I change into jeans and a T-shirt, hurry across the hall to splash water on my face and brush my teeth, put on some mascara and lip gloss, then gather my things. I hesitate at the top of the stairs, listening for voices, but the house is still silent at this hour. I tiptoe down the steps as fast as I can, heart pounding when I make it outside without being spotted. The combination of a hastily packed overnight bag and my normally riotous hair has the two other girls creeping out of frat houses in last night’s party clothes nodding at me as though we’re partners in crime. I nod back even as I cringe inwardly. Because last year, that was me. A bunch of times.
I start to bike home, then detour, pretty sure whatever mess they made last night is still on full display. Instead I turn around and bike into town, parking my bike in front of a small café and heading inside to order an omelet. The combination of a good night’s sleep and a full load of self pity has made me hungry. I pull out my laptop and bury myself in an English Lit assignment, coming up for air only when the server asks if I want a fourth cup of coffee. It’s nearly noon and I promised myself I’d tackle building the desk and bed frame today. I turn down the coffee. It’s time to face whatever horrors await me at the apartment.
I settle the bill and bike home, the late summer air crisp and clean. Burnham’s campus is normally deserted on weekend mornings, the students sleeping off last night’s overindulgence, and I pass just a handful of people as I wind my way along leafy side streets.
The apartment is quiet when I arrive, chaining my bike to the handrail along the steps before trudging up and sliding my key in the lock. The front entrance is tidy, Kellan’s abundance of running shoes lined up neatly along one wall, my two pairs on the other. I add my boots to the group and climb the steps to the living room, expecting to find a dozen strangers sleeping on the floor, but there’s only Crosbie, a dust rag in one hand, wiping down the coffee table.
“Hey,” I say. No response. I realize he’s got earbuds in and say it again, louder. Still nothing. I walk up and tap him on the shoulder. He leaps up and spins around so quickly we both yelp and stumble back. I catch myself on the entertainment console, shoulder blade smacking the TV, and he grabs the couch for balance.
“Fuck, Nora!” he exclaims, laughing, embarrassed, as he turns off the mp3 player and sticks it in his pocket. He’s wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned over a wife beater. His feet are bare, short hair tousled, cheeks pink from the near heart attack. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” I try not to laugh, but one sneaks out. “I said hi.”
He pinches his brow. “I didn’t hear you.”
I glance around the empty space. Both bedroom doors are closed. “Is everyone gone?”
“Yeah. They left a little while ago.”
“How was the party?”
“Pretty epic.”
I turn slowly to take in the apartment. With the exception of two full trash bags waiting at the top of the stairs, a recycling bin overflowing with bottles, and a blown up photo of Pamela Anderson from one of her Playboy spreads taped to the wall, the place looks the same as usual. And it smells like Lysol.
“What’d you do to get stuck with cleaning duty?”
He shrugs. “Luck of the draw.” Then he spots Pam. “Shit.” He hurries to the wall and yanks down the life-size picture.
“Were you responsible for the décor, too?”
He blushes. “Sorta.”
I pass him his keys. “Thanks. I took pictures of all your things and posted them on eBay.”
“That’s great. And I kept my promise—nobody went into your room but me and a couple of strippers.” I glare at him and he smiles sweetly. “You’re going to need some new sheets.”
I head for my door. “I know you’re kidding, but I’m still going to check.” I take a breath and turn the knob. The room is exactly how I left it.
“About this.”
I jump. Crosbie’s right behind me. So close I can feel his breath on my hair when he speaks. I don’t move a muscle, every traitorous part of me unwilling to step away even though I know I have to. “About what?” I hear myself say, motionless.
“This.” He pushes open the door farther and gestures at my lame set up. “Why haven’t you built your stuff yet?”
I wilt a bit, disappointed. I don’t know what I expected him to say. “About this strange chemistry we seem to have, Nora. About the fact that I’m the only one left in your apartment, and you slept in my bed last night. What are we going to do about this?”
I clear my throat. “It’s on my to-do list.”
“You need a hand with anything?”
A strange tingling starts in my feet and shoots straight up my legs, converging between my thighs. There is something I could use a hand with, Crosbie…
And last year, maybe I would have said those words. But this year? Nora Bora 2.0? Even with a three-month sexual hiatus? She’s going to say no.
“If you don’t mind.”
He slaps his hands against his thighs. “I don’t mind. I like this sort of thing.”
I stomp all over the strange warm feelings that are trying to bloom, like they’re a patch of weeds that needs to be destroyed. It’s not easy, and maybe one or two twisted tendrils remain, but I do a pretty decent job. Especially when Crosbie takes off the button-up so he’s just in jeans and the wife beater, muscles flexing as he grabs the box holding the pieces of my soon-to-be desk and lays it on the floor.
“Do you have a box cutter?”
“Sure. I sleep with one under my pillow.”