Undecided

by Julianna Keyes

  It didn’t matter, I vowed. I would reinvent myself at college, be somebody people remembered. Because if I’m being honest, I’m pretty sure only a handful of my high school classmates would recognize my photo even if it had appeared in the yearbook.

  Turns out, being memorable is not that easy.

  I roll onto my side and stare into my darkened closet. I know I’m imagining things, but I swear I can see that red corset winking out at me, reflecting in the slivers of moonlight easing through the gap in the curtains. The wind howls outside, the promise of yet another storm, and even as I shiver, I sit up and swing my feet to the floor. I flip on the bedside lamp and hurry to the closet. When I moved in I’d tossed all my…less tasteful clothes into the back corner, buried safely behind my boring new wardrobe of jeans, T-shirts, and cardigans. Now I rummage through the pile, finding mini-skirts and sequined halter tops, dangerously tiny cut-off shorts and the neon pink bikini I’d paired with them for a pool party probably no one remembers I attended.

  And there, in the deepest recesses of the closet, is the corset. The bright red beacon of guilt that neither Crosbie nor Kellan can ever be allowed to find. I contemplate leaving it right where it is, since there’s no earthly way anyone will ever root through my closet. Then I consider grabbing a pair of scissors and hacking it into such tiny pieces that even should someone find it, they wouldn’t be able to guess what it was. But in the end I settle for the far more ridiculous option and stuff the corset in a grocery bag, toss on boots and a jacket, and run two blocks up and two blocks over to a completely random street until I come across a garbage can. I wrench out a bag and stuff the corset underneath, securing it with the first bag of trash and replacing the lid.

  I’m breathing hard as I stare at the can, wondering if this is how people feel when they hide a body. A bit relieved, a bit gross, and a whole lot guilty.

  chapter seventeen

  Thanksgiving is remarkably uneventful. I pick up a turkey burger from The Hedgehog and eat it while watching reality TV, reveling in the knowledge that I’ll have the whole apartment to myself for the next few days. Me and that stupid easel. From time to time I glance over at it, wondering if there’s something I can do to…help. Maybe change “red corset” to “red hair,” or cut the bottom of the pages so there is no forty-one and therefore no one to identify. Or maybe burn the whole thing to ashes and say we were vandalized.

  We’re down to five names in the current group. Kellan has identified everyone from forty to fifty except the mysterious and entirely forgettable “Red Corset,” and is working on figuring out how to get in touch with the remaining lucky ladies. Two are Canadian backpackers he met during the summer. He thinks he got one of their email addresses while giving them a “tour” of southern California, and now that he’s home for Thanksgiving, he’s going to dig through his things and see if he can’t find a few more clues.

  As nice as the quiet is, I’m lonely. I don’t miss the smell of cheese or the non-stop explosions emanating from the television, but I miss having a roommate and I miss having a boyfriend. My first boyfriend. Kellan and I are Facebook friends and I smile as I see photos from the track team trip, mostly the guys goofing off on the bus, running bare-assed into the freezing ocean, or doing inappropriate things with whipped cream. Crosbie doesn’t have an account of his own but he’s pictured there too, looking as handsome as ever.

  By the time I get home from work on Friday night, I’m more than ready for the boys to be back. I smile when I bike up the street and see lights on in the living room, dragging my bike up the stairs and thudding inside to find Crosbie sitting on the couch, alone.

  “Hey,” I say, looking around. Kellan’s room is dark. “Where’s Kellan?”

  Crosbie stands and stalks toward me. “Does it matter?”

  “Is he—Oomph!” I forget my question as Crosbie backs me into the wall and kisses me like I’m not the only one who missed somebody this week.

  “You were saying?” he asks when we break apart to breathe.

  I’m fumbling with the zipper on my coat, trying to get it off. Trying to get all my clothes off. “Are we going…to be…interrupted?”

