My lower lip trembles and I fight back tears. He wouldn’t do this, I tell myself as I storm out of the bathroom and stomp my way down the steps, too angry and confused to wait for an elevator. I think about how he reacted the night he walked in on Kellan and I sitting down to dinner—he wouldn’t do something to make me feel that way. He wouldn’t. We’re not in love, but we’re not casual, either.
We are—or we were—on the road to something better.
Once again my brain tries to direct me toward home, but my heart and my feet steer me straight to the Frat Farm. I drop my bike on the front lawn and jog up the steps, knocking loudly. Without the sun to moderate, the night is dark and cold and I shiver as I wait, shifting from foot to foot. Finally Dane opens the door, smiling when he sees me. I’ve never spent the night here but I’ve been back a few times since Crosbie and I got together, and the guys seem more amused by our relationship than bothered by it.
“Hey, Nora,” he says.
“Hi, Dane. Is he here?”
“Yeah. Go on up.”
“Thanks.” The welcome mat is predictably absent, so I wipe my feet as best I can before hurrying up the stairs, trying to calm myself. I will be rational. I will be patient. And if he didn’t cheat on me with three girls last week, I will be totally fine. Because if he did…
Then I don’t understand.
All the doors on the upper level are closed, and when I try Crosbie’s it’s locked. I can hear the familiar thud-whir of the elliptical and I knock hard enough for him to hear me even if he’s got earbuds in. After a second the thud-whir stops and he pulls open the door, looking surprised to see me. He’s wearing an old T-shirt that’s wet with perspiration, green basketball shorts, and nothing on his feet. His hair sticks out helplessly, as though he’d run his fingers through it before answering.
Like an idiot, I feel my eyes start to sting with the threat of tears, and for a second I stare at him, too many thoughts rattling around my brain for just one to come out. Finally I cut to the chase. “Why?”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. “Why what?”
“Why…” I step into his room when he shifts back and gestures for me to enter. I shut the door and take a breath. “Why did—Why is—” I look around frantically, for words or proof or something I don’t have a name for. “There are three new names on your list,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level. It comes out cold, but that’s better than shrill and desperate. “And they’re all from last week. When you went on that trip.”
It takes him a full ten seconds, then finally his expression turns from confusion to shock. “Are you talking about the Student Union bathroom?”
“Of course I am.”
“And my list has been updated?”
“Yes.”
“Whose name is on it? Yours?”
“No, Crosbie, not mine. Girls I don’t know. Three of them.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking why.”
He finishes the water and casually sets the bottle on the desk behind him. “Why the list got updated? I don’t know. I told you I don’t sneak up there with a marker and add names to it.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would they?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Is it…accurate?” I swipe my hand across my eyes, refusing to let any tears fall.
His cheeks are flushed now, and it has nothing to do with the interrupted exercise. He’s gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles are white, refusing to show his anger. “Are you honestly asking me if I banged three girls on the road trip? No, Nora, I didn’t. I was busy, and I thought I had a girlfriend.”
I shake my head. He’s got the window propped open with a textbook, but it’s still too hot in here. My skin is prickling and I feel like I’m smothering. Like my only goal for this year—don’t fuck up—has just backfired in spectacularly painful fashion.
“Tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth.”
He holds my stare but it’s hard for me to return, so my gaze flickers around the room. The elliptical machine, a calendar with sports statistics for each month, the neatly organized desk, the eternally unmade bed. And the man in the middle of it all, who last year seemed so untouchable, but is just a guy. Flawed and functional like the rest of us.
He sighs and flexes his fingers. “I don’t know how to prove it, Nora. You heard what Kellan said that night—I’ve wanted you since the first day I saw you. I wouldn’t fuck this up when I finally got it.”
“What about…” I feel so stupid. Stupid if I’m wrong, stupid if I’m right. “What about when I freaked out that night about Kellan’s list?”
He shrugs. “So what?”
“So maybe you reconsidered this.”
“Because a girl got upset about her roommate’s sex list, where the girls on it have names like Purple Hair and Smells Like French Fries? No, I get it. I get where Kellan’s coming from, too. Sometimes you mess around and it doesn’t mean anything more than an hour or two, then you forget all about it. And sometimes…” He steps closer, though not close enough to touch. “Sometimes you mess around and you can’t stop thinking about it. And then you’re not messing around at all.” He catches my chin between his fingers and makes me look at him. “We’re not just messing around, Nora. At least I’m not. And I’m not sleeping around. From the day I saw you until now, there hasn’t been anybody else. I can’t say it any better.”
I suppose he doesn’t have to say it at all. He could just open the door and usher me out with a swat on the ass and a “Thanks for the memories.” But he’s not. He’s not flipping out about me showing up and accusing him, he’s not protesting too much and sealing his fate, he’s not doing anything other than being the guy I’ve gotten to know these past months. He’s real. And he’s trying.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble miserably. “I just…”
He waits, but when I don’t finish he asks, “Why were you up there, anyway? What were you looking for?”
