Undecided

by Julianna Keyes

  Crosbie strokes the side of my face, my ribs, my back, my ass. He guides me gently, the pace increasing, the sound of skin on skin soon filling the car, drowning out our gasping breaths.

  I come first, thighs locking as I grind against him, dragging out every ounce of pleasure. His fingers dig into my ass and I see him gritting his teeth, trying not to move. I sag against his chest and he correctly interprets it to mean I’m done, then lifts me slightly and slams his hips up, driving into me a dozen more times before he cries out, the sound smothered in my throat.

  Eventually I blink, breathe, move. I’m collapsed over Crosbie Lucas, in the front seat of his car, on a public street, my bare ass on full display for whomever should walk by. And I really don’t care.

  “Fuck, Nora,” he groans.

  “I don’t think my legs work.”

  “That was better than the last time, and I thought last time was the best thing to ever happen to me.”

  I smile, exhausted, thrilled, flattered. “Same here.”

  He meets my eye. “Oh yeah?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  He grins. I lift myself off and we spend the next couple of minutes trying to get dressed and repositioned in the cramped front seat. Eventually I’m back in place with my pants and shoes on, my jacket half zipped, and my hair retied in what I hope is an I-didn’t-just-have-sex ponytail.

  Crosbie, on the other hand, has an incorrectly buttoned shirt, even more tousled hair, and what might be a hickey on the side of his neck. With the heated part of the night over, the cold air quickly creeps back in and I shiver. Crosbie reaches over to zip up my jacket to my chin. “Good night, Nora.”

  “Good night, Crosbie.”

  He leans over to kiss me, then pauses, touching his neck. “Did you give me a hickey?”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  He laughs and presses his lips to mine. “Classy.”

  I gesture to our surroundings. “Couldn’t you tell?”

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  I clamber out of the car, hurrying up the sidewalk to the apartment. I climb the stairs and unlock the door, turning to wave as Crosbie pulls away from the curb and watches until I’m inside. I toe off my sneakers and head up to the living room where Kellan sits on the couch, one leg propped up on the coffee table, a bag of melting ice draped over his ankle. He’s alone.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He doesn’t look away from the game. I think he’s trying to blow up a sewer.

  I’m nearly in my room when I hear a loud bang, then silence, then my name. I turn slowly to see Kellan setting down the controller, his game paused. “Can I ask you a question?”

  I try not to look guilty. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your friend Marcela…is there any chance she’s crazy?”

  I nod somberly. “Yes.”

  He purses his lips. “Figures.” A pause. “Is she good in the sack?”

  “Kellan, that is not a thing I would know.”

  “Worth a shot.”

  “What makes you ask?” I say. “About the crazy thing?”

  He scratches his chin. “We were texting for a bit, and I thought things were going pretty good, then she asked if I had a turkey recipe.”

  I cough out a laugh. “Do you?”

  “Of course I do. I’m the youngest of four boys. Who do you think got stuck helping in the kitchen?”

  I cover my mouth. “You didn’t tell her that.”

  “Why not? It’s the truth.”

  “But you thought she was crazy!”

  “She’s hot, Nora. That makes up for a lot of things.”

  I shake my head. “This is a mistake, Kellan. And if you end up with a broken heart, I don’t want to hear about it.”

  He draws a cross on his chest. “I promise I won’t say a word. And speaking of broken hearts, where were you tonight?”

  “The library.”

  Kellan’s not fooled. “Your bag’s in your room. So are your books.”

  “Well, I was just…reading.”

  “Yeah. Somebody’s dick.”

  “Kellan!” I snatch a stray ketchup packet from the breakfast bar and hurl it at his head. It smacks into the wall and falls behind the couch as he roars with laughter.

  chapter fourteen

  When Open Mic Night at Beans rolls around a couple weeks later, Kellan is still focused on the subject of my “reading partner.”

