“Crosbie doesn’t live here,” he says, elbowing his friend in the ribs. “He was helping me move some furniture, and now he’s leaving. He probably won’t even ever come back.”
“Actually, I thought I’d stay and help with the interview,” Crosbie says.
“Er, no.” This year is about making good decisions, and faced with my first challenge, I am not about to participate in an “interview” with Burnham College’s two resident manwhores. Despite my last academic transcript and recent police record, I do have a brain and it does recognize a bad idea when one is presented. Last year I’d done my best to squash my Nora Bora high school persona, but this year she is back and here to stay. Or at least graduate and not get arrested again.
“Get lost,” Kellan orders, shoving Crosbie toward the door. I shuffle to the side as Crosbie tumbles out, laughing. He smells like sweat and lemon-scented laundry detergent, and when he bangs into my shoulder he grabs my hip to steady me, his big fingers digging in just a little too hard before letting go.
“Sorry,” he says, making a face at his friend. “His fault. You should probably reconsider living here. He’s an asshole.”
I don’t know what to say so I say nothing. Then Crosbie’s gone and it’s just Kellan and I.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Do you want to come in? Please come in.”
I should leave. He lied to me, he has a stupid friend, and he doesn’t remember that we had sex. If I’d been having any doubts about the wisdom of that hookup, they were cemented forty-five minutes later when I spotted him getting a very public blowjob from a very willing blonde.
The mortification of that moment should be enough to send me running. And I swear I would, if only I hadn’t met with four other potential roommates yesterday and failed to click with any of them. And if only I didn’t need to move out of my cramped room in summer residence by the end of the week.
“Sure,” I say.
It’s a nice, predictable apartment, arranged in the same style as all the others in the neighborhood. The front door opens to a tiny foyer and set of stairs leading up to the living area. The main space features an open kitchen with a small breakfast bar, and one wall is taken up with three doors—two bedrooms and one bathroom, according to Kellan’s ad.
It’s bright and airy, with the original hardwood floors and large windows. There are no special upgrades, just standard-issue appliances and white paint on the walls, and it’s in the process of being furnished as Matthew—Kellan—had explained in his emails. In an effort to keep him away from the party crowd, his parents agreed to pay for this place on the condition he keeps his grades up, but they’re not paying for anything else, so he’s getting a roommate to cover his living expenses. Before today I’d assumed that “Matthew’s” biggest expense would be cat food and brand new board games. Now…not so much.
“Have a seat,” Kellan says, gesturing to the tiny wooden table that, for the moment, is sitting in no-man’s land in the space between the front door, living room, and kitchen. More of a hallway, really. Or, in Kellan and Crosbie’s book, a dining room.
I sit stiffly, crossing my legs then uncrossing them and crossing at the ankles. I tug at my collar, certain my shirt is trying to strangle me. The last time I wore it was during my party girl phase when I’d paired it with a lacy magenta bra and four undone buttons. Today, however, I had to wear a sports bra just to get it to button up over my boobs. A petite frame and a D-cup does not make getting dressed easy.
“Want a drink or anything?” Kellan asks. He waits for me to shake my head before sitting down and resting his arms on the table. He smiles shyly, his teeth white and even, mouth quirking up slightly more on one side than the other to reveal the dimple in his left cheek. Yes, I know Kellan McVey has a dimple in his left cheek. Everyone does. Just like they know he benches 280 and runs a five-minute mile and came in third in last year’s national track meet and is in the second year of a four-year sociology degree. He’s basically Burnham’s resident celebrity, and here I am, in his living room. Dining room.
Our dining room.
No. I can’t even consider this. It’s an exercise in failure, and I have had enough failure in this past year to last me a lifetime. In fact, I won’t even have a life or a future if I repeat last year’s poor performance, hence the commitment to my new prim and proper lifestyle. Nora Bora 2.0. Emphasis on the bore.
I force myself to return the smile, then study my plain fingernails, trying to figure out what, exactly, to say in this situation. “You said—” I begin, at the same moment Kellan says, “I know I—”
We both break off, then laugh awkwardly. “You first,” he says.