“Hold your horses.”
He starts the car and gives it a second to warm up, but before he can pull out, a car comes up alongside us, honking maniacally.
Crosbie groans. “Dammit.”
I can’t help but laugh as he rolls down the window to see Kellan leaning across the passenger seat of his car, not one but two girls squeezed into the front.
“Great show tonight!” he hollers. “You have to tell me how you did that thing with the glass of water!”
The girls echo the praise and Crosbie handles it smoothly, perfectly comfortable with the attention. It didn’t take long for him and Kellan to get back to best friend status, so I still see Kellan from time to time. Things aren’t weird but they’re not entirely normal, either, and Kellan seems to have forgotten his vow to stop messing around. I’m not the person who moved into that apartment in September, and Crosbie’s not the person I thought I met then, either. But Kellan is exactly who he appeared to be—no pretenses, no illusions. Maybe he’ll change, and maybe not. Whatever he’s doing seems to be working for him, and that’s what matters.
He invites us to a Valentine’s party at one of the sororities, but Crosbie demurs, saying we have plans. Kellan gives a lascivious waggle of his eyebrows, wishes us luck, and speeds off.
“Jealous?” I ask, when Crosbie exhales and watches them go.
He looks over. “Of what?”
“Of that. Of the…variety.”
“Are you kidding?” He pulls into the road and starts driving back toward Burnham. “I’ve got Nora the Nerd, Nora the Assistant, Nora the Convict, Nora the Party Animal… Your multiple personalities provide all the variety I’ll ever need.”
“I don’t know what I see in you.”
He flexes his arm, and even in the dim light from the streetlamps it’s obvious he has very impressive muscles. “It’s probably these guys.”
I squint. “I can’t see anything.”
A few minutes later we reach the Frat Farm and find parking a couple houses down from Alpha Sigma Phi. The place is dark, the guys either at the open mic to support their friend or at one of the various parties around campus.
“A frat house,” I whisper, getting out of the car and following Crosbie down the sidewalk. “How charming!”
He smacks my ass. “Just you wait.”
He leads me inside and up the stairs to his room, unlocking the door and trailing me in. If I was expecting rose petals and mood music, I’d have been sorely disappointed. It’s exactly the same as it always is, right down to the corner of the Hustler sticking out of his pillowcase.
“Here,” he says, grabbing a pair of my sweatpants from the back of his chair and tossing them to me. “Put these on.”
I frown. “I feel like this is going the opposite of how I pictured it.”
“Patience, grasshopper. I have a point.”
“Let’s hope so. You know I like to sleep in these pants. You’ve got about five minutes before I crash.”
He laughs. “I’ll make it fast. Get changed and I’ll be right back.” He hurries out of the room and I hear him run down the stairs as I tug on the sweats over my tights. I hadn’t taken off my jacket and since he hadn’t either, I leave mine on, wondering what, exactly, the plan is.
I find out seconds later when he returns with a bouquet of roses. “Ta-da!” he crows, whipping the flowers out from behind his back.
“Seriously? We said we weren’t going to do anything!”
“What’s the point of having all these holidays together—even fake ones—if we don’t celebrate properly?”
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the bouquet and inhaling. “They’re beautiful.”
He winks at me. “You’re beautiful. Now put those down and come on.” He opens the window and the sweats start to make sense. I set the flowers on the bed and crawl outside, Crosbie right behind me. There’s a blanket on the roof and we sit in the middle and curl the sides over our legs. Unlike Halloween, there’s no one milling around the front lawn, no space between us, no attempt to find each other a perfect someone else.
“This is sweet,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder.
“There are maybe five nights a year this place is quiet,” Crosbie replies. “This is one of them. Lie back.”
We recline, his arm around my shoulders, my cheek on his chest. The stars are out in full force, and for a long minute we just watch them. Not even the February chill can penetrate our lovely little fog.
“You take any astronomy courses last year?” Crosbie asks.
“No. You?”
“No. I don’t know what the hell we’re looking at.” He fumbles in his jacket for something. “But I do know this.” He passes me a manila envelope and watches as I open it, pulling out a piece of heavyweight paper with fancy script printed across the top. It’s a Star Certificate, complete with coordinates for where new star Nora Kincaid can be found, and stamped with an official gold seal.
“Crosbie,” I mumble, touched. “You…”