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Kellan nudges me hard enough I lose my balance and have to catch myself on the back of a chair before I fall over. He’s referring to a middle-aged man in a blue suit with an anchor embroidered on the breast. I’m pretty sure he’s the father of one of the performers. And a ship’s captain.

  “No!” I snap, shoving him away. “He’s not here.”

  “He’s definitely here.” He folds his arms across his chest and surveys the dim room dramatically. “And I’m going to find him.”

  I roll my eyes. “If you say so.” To date he’s considered all of my professors, our eighty-year-old neighbor Ted, and three of the line cooks at the Chinese place on campus, but he’s never once contemplated Crosbie.

  Speaking of which. “Have you seen Crosbie?” I ask, frowning as I peer around the crowded space. “He’s not up for a bit, but…”

  Kellan pulls his phone out of his pocket and squints at the display. No missed calls or texts.

  “Do you not have any friends?” I inquire politely.

  He makes a face at me. “Shut up. You know who I’m ‘friendly’ with at the moment.”

  Now I make a face. “Spare me.”

  Kellan and Marcela have some sort of painfully immature sixth grade-style relationship going on. They text, talk on the phone late at night and go on group dates, but they never actually seem to…do anything. I know why Marcela’s reluctant to get physical—she’s into Nate and this thing with Kellan is simply to make him jealous. But while she’s relieved not to have to pry his hands out of her pants at every turn, she’s equally perplexed as to why she doesn’t have to.

  “And here comes my ‘friend’ now,” Kellan murmurs, putting away his phone and grinning over my head. He’s so handsome when he smiles. Hell, he’s handsome all the time. And now, in the muted lighting, wearing a white button-up shirt and fitted dark trousers, he looks like the world’s most handsome waiter. But when he slings an arm around Marcela’s shoulder and kisses her cheek, I feel nothing. Not an ounce of envy. Because this secret, unexpected, and extraordinarily hot thing Crosbie and I have going leaves no room for jealousy. It’s that good.

  It’s not good enough to block the death rays Nate’s shooting from behind the counter, however. I peer over my shoulder and widen my eyes in warning. Celestia is here, after all, fur coat draped in her lap, pretentious drink in hand, ready to watch the show in the prime front row seat Nate reserved for her. The second the track team filed in and filled the remaining seats you could see him kicking himself, but there wasn’t much he could do save drag her chair to the back row and pretend it offered a better view.

  As much as I’d love to remain immersed in their petty dramas, I’m working tonight—so is Marcela, though it’s hard to tell the way she’s running her fingers through Kellan’s hair and gazing up at him adoringly, doing a pretty great job convincing anyone who’s looking that they’re hooking up left, right, and center, when in fact they’ve only kissed twice, and neither time “with tongue.” This is Marcela’s recounting; Crosbie confirmed the details when he spoke to Kellan, and we both agreed we didn’t want to know anything more.

  My phone buzzes against my leg and I know it’s Crosbie. “I’m going to grab more supplies,” I say to absolutely no one, since they’re all fixated on each other. The low murmur of voices is amplified in the acoustic space, and though we’re at the maximum number of occupants allowed by the fire code, a hundred and thirty people manage to sound like a thousand.

  I grab my phone out of my apron pocket and shoul
der my way through the swinging door into the kitchen. We’re busy enough that Nate asked our part-time dishwasher to come in for the night, and two other staff members are hurriedly filling trays with freshly made donuts and brownies. The air is warm and smells like coffee and sugar, but I won’t find privacy or quiet in the kitchen, so I head into the dark, narrow hall that leads to the fire exit.

  It’s colder and quieter here, and I shiver as I rest against the wall and pull up Crosbie’s text. Come out back, it reads. Assuming he’s actually here, “out back” means the alley, which is currently coated in a thin layer of snow.

  I march to the end of the hall and push open the door, the rush of cold November air making me shiver. Fat snowflakes fall, gleaming in the yellow glare of emergency lights that showcase our stuffed trash cans and recycling bins. “Crosbie?” I whisper.

  “What took you so long?”

