Undecided

by Julianna Keyes

  I cut my turkey into miniscule pieces and try to avoid eye contact. Though my grades—and, for the most part, my behavior—this year have been much improved, I still don’t think they’d be thrilled to learn I’m newly evicted—or why.

  “So what does one learn when they’re ‘undecided?’” Sandy asks, not unkindly. I’d really rather be eating under the table than having this discussion, but I recognize that she’s just trying to deflate the tense bubble blooming between my parents.

  I shoot her a tiny smile and recap my classes from this year and last.

  “That’s a very broad selection,” Byron remarks.

  “She’s twenty-one,” mom says dismissively. “Not everyone knows what they want when they’re twenty-one. Sometimes you have to try on a few pairs of shoes before you find the ones that fit.” She looks proud of her analogy, but my dad rolls his eyes.

  “She’s not Cinderella, Diane.” Then he quickly glances at me. “Though you’ll always be my princess.”

  Now everyone rolls their eyes.

  “I have an engineering degree,” he continues, undeterred. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  Mom narrows her eyes. “You edit cookbooks. Where does engineering come into play?”

  “It looks good on a resume.”

  “You were a philosophy major in first year, and a biology major in second. You were undecided for quite a while, yourself, Robert. There’s no rush, Nora.” She pats my hand.

  My dad scowls. “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one paying the tuition.”

  “You’re the one who insisted she go to Burnham. Let her test the waters a little bit and find out what she really wants. When she’s ready, she’ll make her choice. Won’t you, honey?”

  I shift in my seat and think of Crosbie. “Yeah.”

  Dinner drags on interminably, and Sandy and Byron book it out the door as soon as they’re able.

  “Well done, Diane,” my father remarks, bringing dishes into the kitchen.

  “Me?” she protests. “You’re the one painting people into corners.”

  “How? By hoping our daughter actually learns something at college? Is having some expectation of her really that ridiculous?”

  “I’m right here,” I point out, standing two feet away with a stack of plates.

  “You’re making her feel bad!” my mom snaps.

  “She feels fine,” my dad retorts. “And maybe if—”

  “Could we stop talking about how I feel?” I interrupt. “And maybe talk about how you two feel? For once?”

  They freeze and turn slowly, as though just now remembering I’m here. “Nora, honey,” my mom says. “Everything is fine. We’re just talking.”

  “Because we care,” my dad adds.

  “You’re lying,” I say flatly. “To me. To each other. To Sandy and to Byron. To everyone. You’re stuck in this charade of pretending everything is okay because you think that’s the best thing for me, but it’s not. I’d really much rather have you be honest about everything, once and for all. Keeping this all bottled up is only making everyone miserable.”

  “We’re not—”

  “Just say it,” I interrupt before they can start to argue. “Tell the truth. Put everything out in the open. And if you can overcome it, great. And if not, that’s fine, too. It’ll hurt, but you’ll live.”

  I’m still living, after all, and I’m tired of these tortured holidays. Tired of swapping sides of the duplex and making small talk with strangers and never having any turkey. To date my efforts to be different have involved a fair bit of lying—to myself, to other people. It’s time for the truth.

  “I hate you, Robert,” my mother says finally. “I just really hate you.”

  My dad looks stunned. “Diane! Nora is—”

  “An adult,” she finishes firmly, if a bit sadly. “She’s an adult and just like she knows Santa didn’t bring any of those gifts this morning, she knows this whole ‘getting along’ charade is just that—a charade. And a dreadful one, at that.”

  His mouth works, but nothing emerges until, “I suppose I hate you too,” he offers grudgingly. “And I hate this duplex. You never mow your side of the front yard and it always looks lopsided.”

  “Oh, you and that grass obsession! At least I don’t insist on walking up the stairs like an injured hippo—the whole house shakes.”

