I gesture to the shop. “This is my plan.”
“It’s his twenty-first birthday and he’s not doing anything?”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t doing anything. I’m not doing anything. New leaf, remember?”
Marcela snorts into her espresso but manages to bite her tongue. After all these weeks I imagine she has a lot to say, but she’s been remarkably composed. Or maybe she’s just bottling it up, ready to explode at any moment.
“I saw this…” Nate starts, tugging his phone from his back pocket and pulling up his Facebook page. Somehow Nate manages to be invited to absolutely everything, though he never goes. I think it’s a combination of him seeming older than us and therefore cooler, but not actually being older than us, and therefore not creepy. Even though I shouldn’t look, both Marcela and I edge closer so we’re standing on either side of Nate and peering down at his phone.
It’s a group-only invite to a party at Kellan’s apartment—our apartment—to celebrate TWENTY-ONE ROCKIN’ GOOD YEARS. It promises strippers, beer, and oh yeah, strippers. It actually says strippers seven times.
Marcela and Nate look at me, their expressions accusatory. “What?” I protest. “Look at the contact list—I’m not even invited.”
“It’s at your home,” Marcela points out.
“Guys only, unless you’re a stripper.”
Nate frowns. “So what are you doing tonight?”
I shrug awkwardly. “Just…going somewhere else.”
Marcela forgets she’s mad at me for a second. “Where somewhere else?”
“Just a friend’s house.”
Her eyes flash. “You were able to make some ‘decent’ new friends?” She uses air quotes around “decent,” even though I never used that word when I broke things off.
“I didn’t say I needed ‘decent’ friends, I said I needed different friends.”
“Better friends.”
I try to take a calming breath. “Friends who don’t like to party. Who didn’t hide in backseats while I got arrested.”
She recoils slightly, and I see the flash of pain on her face before it smoothes back into that perfect, angry mask. “You shouldn’t have hidden behind a fucking compost bin.”
“No kidding!”
“Who’s this ‘friend?’”
“It’s no one.”
“Is it Kellan McVey?”
“No!”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s Crosbie Lucas.”
“No,” I say too quickly. “It isn’t.”
“Are you fucking him?”
“Keep your voices down!” Nate finally snaps.
“Who my friends are is none of your business.”
“It’s hard to make ‘nobody’ my business,” Marcela retorts.
“Then don’t.”
“Girls—” Nate tries to interject.
“I’m going to do inventory,” Marcela says, whirling on a black leather heel and stomping into the kitchen.
I feel hot and dizzy with anger, the espresso forgotten in my hand. I set it on the counter with a clatter and try to compose myself.
“I’m sorry,” Nate says after a moment. “I just thought—”
“It’s not your fault,” I say stiffly. A customer has bravely approached the register and orders a skim latte. I plaster on a smile as I make the drink and slide it over.
“Are you okay?” Nate asks, lingering uncomfortably.
“Just fine.”
“I don’t mean the fight. I mean, living there. And whatever you’re doing tonight.”
“Everything’s fine.” But the words are less than convincing when I have to blink back tears afterward.
*
I wake up confused and disoriented. Warm orange light filters through the window, and when I reach for my phone to check the time, it’s sitting on a desk, not an overturned milk crate.
Too many mornings last year I woke up much the same way, but this time when I warily turn my head to look beside me, the strange bed is empty.
Crosbie Lucas’s bed.
True to his word, the house was empty when I arrived last night, and I’d dragged myself up the stairs, swapped out my work clothes for pajamas, and crawled right into bed. He’d washed the sheets as promised, and they’re soft and lemony, the mattress the right balance between firm and giving.
Getting comfortable in Crosbie Lucas’s bed is not a thing I am going to do. If the rumors are to be believed, a lot of girls have been in here, but very few have been invited back. And he’s never had a girlfriend. He’s committed to school and track, and while he makes time for fun, it’s never serious. That’s totally fine, it’s just not a road I’m about to go down. Not that that’s an option, anyway.