  I jump. He’s standing behind the door, so I have to step outside and close it to see him. “What are you doing out here?” I fold my arms around my middle. Beneath my polka dot apron I’m wearing dark skinny jeans and a long-sleeve top, neither of which are warm enough for this.

  He rubs his hands over his face and I frown. He looks pale and sick. “Crosbie?” I put a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?” He’s wearing a black dress shirt and pants; no magician’s hat and cape, despite my pleas. He’s trembling a little bit, and I don’t think it’s because of the cold. I press the back of my hand to his forehead—his skin is hot and clammy.

  “Do you have the flu?”

  He shakes his head miserably. “Stage fright.”

  Huh. For a guy who’s very much at home in the spotlight, be it at parties, on the track team, or just strolling around campus, this is very unexpected. But instead of offering an unhelpful “Whaaat?” I say, “Everybody gets nervous. It’s normal.”

  “I haven’t been able to concentrate all day. I just keep picturing this whole thing…failing.”

  “You’re not going to fail.” He’d shown me a few of the tricks he planned for tonight, and they were great. “You’re good at this, Crosbie. And everyone’s going to love you.”

  “Everyone?” He looks terrified. “How many people is ‘everyone?’”

  I hesitate. “Um…a few.”

  “More than twenty?”

  “How long have you been back here?” The shop has been full for close to an hour as everyone showed up early to claim seats and snacks.

  His head falls back and he groans unhappily. “A while.”

  A muted buzzing sound interrupts and we both pull out our phones. Crosbie’s is lit up with a new message.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he mutters.

  “What is it?”

  He shows me the screen. It’s a picture of a bunch of hands gripping wrists, forming a solid circle. “Kellan,” he explains. “He’s been sending me supportive messages all day.” He glares at the screen. “This one says, ‘We’ve got you, brother.’”

  I try not to laugh, but fail completely. “It’s sweet,” I protest when he glowers at me.

  “It’s horrifying. How many of them are here?”

  I don’t pretend not to know he’s referring to his track teammates. “I’m not sure,” I hedge. “A couple. The front row.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “They want to see you succeed! It’s nice.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “You can.”

  “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

  “For the same reason you showed me the tri—the illusions. Because deep down you want to do this, you just needed a reason.”

  “And you’re that reason?”

  I arch a brow. “Is that not enough?”

  He opens his mouth and closes it. “Of course you’re enough,” he says finally.

  Now my phone buzzes with a text from Kellan. I can’t find Crosbie.

  I show Crosbie. “What do you want me to tell him?” My frozen finger hovers over the reply button and I shiver.

  “Shit,” Crosbie says, yanking open the door and grabbing my shoulder to steer me inside. “Why didn’t you say you were cold?”

  “Why wasn’t it obvious? It’s snowing!”

  The door slams shut, cocooning us in marginally warmer air and even less light.

  “Look,” I say, “if you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. People bail all the time. Just go home and say you fell asleep. Or you got the date wrong. Or you have the flu. I’ll back you up.”

  He stares at me for a long time. “Thank you, Nora.”

  “You’re really going to bail?”

  “No, I’m going to do this. And if it goes epically wrong, I’m blaming you.”

  “That sounds totally mature and reasonable.”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  “When? When you’re performing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “On the floor. Serving, watching, whatever. I’m working, remember?”

  He nods. “Right.”

  “Do you want me to watch? I could not watch, if you prefer. I’ll duck down behind the counter and cover my ears.”

  “No,” he says. “Be there.”

  I lean in to kiss his cheek. “Promise.”

  “Hey.” He catches my chin and backs me into the wall. “Don’t be a tease.”

  “I was being encouraging.”

  “Be more encouraging,” he suggests, before he kisses me. Really kisses me. So intense and thorough I have to wonder if this whole “stage fright” thing was just a set up to get me back here, hand inching its way under my shirt, a shameless grope in the name of consolation.

  “Hey!” I finally pull away, snagging his inquisitive hand. “I’m working. And you’re up soon.”

  He nudges me with his hips. “I’m kind of up right now.”