  “You beep the car four times to lock the door—four! It only takes one. How many people have to be disturbed…”

  I snag an extra piece of pie and back out of the room, passing the dining table where the remaining turkey sits guilelessly on its holly-rimmed platter. It had taken far too long for us to have this dinner, and though it wasn’t exactly the easiest meal to choke down, I can’t help but think how many things would be different if we’d only had it sooner.

  chapter twenty-one

  Though it was only four months ago that I moved in with Kellan, it feels much longer when I make three round-trips through Burnham’s quiet streets as I cart my things over to Marcela’s. In addition to leaving me the keys to her—our—home, she’d also loaned me her car, and now I park at the curb and jog back up the steps to my—Kellan’s—apartment to contemplate how best to get the long slats of the bed frame into the tiny trunk.

  It’s nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve and everything else is already gone. I’d gotten home at three to finish packing and start moving, determined to wake up tomorrow in a newer, better place, both literally and metaphorically. But now, faced with the final pieces of the puzzle, I’m exhausted. I’d stopped in town for Chinese food on one of my runs, and now I slump on the couch with a carton of cold noodles and a glass of orange juice to see the ball drop in Times Square. Last year my parents and I had stood in the front yard to watch neighbors shoot off fireworks. They’d pretended it was because they had a keen interest in pyrotechnics, but we all knew it was because neither wanted to concede the holiday by going to the other’s home to watch the countdown on TV.

  The counting begins and ends and New York explodes in cheer, everyone kissing and hugging and smiling, happy and unburdened. I change the channel until I find an old black and white movie, wishing things were that simple, then mentally kicking myself for being so maudlin. Yes, I’m a twenty-one-year-old girl who’s spending New Year’s alone. Yes, I was recently evicted. Yes, I was recently dumped. But if I consider my list of goals for this year, “do not get evicted” and “do not get dumped” were never on it. I’m not flunking any classes and I haven’t gotten arrested, so technically I’m still on track.

  I turn to look out the window where a light snow has started to fall, sifting over tree branches and clinging to the grass. I don’t know what the forecast is, but if I want to complete this move tonight, I can’t waste any more time feeling sorry for myself. Not here, anyway. I can do it at my new apartment.

  I throw the empty carton in the trash, rinse out my glass and stick it in the dishwasher, then start the cycle so Kellan comes home to a clean kitchen. Fresh starts for everybody.

  I’ve just carted all the pieces of the bed frame down the stairs to the front door and am reaching for my boots when there’s a sudden knock. I freeze, then slowly straighten. After a second, another knock. I already know Burnham is deserted. I’d passed only three other people on my trips back and forth from Marcela’s apartment, and none of them have reason to visit me at nearly ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve.

  I rise onto my tiptoes to peer warily through the peephole. And for the second time in as many minutes, I freeze.

  It’s Crosbie.

  Though I’m perfectly warm in my jeans and fitted wool sweater, my fingers are numb as I fumble with the deadbolt and twist the knob to pull open the door. Frigid night air rushes in and I shiver. Even though I knew it was him, I’m still stunned to see Crosbie two feet away, head ducked down against the cold, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. His puffy black jacket is zipped to his chin and he shifts from foot to foot, stopping only when he looks up
to meet my eye.

  “Hi,” I say, when I can’t come up with anything else.

  He nods briefly. “Hey.”

  Whatever small, desperate hope had been blooming quickly withers. “He’s not here,” I say, nodding over my shoulder. “He’s not back until the second.”

  “I know.” He’s watching me, face expressionless, the shadows beneath his eyes deepened by the yellow porch light.

  “Then what are you…” I shiver again. “Did you forget something? Do you want to come in?”

  A slight hesitation. “Yeah.”

  I step back as he enters, scuffing his feet on the mat and closing the door behind him. Without the white noise of the night, it feels deathly quiet in here, the tension thick and painful. He finally looks away, taking in the familiar slats of wood resting against the wall. “What are you doing?” His voice is raspy and he clears his throat, looking embarrassed.

