I step aside and he comes in, kicking off his shoes. “Why are you so angry?” he asks as I follow him up into the living room.
“I’m busy.” I’m the polar opposite of busy, but I’m not about to admit I got stood up. Especially when I’m pretty sure Crosbie Lucas never gets stood up.
“What are you doing?”
“Studying.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and the most believable. Even if it is Friday night.
“Huh.” He hunts through the stack of games on the console, finding the one he’s looking for. “It’s quiet here.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“Right.” He hesitates. “Do you mind if I hang out for a bit?”
“I don’t feel like listening to you blow things up right now.”
“Not to play. To study. It’s pretty crazy at my place, and I’m behind on my reading.”
I snort. “Try the library.” I did not mean to say that. Saying “library” in my most snide tone of voice only gives more weight to Tuesday’s incident, and I’m supposed to be pretending not to care. Hell—I’m supposed to be forgetting not just the encounter, but Crosbie Lucas altogether, and here he is in my living room. As always.
Crosbie winces. “I wanted to apol—”
Oh fuck. I cannot handle an apology right now. Not when I’m hanging onto my composure by the very edge of my fingernails. “You know what?” I interrupt. “Do whatever you want. Just don’t bother me.”
I turn and stalk back into my room, slamming the door. I’m not doing a great job of keeping my feelings under wraps, but at least I’ve put some distance between us.
I’m sorely tempted to hide under the covers until this whole dreadful night passes, but I’m wide awake, my empty stomach won’t stop grumbling at me, and every word I write for my English essay is garbage. I feel like a tiger pacing in its cage, desperate to get out, not quite sure where I should go, and pretty confident I’d like to rip off someone’s head.
A soft tap on my bedroom door has my head whipping around like the girl in The Exorcist, and even though I planned to ignore him, I still call out, “What?”
“I ordered pizza.” His voice is muffled by the door, but he doesn’t turn the knob.
My stomach jumps joyfully at the news. Food! Sustenance! And then it sinks, because Crosbie and Kellan order in their fair share of pizza, and they load it up with ground beef, anchovies and olives, all of which I find revolting.
“I don’t want your disgusting pizza,” I mutter. “Thanks anyway.”
“It’s only half disgusting,” he replies. “The other half is boring.”
My stomach perks up again. We’ve had this discussion before: I like pepperoni and extra cheese, which Crosbie and Kellan unanimously declared the dullest pizza on earth.
I get up and pull open the door, making Crosbie jump back like he’s been zapped. I look around suspiciously. “Is there really pizza?”
“Yeah.” He points at the coffee table where a closed box awaits.
“Are you lying about the boring half?”
“I wish.” Even as he speaks I see his eyes flicker over my shoulder, and I know he sees the crumpled dress at the foot of the bed, the forgotten red heels toppled over beside it. Let him think whatever he wants.
I shut the door and trudge out of the bedroom, grabbing a plate from the cupboard in the kitchen. There’s a two-liter bottle of Pepsi sitting next to the pizza and that looks good, too. I grab a glass and handful of napkins from some of Kellan’s leftover takeout, and head to the couch to take a couple of slices.
I open the box and confirm Crosbie was telling the truth: one half is blissfully untarnished by his horrible toppings. I grab two pieces and stick them on my plate. He approaches, almost shyly, and sits on the couch with his own plate and takes a piece for himself.
“Are you going to stay?” he asks when I pour a glass of Pepsi without sitting down. “Take a break and watch TV with me.”
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s got a smudge of tomato sauce on his upper lip and licks it away as he reaches for the remote.
“There’s nothing on,” I say, if only to be disagreeable.
“There’s always something.”
Though this is the very opposite of my “avoid and forget Crosbie Lucas” plan, I’m not exactly eager to return to my room, so I take a seat on the far end of the couch and curl up my legs, tucking my bare toes between the cushions. My first bite of pizza makes my eyes roll back in my head a little bit.
Crosbie flips through the channels until he finds an old true crime show, one that reenacts a decade-old mystery and its eventual conclusion. I tell myself I’m only going to stay until I finish the pizza, but the story of a young wife and mother murdered in her home on a sunny Sunday afternoon keeps me glued to my seat, my morbid side unwilling to leave without answers.
“Totally the husband,” Crosbie says at the first commercial break. “He was having an affair and didn’t want to pay child support, so he killed her.”
“It’s the helpful neighbor,” I counter. “The way he started that volunteer search party—he totally knew she was in the attic. Murderers always try to be involved.”