  “Good luck out there. Not that you’ll need it.”

  He smirks and reaches behind my ear, pulling out a quarter. “Of course I don’t need it.”

  * * *

  He really doesn’t, as it turns out. He does the handful of tricks—illusions—I’ve already seen, plus a few more that are totally new to me. After forty-five minutes of slam poetry, acoustic song covers, and two Salt-N-Pepa dance tributes, he’s a welcome change of pace.

  I hover next to Kellan at the end of the second row and smile over his shoulder when I see him recording the whole performance on his phone. Crosbie glances at me from time to time, but as he settles into the show you can see his nervousness abate and his confidence grow. The audience eats it up, laughing when they’re supposed to, oohing and ahhing appropriately. At the end of the set he gets a standing ovation and blushes beet red as he gathers his things, offers an awkward bow, and rushes off the stage.

  “That was great!” Kellan exclaims. Marcela’s seated to his left and he nudges her. “Wasn’t that great?”

  Marcela’s watching Nate and Celestia in the front row. “So great,” she echoes distractedly. But when Nate takes the stage to introduce the next act, she suddenly turns to beam up at Kellan, knowing they now have an audience of one. “You must be so proud.”

  I try not to gag and maneuver through the crowd. I saw Crosbie disappear down the short hall that leads to the bathrooms, and I shoulder my way through the throng in the same direction just as a blonde in a tasseled vest takes the stage to do her best Jewel impression.

  The hallway is empty when I get there, both doors closed. I knock cautiously on the men’s room door, figuring I can just say I need to refill the soap if there’s anyone other than Crosbie inside. After a second the door opens and his head pokes through, brow furrowed.

  “Did you knock?” he asks, looking confused.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were alone.”

  “Sure am.” He pulls open the door and gestures me inside. I’ve been in here before, of course, but it’s not exactly my favorite place to be. It’s a typical coffee shop bathroom, with two stalls, two urinals, and two sinks. It’s clean and cramped and smells like bleach.


  “Feeling better?” I ask. Now that I’m in here I can see his face and hairline are wet, like he’d just splashed them with water. I watch as he grabs a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and dries off as best he can.

  “Yeah,” he answers after a second. “I’m glad it’s over.”

  “Are you glad you did it? Because I’m glad. You were great.”

  He meets my eye in the mirror, then smiles. He’s so hot when he smiles, all white teeth and tiny creases around his eyes. He looks like a mischievous little kid who knows he’s never going to stop being bad. “I’m glad,” he says, tossing the paper towel in the trash and turning to stalk toward me. “And I’m really fucking amped.”

  “Amped?” I echo, reading his intentions clearly. And quite eagerly.

  “Amped,” he repeats. He backs me into the door and reaches down to flip the lock. His lips are a millimeter away from mine when someone rattles the knob, finds it locked, then knocks loudly.

  “Hello? Cros?”

  It’s Kellan.

  “Oh my God,” Crosbie mumbles into my hair. “Whyyy?”

  More knocking. “Crosbie? Are you in there? Are you okay? Where’s the manager? I need a key.”

  Crosbie backs away, takes a deep breath and looks at me, adorably exasperated. “Hide in the stall,” he says with a sigh. “I’ll get him out of here.”

  I can’t help but laugh, covering my mouth so Kellan, who’s probably got his ear glued to the door in a misguided show of friendship, doesn’t hear. “He’s your number one fan.”

  Crosbie rolls his eyes and pushes me toward the stall. “He’s my number one cock blocker.”

  I shuffle into the stall and twist the lock. A second later I hear Crosbie pull open the door to the bathroom, the outside noise rushing in along with his best friend.

  “Dude!” Kellan exclaims. “Are you okay? I’ve been knocking.”

  “Sorry,” Crosbie answers. “I didn’t hear. How was the show? Did everyone think it was stupid?”

  “No way. It was awesome. How’d you bend that quarter?”

  “I told you. Mind meld. Let’s get back out there.”