  “I’m moving,” I say, also looking at the frame. “To Marcela’s. This is my last trip.”

  He nods and looks over my shoulder, up the stairs. “No kidding.”

  “No kidding.”

  More silence.

  “Did you need something?” I ask when I can’t take it anymore. “A video game or something? Why are you back so soon? There’s no one else in town.”

  He meets my eye again. “I know.”

  My heart thumps so hard in my chest it feels like it’ll bruise. “You know?”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Then…what?” I think about all my unanswered texts. The apologies. The Christmas present. “The necklace?” I ask softly. “It’s on the counter. I can get it. I was going to ask Kellan to return—”

  “Not the fucking necklace, Nora.”

  I’m mid-turn, one foot on the bottom stair, when the quiet words bring me to a halt. There’s no vehemence there, no anger, only sadness. Exhaustion. As though being angry has left him wrung out and raw. I know the feeling.

  For a long, exposed minute, we just look at each other, and then I can’t do it anymore. I blink away tears as best I can, but I feel them catch on the ends of my lashes and finally I give up and shrug helplessly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I texted you a thousand times, I left messages. I’m sorry, Crosbie. I’m so sorry. I don’t have anything else to say.”

  His jaw flexes and he nods. “Right.”

  “Do you want me to say something else? To say I regret it? That I regret not telling you? That I regret going to that stupid party? Because I do. I regret everything. But how was I supposed to know you—I—this—” I gesture between us weakly, “was going to happen? I couldn’t know—I didn’t know—” I break off when the tears are too heavy and I taste them on my lips. “I need a tissue.” What I really need is space. Because though I’ve spent the past two weeks wanting nothing more than to see Crosbie, talk to Crosbie, the reality of him is so much different now.

  The reality of me is different for him, too.

  I’m Nora Bora and Red Corset and everything in between.

  I grab a tissue from the bathroom and mop up my eyes, dragging in deep breaths and willing myself to calm down. When I come back out, Crosbie’s sitting on the arm of the couch, jacket unzipped. With the exception of the now-missing Chrisgiving decorations, the place looks pretty much the same. My life had been contained to my room, and unless he went to the door and peered inside, there’s really no way to tell I’d ever been here.

  I just stare at him. I don’t know what else to do.

  “It’s not fair,” he says, scuffing his socked toe on the hardwood floor.

  I swallow. “I know.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not fair that I have a list I have to fucking paint over, and you have, what—five minutes in a closet?—that gets you a nickname and a witch hunt.”

  I’m not sure I’m breathing anymore. “Wh-what?”

  “I mean, it’s not fair that my girlfriend had sex with my best friend, but how could we have known?”

  “Cros—”

  “I was at that party, Nora. And I never saw you. You were wearing a fucking red corset and I never saw you. Then you show up here, trying to be invisible, and all of a sudden I couldn’t see anybody else.”

  “Wh—”

  He scrubs his hands on his thighs, as though his palms are sweaty. “I had to think about things. You broke my fucking heart that night. I know you didn’t mean to, but it doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

  I wince. “I know.”

  His gaze travels across the room to the little red box sitting on the counter. “I guess you do.”

  “I’m sorry, Crosbie.”

  “I went home because I thought the distance would make it easier, that not seeing you would make it easier, but it didn’t. I think about you all the time. I have, ever since September. And I tried going out, doing whatever, and I just couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t turn it off. Because I don’t want to be that guy on the bathroom wall, anymore than you wanted to be the girl on Kellan’s stupid list.”

  Even though I know we’ve been broken up for weeks, the thought of him going out and “doing whatever” still makes my heart crack in two. “Did you—”

  He shakes his head, knowing exactly what I’m thinking. “I didn’t mess around with anybody. I was home by nine every night. That’s when my parents knew something was up.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That there was a girl.”

  “What’d they say?”