I squint at the ceiling, embarrassed. “My name.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t there. But sometimes people stare at me or they whisper and I just started worrying about the Dean giving me another sex talk or just…” I take a breath. “I think last year I wouldn’t have cared if I were on that list, I’d just be happy to have been noticed. And now I would care. I said I was going to be different this year, and I really didn’t think I was making much progress, but I have.”
“You don’t want to be a Crosbabe, I know. I don’t want you to be one either. I didn’t come up with that nickname, and I don’t use it, and I wish it didn’t exist. But I can’t erase last year and neither can you, no matter how hard you keep trying. I’m just focusing on doing things better this year. And I thought I was.”
I meet his stare. “You are. I’m sorry.”
He’s silent for a second, then nods. “Fine. Hang around for a bit. I have to take a shower, then I need you to quiz me for my chemistry exam.”
“I thought that wasn’t for another two weeks.”
“It’s not, but it’s the worst fucking class I’ve ever taken, and I need a head start.” He grabs a towel and a change of clothes, then opens the door. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be five minutes.”
“Okay.”
I take a breath and slowly exhale, forcing myself to relax. That could have gone better, but it could also have gone much, much worse. Though it’s kind of mortifying to realize I could take lessons in maturity from a guy whose idea of hiding his well-read copy of Hustler is sticking it inside his pillowcase.
I make the bed and take a seat against the wall, playing a game on my phone while I wait. When Crosbie returns a few minutes later, his hair is freshly wet and he’s changed into sweats and a T-shirt. He smells like soap.
“Are you cold with this open?” he asks, tossing the towel in the ge
neral direction of his hamper while nodding at the window.
“No, I’m all right.”
“Okay.” He grabs his chemistry textbook from the elliptical and joins me, shunting his newly fluffed pillows to the side and sitting at the head of the bed.
“Where do you want to start?” I ask, flipping through the pages he’s marked with neon green tabs. “Anywhere?”
“Sure.”
“Okay… Let’s start with an easy one. What are the ten most abundant elements in the universe?”
“Ah, helium, hydrogen, oxygen…nitrogen…carbon…” He picks at a hangnail. “Calcium?”
“No.”
“Did I already say helium?”
“Mm hmm.”
“Help me out.”
I gesture to the weight stack in the corner. “You like to pump…”
“Iron.”
I flick one of the tabs in the book. “What color is this?”
“Green?”
“More specifically.”
His brows tug together. “Bright green.”
“I was going for neon.”
“Remind me what the hell neon is?”
“A noble gas.” I don’t take the course now, but I actually really liked chemistry in high school, opting for the advanced class just for the hell of it. “Did you know that the guy who organized the periodic table denied that the noble gases existed—”
I break off when I see Crosbie pinching the bridge of his nose as though he’s in pain. “Are you okay?” I ask, reaching over to touch his leg. “Chemistry’s not that bad. And this story is pretty interesting.”
“You know what I can’t believe?” He bends his leg so I’m no longer able to reach it, and for a second I just stare at the now-empty spot on the comforter.
“What?”
“The first day you came up here and I got you to quiz me, I swore the next time you were here, we’d do a lot more than ‘quiz.’ And now here you are, my girlfriend, on my bed, and I’m just…”
I bite my lip. “Mad?”
“Yes, Nora!” He thumps his hand against the pillow and we both pretend not to hear the magazine rustle inside. “What the fuck?”
I tug on a loose thread at the hem of my shirt. “I said I was sorry.”
“Well, you should be. Opening the door to see you standing there is like waking up Christmas morning and finding this huge gift under the tree, then you open it and it’s just…a banana.”
I do my very best not to laugh. “A banana?”
“Yes, a banana. A disappointment.”
I gasp. I’m sure me accusing him of sleeping around on the road trip wasn’t his favorite part of the day, but calling me a disappointment? I’d heard that term enough last May to last me a lifetime.
“Crosbie,” I say tightly, “I’m sorry. I tried to sound…civil when I came here, but what was I supposed to do? The writing was quite literally on the wall, and whether or not you like your reputation, it’s not like you didn’t earn it.”
“Are you kidding me?” He shifts so he’s sitting on his knees, like the wall couldn’t possibly support the weight of his irritation. “First of all, I don’t even know what names are on that list, but none of them were my girlfriend. You know how I know? Because I didn’t have a girlfriend. The writing might be ‘quite literally’ on the wall, but I didn’t do anything wrong. I never lied to anybody, and I haven’t lied to you.”
“I said I was sorry!”
“Who was it?” he asks abruptly.
I freeze, confused. “Who was what?”
“The guy. You said there was a guy last year. He obviously did something to make you…like this.”
I gape at him. “Like this? Like, what, exactly? Like, sees that her boyfriend supposedly slept with three girls and dares ask him about it? Like that?” I toss the book at him and swing my feet to the floor, halted by his grip on my arm.
“Seriously?” he demands. “You’re going to storm out? After you stormed in here in the first place? You’re the only one who can ask personal questions?”
“No one ‘made me’ like this,” I snap, jerking away my arm and standing. “I chose this. I chose to ask if you cheated on me. I chose to believe you when you said you didn’t.”
