I doze off a bit when anthropology is no more exciting than I thought it would be, and wake up slouched on the couch. I check the time: ten after seven. Kellan’s class will be wrapping up, then he’ll walk home, which takes about twenty minutes. I hurry to the bathroom to wipe up my smudged mascara, then add another coat. A swipe of red lipstick and I’m doing my best approximation of effortlessly glamorous.
I consider pouring myself a glass of wine while we wait, thinking I’ll look sexy and sophisticated if I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in my dress and heels, but we don’t have any wine and it’s hard to boost myself onto the stool in this dress.
My hesitation from yesterday is nowhere to be found. All I needed was a little time to let the whole “Kellan McVey just asked me out!” news to sink in, and now that it has, I’m excited. Tiny butterflies flit about my stomach, and I pace around the living room, trying to calm myself.
I didn’t exactly go on a lot of dates last year. I went out a lot, but always with Marcela. Parties, bars, raves—I never said no. And in my effort to make up for my lonely high school years, I said yes to a lot of things I shouldn’t have. Maybe that’s why tonight feels special—I’ve said no so long, saying yes actually means something.
Saying yes to Kellan McVey—technically not my first time, but the first time he’ll remember—means something.
I check the time. Ten to eight. He should be here any minute. I drop back onto the couch and switch on the TV, watching a bit of the news. We don’t see each other a lot at home so I’m really not sure what we’ll talk about. Maybe an update on current events is in order.
When the news wraps up at the top of the hour, Kellan still isn’t home.
No big deal. He has a car and it’s a ten-minute trip to the restaurant—who cares if we’re a few minutes late?
Fifteen minutes later, I’m definitely starting to care. And I’m really hungry. My stomach is growling its displeasure, and finally I give in and eat a cracker. I don’t want to spoil my appetite.
By 8:40 p.m. it’s dread and disappointment that have my stomach twisting, not hunger. He wouldn’t stand me up, would he? I mean, I could text him, but what’s the point? If he was held up somewhere—or remembered at all—he would have texted me. Or called. Or made some effort to tell me I hadn’t been forgotten. Again.
At ten to nine my phone beeps and I snatch it up like a lifeline, but it’s just Nate asking for an update. I blow out a heavy breath and don’t respond. I’m not in the mood to report my second romantic disappointment of the week.
At five after nine I hunt around the fridge for something to eat, but it’s the weekend and I’m always out of groceries by Friday. All we have are cupboards full of Kellan’s stupid mac and cheese, a few containers of protein powder, and half a box of cereal, no milk.
I eat a handful of dry cereal and try not to cry, the only thing that could possibly make me feel even more pathetic. I imagine Kellan walking in as I stand, mascara-stained tear tracks on my cheeks, a handful of dry cereal in my palm, my hair done, my dress borrowed, my pretty red heels pinching my toes.
It’s that image that has me tossing the remaining cereal into the sink and kicking off the shoes. I stomp into my room and wrench the dress over my head as though it somehow played a part in this disappointment. My hair gets a little more tousled but I leave it, even as I grab a tissue to wipe off the lipstick, hurling it violently into the trash. As violently as one can hurl a tissue, in any case.
My lower lip trembles as I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. My whole body feels hot, flush from head to toe with humiliation and frustration. I return to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, trying to calm down and think rationally. What should I say when Kellan comes home? Should I pretend that I also forgot about our date? Play it off like it was a casual “maybe we will, maybe we won’t” invitation? Or should I tell him how righteously pissed I am that he couldn’t even be bothered to text his roommate to tell her he wasn’t coming? I know his parents pay for his phone—all he has to do is use it.
A knock at the front door has me lurching in surprise, and I choke on the mouthful of water I’d just consumed. A brief coughing fit later, I yank open the door expecting to find a shame-faced Kellan saying he’d been robbed, losing his phone and his house keys in the process, but it’s not him.
It’s Crosbie.
Of-fucking-course.
“What?” I snap. I cross my arms, both because I’m angry and because there’s a sharp chill in the air. And because dressed in a gray T-shirt, jeans, and an open brown corduroy jacket, a satchel slung over his shoulder, Crosbie looks far more appealing than he should.
“Ah…” His tentative smile disappears when confronted with my stone-faced scowl, and he darts a glance over my shoulder. “Is Kellan here?”
I arch a brow. “No.”
He shivers a little. “Can I come in?”
“Why?”
“Because we were supposed to play Fire of Vengeance and he has the game.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
Now he sounds annoyed. “I heard you. Let me come in and grab the game.”
I don’t care enough right now to try to hold the game hostage. “Fine. Whatever.”