  He smiles faintly. “That it was about time.”

  “Did you tell them about…” I can’t say the words. Now that they’re out there, I can’t say them anymore than I can take them back.

  “No. Of course not. That’s your secret to tell. Or not.”

  “I’d really rather not.”

  “Me either.”

  The silence stretches thin again.

  “Crosbie.” The word sounds scratchy. “Why are you here?”

  He lifts a shoulder helplessly. “Because I wanted to see you. I always have.”

  “Even—”

  “I got your texts.”

  I stop.

  “All one hundred and fourteen of them.”

  I cringe. “I didn’t—”

  “It’s okay. Kellan sent three hundred and twenty-two. Compared to him, you were completely uninterested in my well-being.”

  I laugh weakly. “Did he tell you he kicked me out? That’s why I’m moving.”

  “Yeah. He told me.”

  “Did he tell you bros before hos?”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “He said that? Out loud? To you?”

  “Well, it was more like, bros before ho-roommates.”

  Now Crosbie laughs. “Smooth.”

  “I mean, I’m also leaving because I never should have moved in to begin with.”

  “I was here that first day,” he reminds me. “When you realized you’d probably get to bump into me from time to time, you never really stood a chance.”

  “That’s exactly what decided it.”

  More silence.

  “Remember when you told me that you don’t know how to balance things?” he asks eventually. “That it’s one extreme or the other? Nora Bora or…Red Corset?”

  I bite the inside of my lip and nod.

  “You know what I was thinking?”

  “What?”

  “That on Halloween, we met right in the middle. That dog park, it’s halfway between here and the Frat Farm.”

  My mouth opens then flaps closed, surprised. “That’s very…insightful.”

  “I know. I also realized we were both in costume. You were this wild woman on the run, and I was, quite naturally, a superhero.”

  “Naturally.” But my mind is whirling, zipping around frantically to pick up scattered pieces, putting together a new picture of that night. He’d been Superman, somebody’s alter ego, the side the public saw. And when we’d gotten back here the cape had come off and he’d been Crosbie and I’d been Nora, and we’d
just been ourselves. And that had been more than enough.

  He studies his fingernails, then glances up at me. “Do you have anymore secrets, Nora?”

  I shake my head. “No. Definitely not.”

  “Me either.”

  Beside me the movie ends, the programming promptly switching as the Chicago New Year’s countdown begins.

  “It’s eleven o’clock,” I say, startled into moving.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So I told myself I was going to start this new year in a better place. Marcela’s place, specifically. Without…you know.”

  “Me.”

  I gesture vaguely to the whole apartment. “This.”

  “You need a hand?”

  “There’s only the bed frame left.”

  “Come on, I’ll help you. Where does Marcela live?”

  “About five minutes from Beans.”

  “Okay.”

  It takes four trips to get the pieces wedged into both trunks, and even then Crosbie has to use a scarf to tie his closed, since the latch won’t catch. The snow has picked up and the whole street is blanketed in white. He waits on the doorstep as I give the apartment one last once-over, turn off all the lights, and lock the door behind me.

  We drive slowly through the powdery, dark streets, the fresh snow grinding under the tires. Crosbie trails me for the ten-minute drive, pulling into the adjacent space when I park at Marcela’s building.

  We climb out of our cars and meet at the trunks. “This is it.”

  “I figured.” He unties the scarf and scoops up the wood slats, then insists on carrying half of mine as well. “Lead the way.”

  Marcela lives on the third floor of a building that qualifies as “new” in Burnham, which means it’s about fifteen years old. Her apartment is dated but spacious, and Crosbie nods his approval as we cross the threshold. “Nice.”

  “This is going to be my room.” I lead him through the kitchen to a short hallway with bedrooms on opposite sides. He pauses at the door and frowns at the milk crates, the duffel bag, the mattresses I had nearly died getting here.

  “This again?” he asks, arching a brow in my direction. “Square one?”