“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.