  Crosbie crouches and digs his shoulder into my stomach, hoisting me up and carting me into my bedroom as I squeal. I’m no match for him in any position, and this one certainly doesn’t make it easy. Fortunately I’m not upside down for long, because he tosses me on the bed and quickly covers me with his body.

  “That’s all you want to say?” he asks, shoving my leggings down and helping me kick my feet free. “I’ve been gone all week and you want to ask about Kellan and interruptions?”

  “Um…” I work on undoing the buttons of his shirt as I rack my brain, trying to come up with the right answer. Finally I settle on, “Did you win?”

  He drops his head into the crook of my neck and laughs. I feel his torso shaking above me. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Crosbie, I miss you. Life hasn’t been the same without you. I feel such…need, Crosbie.’”

  Now I’m laughing. “I feel such need?”

  He pulls off his shirt. “Okay, Kincaid, you don’t deserve it, but I’ve been thinking about this all week, and now I’m going to show you a trick.”

  All the hormones racing through me come to a screeching halt. I support Crosbie’s interest in magic and even enjoy his illusions, but I really don’t want to see one right this minute. “Er…now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  I sigh. “Does it involve your penis?”

  “Like how I’m going to make it disappear inside you?”

  I smile even as I roll my eyes. “Yeah.”

  “No, Nora,” he says sternly. “That’s biology, not magic. This might explain why you almost flunked out last year.”

  I laugh. “Shut up.”

  He kneels between my legs and strips off his boxers, leaving us both completely naked. We’ve done this more times than I can count now, but seeing his broad shoulders, the delineated muscles of his chest and stomach, and yes, his cock…it gets better every time.

  His eyes trace over every exposed inch of my body, leaving behind a laser line of goose bumps in their wake. “Come here,” I say, tugging on his hand. “I want you.”

  “I was serious about that trick,” he murmurs. He lets me draw him down for a kiss, but only lingers at my mouth for a moment before he twines his fingers through mine and lifts my hands over my head. “Keep them there,” he orders, slowly kissing his way down my neck, over my collarbone, and lower. I swear he can feel the hard kick of my heart as I realize what he means to do, and I squirm with nerves and excitement. I’d had two lackluster experiences with this last year, both over in what felt like ten very unsatisfying seconds.

  “You know,” Crosbie says conversationally, dipping his tongue into my belly button before sliding down farther, “the first time we did this, you said it was weird.”

  “We’ve never done this,” I answer breathlessly, my legs parting at the urging of his big hands.

  “Sex-this,” he clarifies. “The first time I looked at you right…here.” He trails a finger straight through my folds, then presses inside.

  I remember now. It’s still a little embarrassing, but it’s different when it’s someone you know. Someone you care about and who cares about you.

  “Still weird?” he asks. I feel his breath brush over my sensitive skin, hot and damp and clenching around his gently thrusting finger.

  “Hurry up.”

  He laughs. “Tell me.”

  “I just did. Hurry up.”

  “What do you like?”

  I groan. “Crosbie.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Just do something.”

  There’s a second as he clues in. “Have you done this before?”

  I swallow and stare at the ceiling, wondering how best to phrase it. I hardly want to talk about other guys when Crosbie’s got his head between my legs. “Not successfully,” I finally say.

  “Ah
. Well, Nora, let’s see if I can’t succeed where all others have failed, all right?”

  I laugh so hard I bump his chin with my pelvis. “You’re such a dork.”

  He answers by pulling out his finger, separating my folds, dragging his tongue right up the middle and swirling over my clit. I immediately stop laughing.

  “What was it you said?” he asks casually. “Hurry?” He licks me hard and fast and I squirm until I can’t take it and push away his head.

  “Slower,” I gasp. “Slower…for now.”

  “Hmm…” He licks me again, agonizingly slow. And he licks everywhere. Inside, outside and all around.

  I lift my head to see him crouched down there, my legs splayed around his shoulders, his auburn hair dark against the pale skin of my stomach.

  “Crosbie,” I whisper.

