yawn into the crook of my elbow and shut off the computer, then lie down and try to get comfortable, which isn’t the easiest task, given the mat’s all of a quarter inch thick. The second my eyes close, there’s a soft knock on the door. I sit up and switch on the desk lamp—currently a floor lamp—and shove the comforter to the side. I’m expecting Kellan, but when I open the door, it’s Crosbie.
“Hey,” he whispers, taking in my hair, still damp and tumbled over my shoulders.
“What’s up?”
“Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Um, yeah.” I half-expect him to ask me to secretly sign him up for open mic night.
He nods over my shoulder at my room. “In there?”
I hesitate. “Wh—”
“Relax.” He makes a face. “Kellan’s not going to spread rumors about you.”
“That’s not what I—” I blow out a breath. “Fine. Come in.”
I step back and he enters, closing the door. His expression is equal parts horrified and amused when he takes in my shoddy set-up: the closet is half-full, every item of clothing I own either hanging inside or still
stashed in an open duffel bag on the floor, since I don’t have a dresser. My laptop sits on one of the overturned milk crates, the other still holds all my books, and the yoga mat is unrolled in the corner, my crumpled comforter and pillow crushed against the wall.
“What the fuck?” he whispers.
“The furniture’s coming tomorrow.” I scratch my elbow, embarrassed. “I lived in residence, remember? I didn’t need a desk.”
“Or a bed.”
I cross my arms. “What can I help you with?”
“Nice artwork.”
I follow his gaze over my shoulder to the framed paper with “Steve Holt!” written on it in Marcela’s best handwriting. It’s a character/quote from Arrested Development, and no one ever knows what it means. It probably took her five minutes to make, but I love it.
“Thanks. So…?”
He grows serious. “Right. So. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s Kellan’s twenty-first birthday on Friday, and some of us want to have a party for him.”
“Uh-huh.” After the countless “you’re forgettable” references, no part of me thinks I’m about to be invited, even though I—and everyone else on campus—know about Kellan McVey’s birthday. Not that I could go, anyway, since I’m on the straight and narrow now.
“But…” He looks at me from under his lashes, probably trying to be cute, and only sort of succeeding. “Not everybody’s twenty-one, so they can’t get into the bars…or strip clubs.”
I feel my eye twitch. “Uh-huh…”
“And since Burnham polices the Frat Farm pretty seriously during September, we were hoping we could have the party here.”
“Here? In this apartment?”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “It would just be this one time, ever. I promise.”
“You want to have a bunch of drunk frat guys and strippers here, in my apartment? The one I moved into with the express understanding it was for studious homebodies only?”
He’s trying not to laugh. “Yes.”
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