As much as I don’t want to rely on Kellan for anything right now—even something as simple as a trip to the grocery store—the campus shop is tiny and overpriced, which might account for my meager food supply. Carters is a huge chain store and a much better bet, but it takes three buses to get there and is too much of a pain to manage. “Are you sure?” I ask, narrowing my eyes doubtfully. “I’m not going to get out of the shower and find you missing?”
“Cross my heart,” he says, tracing an X on his chest with his index finger. And for once I don’t find myself admiring what a beautifully muscled chest it is—I’m wondering how much weight his words hold.
I guess we’ll find out. “Okay,” I say. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“I won’t move a muscle.”
My mind instantly fills with images of a sexy, muscled torso—but it’s not Kellan I’m picturing. “Make it ten,” I say, hightailing it out of the kitchen. No way I’ll be able to withstand a cold shower for longer.
*
Going to the grocery store with Kellan McVey is a lot like what I imagine it’s like to go to the grocery store with Zac Efron: it’s crazy. Everybody stares. It’s like no one has seen a handsome college kid before. And don’t get me wrong—Kellan’s super hot. But he’s wearing a ratty old T-shirt, sweatpants, sandals, and a baseball hat. He’s not trying whatsoever and yet every pair of eyes seems to follow him through the parking lot, into the store and down each aisle.
I can’t help but wish I’d dressed a little better for the outing. Because we were only coming to the grocery store, I’d opted for skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a baggy white button-up shirt. My hair is tied back and the only makeup I’d bothered with is mascara and tinted lip gloss. None of my clothes have holes in them, but you’d swear I was wearing garbage bags from some of the disapproving looks I get.
We’re in the cereal aisle when Kellan’s phone rings. He tugs it out of his pocket and glances at the display. “It’s Crosbie,” he says, then answers. “Yo.”
I can’t make out the words, just the muffled sound of Crosbie’s voice.
“Yeah,” Kellan says, scratching his ass and adding a box of granola to the cart. “I’m just at the grocery store with Nora. She was eating crackers for breakfast.”
A mumbled answer, then Kellan looks me over from head to toe. “I know,” he says. “I’m going to fatten her up.”
I make a face and he makes one back, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Actually,” he continues, “I’m trying to win my way back into her good graces. Remember how I told you I was taking her to dinner last night? I totally forgot about it and went to the game instead, so—”
I hear Crosbie’s frantic tone as he tries to interrupt. But it’s too late—I’d started to suspect as much last night, but now it’s confirmed: Crosbie knew Kellan stood me up. He knew we had dinner plans, he knew Kellan decided to go to the game—and he came over with some lame excuse about a video game then stuck around to “read” and order pizza. He saw the abandoned dress and heels in my room; he saw everything.
Maybe I should feel outraged or embarrassed. Maybe I should feel manipulated or fooled. But I don’t. Because despite how much I wish I could be invisible at this very moment, I’ve been complaining about how easily overlooked I am all the time, and last night Crosbie did his very best to make sure I wasn’t.
I’m horrified when my sinuses tingle and my eyes start to sting; it must be my period. There’s no way I’m about to cry in the middle of Carters because someone made up a reason to hang out with me.
“Okay, man,” I hear Kellan saying as I struggle to compose myself. “I know, I know. Want me to pick up anything for the bus ride? Yeah? What flavor? Okay, will do. Bye.”
He hangs up and though my heart is still galloping around my chest, I’ve managed to head off the embarrassing crying jag. “What, uh, what bus ride is this?” I ask, trying to act like I didn’t just connect the dots about what I overheard.
“Huh?” Kellan tosses in another box of cereal and resumes pushing the cart. “Oh, we’re heading out tomorrow for a week of ‘mock meets.’” We round the corner where two girls in dresses and heels—at the grocery store! In the morning!—giggle and wave, and Kellan smiles and nods back. Before my mind can start coming up with its own definition of “mock meets,” Kellan explains. “It’s for track. Like, we’ll travel around to different colleges just to square off against their teams. It’s not official; it’s more like practice. And motivation. We see what they’ve got; they see our stuff. Then we all know what to work for.”
I think of Crosbie. “We means the track team?”
“Yep.”
An absolutely gorgeous blonde strolls down the baking aisle, shooting Kellan a dazzling smile. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” he replies.
They smile at each other, just two beautiful people being beautiful.
I sigh.
And that’s when it hits me: I’m not jealous. And I don’t really care that Kellan’s leaving for a week. It’s Crosbie I’m going to miss. Which is totally contrary to my plan. I should be ecstatic that the track team’s schedule is lining up with my agenda to forget him, but I’m not.
“You all right?” Kellan peers at me with concern.