  His head comes up, mouth damp, eyes blazing when they meet mine. “Any more requests?”

  My head thunks back into the pillow. “Please don’t ever stop.”

  He chuckles and kisses me, drawing my most delicate flesh against his teeth. “I want you to say something,” he says.

  I give an exaggerated sigh and reach down to pat his shoulder. “Thank you for showing me your ‘trick,’” I say obediently.

  He laughs again and pushes two fingers inside me, feeling around until he finds what he’s looking for. My hips buck up but he’s ready for it, his free hand pressing into my stomach and holding me down.

  I squeak. “What do you want me to say?” I plead, writhing against his devious fingers.

  “Say, ‘Crosbie, eat my pussy.’”

  My head jerks up. “I can’t say that!”

  “Why not?” He holds my stare as he slowly licks my clit.

  I beg with my eyes. “It’s… I’m not…”

  “That’s not what you want?” He stops, blinking in faux concern.

  “You know that’s what I want!”

  He glances down at my pussy, his fingers still twisting inside. “Yeah, I do. And I want to hear you say it. Come on, Nora. It makes me hot.”

  I lift a foot to weakly kick at his arm. “You’re already hot.”

  “Nice try.”

  “Crosbie. Please…”

  “Three more words,” he says, punctuating each of his words with another torturous kiss. “You’re very close.” I’m so close that if he said six words, I’d probably be able to come.

  I cover my eyes with my hands, feeling my burning skin against my palms. “Eat my pussy,” I say hastily.

  “Nora,” he groans, putting his talented mouth back to work. “I’d love to.”

  * * *

  “So, is it serious?” Marcela asks as we make donuts on Wednesday. “Are you two in love?”

  “What?” I concentrate on dropping dough into the fryer without splashing myself. “No, we’re not in love. It’s been a month.”

  “You seem happy.”

  “I am.”

  “So does he.”

  “Of course he is. He’s with me.”

  I set the timer and turn to Marcela, who’s perched against the sanitizer, slurping on an iced coffee. “How about you?” I ask.

  “What about me?”

  “How’s Kellan?”

  She shrugs. “Fine.”

  “How’s Nate?”

  She scowls and bites her straw. “He and Celestia are off to cut down a Christmas tree for her apartment. That’s why he’s not working.”

  “They picked the right day. I don’t know the last time we saw sunshine.”

  Her expression darkens even further. “You know what Kellan and I did last night?”

  “Please don’t tell me.”

  “Facebook stalked strangers for two hours, trying to find the backpackers he hooked up with over the summer.”

  “That’s…romantic?”

  “I don’t want romance.”

  “Then you’re with the right guy.”

  “You didn’t want it either, last year. You just wanted to have fun and not worry about things.”

  “Yeah. That all came to a crashing halt when I got arrested.”

  She tries not to laugh but comes up short. “I knew,” she says after a second.

  I start fishing out donuts, resting them on a metal rack. “That I would get arrested?”

  “That it was Nate.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “Last year. The secret admirer. I knew right away it was him.”

  I stop what I’m doing and look at her in surprise. “You did?”

  “Yeah. I just didn’t…want it. I mean, it was sweet, but nobody thinks about coming to college and settling down, you know? And Nate’s that guy. He’s the guy who cuts his own Christmas tree.”

  “You said you didn’t want it,” I say after a moment. “Past tense. What about now?”

  She sighs and slurps up the last of her drink, sticking the glass in the rack to be cleaned. “Now it’s too late.”

  “What’s too late?”

  We both whirl to see Nate standing at the back entrance, dressed for tree chopping in a fitted plaid lumberjack coat, heavy boots, and skinny jeans. Well, sort of dressed for tree chopping. He strides to the sink and starts washing his hands, completely oblivious.

  Marcela and I exchange looks and I slowly shake my head. He didn’t overhear.

  “The donuts,” Marcela says eventually. “We forgot two and now they’re burnt.”

