“Nora!” he shouts, the word whipped away in the icy wind. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I mumble into the fabric, knowing he can’t hear me. “Don’t stop.”
Even though he couldn’t possibly understand, he doesn’t stop until we’re back at the Frat Farm, parking on the lawn again.
“Are you laughing or crying?” he demands, letting the paint can fall out of his coat to bounce on the frozen ground. “I can’t tell.”
“Laughing,” I admit. “I don’t know why.”
It’s too dark for me to recognize the glint that normally appears in his eye when he gets this way, but I don’t stop him when he backs me into the trunk of the ancient oak tree and covers my mouth with his. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling almost painfully, but I don’t stop him then, either. I just kiss him back, angry and relieved and exhilarated, and suddenly much more hot than cold.
“Inside,” I gasp, breaking away to breathe.
“Here?” he asks. “You sure?”
I shove him toward the house. “Yeah.”
He grabs my hand and tugs me up the stairs. I hear a couple of catcalls from the living room but ignore them, unzipping my coat and following Crosbie into his room. We kiss and grope and strip, but when we’re halfway undressed he suddenly stops, pushing me back a step. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Nora, I don’t have any condoms.”
For a second my mouth just opens and closes wordlessly. “Can’t you…borrow some?”
“I will, but do you really want me to go down there and ask? I mean, they’re probably filling in the blanks already, but I know how you feel about your name getting tossed around…”
It shouldn’t, but the words do throw a wet blanket on the whole idea. My shirt is gaping open to my waist and I slowly button it to hide my lacy pink bra. Crosbie groans and scoops his T-shirt off the ground.
My stomach clenches when I see the erection tenting the front of his sweats. He follows my gaze and waves away my proffered apology. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “I kept sticking them in my wallet to bring to your place, and forgot to get more.”
“I should have gotten some more for my room so you didn’t always have to be the one bringing them.”
“You’re right. This is all your fault.”
I smile at his attempt to alleviate some of the tension simmering between us. It’s not quite angry any more, but it doesn’t feel finished, either.
“You know…” I begin, planting my fingers in the center of his chest and bumping him back toward the bed. “Last time you showed me your ‘trick,’ but I didn’t show you mine.”
His brows raise almost comically high. I’ve never gone down on him, and even though that first night together I’d asked about it and he’d said “not this time,” he’s never once tried to get me to do it. But now I want to. My experience with blowjobs is rather limited and unenjoyable, but so was my experience being on the receiving end of oral, and that turned out to be pretty excellent.
He stops when the back of his knees hit the bed, but doesn’t sit down. He exhales heavily when I drop my hand and stroke him through the cotton fabric, hot and hard. “I haven’t done much of this either,” I whisper against his ear, keeping my face turned so he can’t see that the confession embarrasses me. “So tell me what you like.”
“Nora.” The word is raspy and pained and such a turn on.
I start to kneel, but he stops me.
“You don’t have to,” he says, closing his eyes briefly. “If you’re just thinking you should because you’re sorry, don’t be. It’s okay.”
“I’m not trying to apologize.”
“Only do this if you really, really want to.”
I hold his stare and we both break at the same time, smirks turning into full-blown grins. “I want to, Crosbie. I feel such need.”
“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.”
chapter eighteen
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 new
s 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.”
<
br /> 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.”
Undecided Page 24
