She did a pretty good job. We’d laughed and danced and flirted and made up, and it’s a surprise and a relief to learn that she missed me too. Actually, it’s an enormous relief, even if hanging out with Marcela did involve ditching work early and drinking on a school night. But what the hell—I had fun. Finally.
Kellan and Crosbie are watching something on TV when I come up the stairs, and I spot the DVD box for the first season of Arrested Development sitting on the dining table as I enter. I squint at the screen and recognize the familiar characters, and when I look at Kellan he’s got the same “I don’t get it” look Marcela had when I made her watch it.
“Steve Holt,” I say.
Kellan scratches his chin and glances over at me. “Who?”
I can practically feel Crosbie’s stare, but I refuse to make eye contact as I head into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I’m a bit woozy and I brace myself against the counter as I drink.
“Are you drunk?” Kellan calls, muting the show. It sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Just a little bit,” I reply. “I’ll be okay.”
“Where were you?”
“Marvin’s. Near work.”
“With who?”
“With whom,” I correct, putting my glass in the sink and heading for my room. “And that’s none of your business.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I might like drunk Nora.”
“You did,” I say, without meaning to. “Good night.” I enter my bedroom and close the door.
When I first realized Kellan didn’t remember our hookup, I was mortified. But now I think I was just na?ve. My “relationships” last year were fleeting and shallow, and because I was only doing it to convince myself I was somebody exciting, I wasn’t even remotely invested in them, emotionally. The longest one lasted a month, and that’s just because it was the guy who took my virginity during frosh week and we felt obligated to keep seeing each other.
Kellan is the crush everybody has. Crosbie is the sidekick.
He’s the Nora to Kellan’s Marcela.
He’s the one you forget.
chapter seven
I have a ten o’clock class on Thursday mornings, so I sleep in until nine then stumble bleary-eyed out of my room to hunt down some frozen waffles for breakfast. It’s chilly in the apartment and I shift from foot to foot as I shiver in my sweatshirt and shorts waiting for the toaster to finish its job.
“Hey.”
I jolt and turn around to find Kellan on the living room floor, dressed in his running clothes and touching his toes. “What are you doing here?” I never see Kellan in the mornings and I’ve kind of gotten used to having the place to myself. He’s either sleeping in—or sleeping out—when I leave for class, and this is unusual.
“Group run,” he says, switching legs. “In ten minutes.”
I glance out the window. The sun is up, glinting off the yellowing leaves of the trees that line the street. It’s already shaping up to be a much better day than yesterday. In fact, now that I’ve made the decision to forget Crosbie Lucas, everything is looking up.
“Have fun,” I say, stacking the waffles on a plate, dousing them in syrup, and preparing to retreat to my room. I know Kellan’s running group slowly picks up members as they begin their route, and Crosbie normally comes inside when they reach our place. My new plan does not involve seeing Crosbie nine hours after the plan went into effect.
“Hey,” Kellan says, standing and cracking his back.
I pause at the door to my room, waffle halfway to my mouth. “What’s up?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome?” I have no idea what he’s thanking me for.
“I suppose I should have realized this on my own, but Crosbie told me last night that you let them host my birthday party here, and I appreciate it. I know that’s not what we agreed, so…thank you.”
“Ah. You’re welcome.”
“And…” he adds, again halting my return to my bedroom. “I think we should go out.”
I’m already stopped, but now I freeze completely, half an unchewed waffle in my mouth. “What?”
He grins and reaches back to grab his foot to stretch. “As a thank-you. Let’s go out to dinner tomorrow. You know Verre Plein, the French place on the edge of town? What about there?”
I’m so stunned I can barely speak. I’m pretty sure I have maple syrup on my face and my hair is a mess and I haven’t brushed my teeth and this—this—is when Kellan McVey asks me out?
“Are you serious?” I try to swallow the enormous bite of waffle without chewing.
“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Confidence practically radiates off of him, never quite edging into obnoxious territory, unlike somebody whose name I will have forgotten by lunchtime. “It’s really nice,” he continues, when I don’t answer. “I went once with my parents—you have to wear a tie and everything. I mean, not you—just I’ll wear—I mean, you can wear—Fuck.” He groans. “I haven’t had coffee yet.”
“You don’t drink coffee.”