  “Aw.” Nate dries his hands on a paper towel and walks over to check in the fryer, where I have indeed left two donuts to die. “Come on, Nora,” he chides me. “Food costs.”

  “Sorry, boss. What are you doing here?”

  “We got the tree. I’m just coming in to grab Celestia a drink.”

  Both Marcela and I roll our eyes.

  “It’s not that bad,” he protests as we trail him out front. The shop is empty so we sit on the counter as he starts foaming low-fat milk.

  “Why didn’t she come in?” I ask. “Afraid someone will steal your tree?”

  His mouth quirks. “Hardly.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  He glances pointedly at Marcela. “You really have to ask?”

  Marcela clutches her chest, offended. “Me? I’m nice to her!”

  “No one anywhere, ever, would describe you as being ‘nice’ to Celestia,” he replies. “Barely contained seething resentment would be more accurate.”

  “She wears fur year-round! It’s suspicious.”

  “Or maybe…” He watches his hands as he pours the drink into a to-go cup. “Maybe she wants to wear fur, so she just wears fur.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  Nate doesn’t respond as he strides through the swinging door back into the kitchen, lifting a hand in acknowledgment.

  Marcela turns to me. “He totally heard.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “‘She just wears fur?’ That’s obviously a dig at me because I don’t ‘wear fur!’”

  “Don’t you think you’re stretching things, just a little bit?”

  The front door bangs open and the same group of catalogue models that have been frequenting the shop since Crosbie started spending time here filters in. They’re dressed in adorable pastel-colored pea coats and tiny hats with pompoms, and their convoluted drink orders put Celestia to shame. Even Marcela grumbles as she gets to work.

  “It’s quiet in here,” one of the girls remarks. She’s got pin straight white-blond hair that gleams against her lemon yellow jacket.

  “Slow day,” I agree, sliding her a half-sweet almond milk mocha.

  “Where’s Crosbie?”

  I pass her the change and she sticks a dollar in the tip jar. “I’m not sure.”

  “Hmm.” She studies me for a moment, then turns to rejoin her group at the table in the corner.

  “What was that about?” Marcela asks under her breath.

  “It happens,” I say, trying not to sound bothered.


  “What happens?”

  “People. Ever since Crosbie and I started dating openly, it seems like people are watching, gossiping, whatever.”

  “Does the Dean know?”

  “We have a meeting next week. If my grades are good and I’m not arrested for anything, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Right. Until he shows you a picture of your name on the bathroom wall in the Student Union building and asks which part of the sex talk you misunderstood.”

  My heart stops beating. “What are you talking about? My name—”

  “Hey.” She holds up her hands in surrender. “That was a joke. I’m sorry.”

  I take a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter,” I say firmly. “Because it’s different. We’re different. I’m not a Crosbabe.”

  She pats my arm. “I know.”

  But my protest sounds lame even to me, and the words are still ringing in my ears when we close up the shop at eight and I swear to myself I’m going to bike straight home, even as I take the route that will get me to the Student Union building in half the time.

  I lock up my bike and speed walk through the mostly empty lobby, trying to appear casual. As I ride up in the elevator my pulse is throbbing in my temples and all I can think about is seeing my name on a list I would have been stupidly proud of last year and horrified by now. Because that statement was true: I am different. We’re different.

  The bathroom is empty when I push through the door, striding right to the stall that houses the track team lists. My fervent prayers that the walls have been painted are not answered, and the stall is as I remember it.

  I exhale as I force my eyes to Crosbie’s list, trailing down the names until I reach the bottom. No Nora Kincaid.

  Then I look again.

  My name may not be on there, but the last time I visited Crosbie’s list ended at twenty-five. Now it ends at twenty-eight. And all of the dates are during the week of the mock meet road trip.

  I stumble back, staring at the list in shock. Part of me thinks there’s no way he would do this, and part of me thinks he most definitely would. Especially after my emotional explosion two days before he’d left. I think back to the night he’d returned, showing me that “trick”—was it an apology?