He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin T-shirt, and finally he pushes to his feet. “You know what?” he says irritably. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To get rid of the list, once and for all. We’ve got some paint around here somewhere. Maybe Kellan’s list came in handy, but mine sure as fuck hasn’t.”
I watch as he stuffs his feet into sneakers and grabs his jacket from his desk chair, tossing me mine. Unable to believe we’re really doing this, I trail him down the stairs and wait as he confers with Dane in the living room to determine where they keep the paint. Why this is something they would have, I don’t know, but he disappears into the basement for a minute and comes back up with an old can of blue paint and two brushes. “All right,” he says tersely, grabbing a wool hat with a hockey logo and sticking it on his head. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s go,” I echo. “To the Student Union building.”
“Uh-huh.”
He starts to stomp down the path to the street, but reconsiders when he spots my bike on the grass. Instead he snatches it up and gestures for me to get on the back.
“Crosbie—”
“Are you coming or not, Nora?”
I sigh and swing my leg over the seat. It’s not even remotely comfortable, and for the first minute I expect us to topple over in an uncoordinated tangle of angry limbs. Eventually Crosbie finds the right balance and pedals us toward campus, the paint can hanging from the handlebars and thumping against his knee.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say when we park at the building and clamber off awkwardly. Painting school property seems like a pretty solid way to get in trouble again, and Crosbie’s making no effort to hide the evidence of our poorly thought-out plan. Fortunately the lobby is even emptier now than when I first visited, and the security guard is nowhere in sight. Crosbie’s breathing hard from the exertion but I’m shivering from the cold and the warmth of the indoors is no match for my common sense.
Still, I’m supposed to be behaving better. “Crosbie,” I hiss, yanking my hand from his while he jabs the button for the elevator. “This seems like something that is most definitely against the rules.”
“It’s my name,” he says stubbornly, nudging me into the elevator when it arrives. “And I want it gone. If they won’t paint it, I will.”
We don’t speak for the rest of the ride, nor when we enter the women’s bathroom. Crosbie shucks his jacket so he doesn’t get paint on it, and after a reluctant second I do the same. “You seem pretty comfortable in here,” I comment, earning myself a cutting look and a brush slapped into my hand none too gently.
He shakes up the can then wedges off the lid, sticking it in one of the sinks. “Which stall?” he asks.
I sigh and point to the correct one, trailing him inside like the world’s most aggrieved accomplice. He scans the wall until he sees his name, and I believe him when he says he’s never seen it before. From the way his eyes widen, I don’t think he’s seen any of this.
“You’ve never been up here?” I confirm. I know the lists are copied in the men’s bathroom as well, so he could have seen it.
He shakes his head distractedly, trailing a finger down his list to find the three most recent entries. They seem legit, first and last names, carefully dated. “I don’t know them,” he says, glancing at me. “And I know Kellan hasn’t exactly been a good example, but I learn names.”
“Okay, Crosbie.”
He sticks his brush in the paint and swirls it around, then carefully swipes it across his own name at the top. Watching it disappear is unexpectedly sad and satisfying.
I’m envious. I wish erasing my own mistakes were this easy. Failed a bunch of classes? Nope. Got arrested?
Never happened. Slept with your future boyfriend’s best friend? Definitely not.
I’m already addressing those mistakes the best I can, so I bend down and stick my brush in the can and help Crosbie cover up his. It only takes a few minutes but it’s unexpectedly rewarding, and soon we’re marching into the men’s bathroom and doing the same. It’s worth noting that the list in here still ends at twenty-five; the three mystery women are conspicuously absent. He doesn’t comment on it, though, and we paint in silence until the list is gone, a pale blue void on the graffiti-covered wall.
For a long moment we just stare at the empty space, and I wonder if he regrets it. If that list was the most tangible type of bragging right, proof positive that he’s a stud. “What do you think?” I ask eventually.
He’s quiet for a second. “I like it.”
“Yeah?”
He glances at me. “Yeah.”
We shuffle out of the stall and rinse off the brushes, then put on our jackets and retrace our steps back to the lobby. With some of his anger burned away, Crosbie makes more of an effort to hide the paint can, though of course now the security guard is back at his post, watching us suspiciously.
“Evening,” he says.
“Evening,” we call back, hustling away. One of the paintbrushes falls out of Crosbie’s pocket, leaving a wet mark on the polished floor, and I quickly snatch it up.
“What’re you all getting up to?” the guard asks, standing. He’s a heavyset guy, armed with nothing more than a flashlight and a walkie-talkie, no threat to us when we sprint through the doors and jump on my bike.
The guard doesn’t give chase but Crosbie pedals like a madman anyway. I grip his waist, feeling the paint can pressed against his stomach, his rib cage expanding with each breath. The cold air is biting and I bury my face in the back of his puffy jacket and close my eyes. Before I even know I’m going to do it, I start to laugh. I laugh so hard the whole bike shakes and Crosbie throws a look over his shoulder, trying to figure out what’s going on.
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