What is just a light drizzle at the start of my bike ride home quickly turns into a downpour, and I’m drenched and cranky when I push through the front door, my jeans chafing painfully against my inner thighs with each step.
Kellan and Crosbie are on the couch playing video games, a bucket of fried chicken between them. It’s quarter past ten, my first class is at nine tomorrow, and all I want to do is take a shower and go to sleep, not listen to shoot ’em up sounds through the paper thin walls.
“Hey.” Kellan glances over when I enter, taking in my bare feet, wet socks in hand.
“Hey.”
Crosbie and I look at each other but say nothing, and I head into my room to exchange my sopping wet clothes for a robe and a towel. I don’t like the idea of cutting between the guys and the TV to get to the bathroom, but I don’t have a choice, so I duck past, self-consciously clutching the robe against my breasts. I climb into the shower and turn on the hot water, shuddering when it pounds my shoulders.
I shampoo my hair, finger combing out tangles as I work in conditioner, then washing my face and willing the hot water to carry away my bad mood. I shouldn’t even care if Kellan thinks Marcela’s hot—everyone thinks she is. Hell, even I think she is. It just…stings. I’ll get over it.
Eventually I climb out and towel off, scrubbing a hole in the foggy mirror and watching as I brush my teeth. I smear on moisturizer, then tighten the tie on the robe before darting back into my room as the guys continue to play their game. I usually shower in the morning so typically there wouldn’t be an issue with having an audience on my way back from the bathroom. Today, however, I swear I can feel a hot gaze on my bare legs, tracking my return.
When I close the door behind me I feel strangely exposed, and I suppose I am. Who really wants Kellan McVey—or Crosbie Lucas—to see them straight out of the shower, hair wet and makeup-free, wearing a ratty old robe printed with a bizarre owl pattern? Then I laugh. Until now I’ve been sulking about Kellan not noticing me, and suddenly I’m worried that he will.
I swap the robe for shorts and a sweatshirt, then sit on the yoga mat that’ll serve as my bed for one more night. I have two classes tomorrow, both in the morning, so I’ll be around for the bed and desk delivery scheduled for mid-afternoon.
I kill a couple of hours on my laptop and eventually the faint explosions coming through the wall fade to background noise. It’s only when they stop shortly after midnight that I remember them at all.
I yawn into the crook of my elbow and shut off the computer, then lie down and try to get comfortable, which isn’t the easiest task, given the mat’s all of a quarter inch thick. The second my eyes close, there’s a soft knock on the door. I sit up and switch on the desk lamp—currently a floor lamp—and shove the comforter to the side. I’m expecting Kellan, but when I open the door, it’s Crosbie.
“Hey,” he whispers, taking in my hair, still damp and tumbled over my shoulders.
“What’s up?”
“Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Um, yeah.” I half-expect him to ask me to secretly sign him up for open mic night.
He nods over my shoulder at my room. “In there?”
I hesitate. “Wh—”
“Relax.” He makes a face. “Kellan’s not going to spread rumors about you.”
“That’s not what I—” I blow out a breath. “Fine. Come in.”
I step back and he enters, closing the door. His expression is equal parts horrified and amused when he takes in my shoddy set-up: the closet is half-full, every item of clothing I own either hanging inside or still stashed in an open duffel bag on the floor, since I don’t have a dresser. My laptop sits on one of the overturned milk crates, the other still holds all my books, and the yoga mat is unrolled in the corner, my crumpled comforter and pillow crushed against the wall.
“What the fuck?” he whispers.
“The furniture’s coming tomorrow.” I scratch my elbow, embarrassed. “I lived in residence, remember? I didn’t need a desk.”
“Or a bed.”
I cross my arms. “What can I help you with?”
“Nice artwork.”
I follow his gaze over my shoulder to the framed paper with “Steve Holt!” written on it in Marcela’s best handwriting. It’s a character/quote from Arrested Development, and no one ever knows what it means. It probably took her five minutes to make, but I love it.
“Thanks. So…?”
He grows serious. “Right. So. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s Kellan’s twenty-first birthday on Friday, and some of us want to have a party for him.”