I hope not. “Are you expecting someone?”
He grins, the devilishly handsome guy in every romantic comedy, the one you know doesn’t exist in real life. Except he does. And he’s right here. “I was,” he says. “Have a seat. I hope you’re hungry.”
I stare at the table like it’s a bomb. “What’s going on?”
He tastes his sauce, nodding appreciatively. “I’ve been thinking about how great you are,” he says. “How nice you’ve been about this whole situation lately, and just what a good roommate you’ve been. Then I remembered we were supposed to go out to dinner that time and I totally flaked so I thought I’d plan something special.”
I can’t convince my feet to move. The vibe in here is not special, it’s weird. He’s moved the dining table into the living room so there’s more space, and it’s covered in what looks like a white bed sheet folded in half. It’s set with plates and wine glasses and candles. There are even half a dozen votives spaced around the room, making for a very cozy—and confusing—ambiance.
The oven timer dings and Kellan pulls out a loaf of garlic bread, so hot and perfect the butter is still sizzling when he sets it on a cutting board. My stomach urges me to get my ass in a chair. My heart tells me this is going to send someone the very wrong message. And my head is telling me this will only end badly.
“Come on,” Kellan says, garlic bread in hand. I feel the gentle press of his fingers in the small of my back as he guides me to the table, then sets down the bread and pulls out my chair, resting his hands on my shoulder to urge me into the seat. This, of course, is the moment Crosbie walks through the front door.
The three of us freeze, a complicated, decidedly unromantic, garlicky tableau. Crosbie’s still wearing his jacket and holds a video game, mouth open in surprise. He stares at us, his gaze locked on Kellan’s hands on my shoulders, before shifting to take in the candles, the wine glasses, every damning detail.
“Crosbie—” I begin.
“Hey,” Kellan says.
Crosbie’s mouth moves, but for a second no words come out. “I wanted to drop off your game,” he says finally. Very stiffly he reaches out to place the game on the counter, and even Kellan—delightfully obtuse Kellan—realizes something is wrong.
“Are you okay?” he asks, dropping his hands and stepping toward his friend. “Cros?”
But Crosbie’s only looking at me now, his brown eyes hurt and bewildered all at once. I know he’s never had a girlfriend before—not that I am his girlfriend—and he’s definitely never been in a position to be cheated on. But I also know he’s the sidekick in Kellan’s story; Kellan gets Miss Louisiana, Crosbie gets the runner up. All those questions about whether or not I was into Kellan—I’d finally convinced him, and now this.
“Crosbie,” I say again, but he just shakes his head and disappears back down the stairs. A second later the door slams shut, the icy wind making the candles flutter.
“What the hell was that?” Kellan asks, running a hand through his hair. “I said he could keep the game until tomorrow if he really wanted to.”
I shake my head and blink away the guilty tears stinging my eyes. I should probably let him go. I should probably not follow him into freezing temperatures and beg him to hear me out. I should never have started this in the first place.
But I did.
I run down the stairs, pause long enough to shove my feet into my boots, and yank open the door. The cold air steals my breath but I can see him half a block down. I don’t even think about it, I just start running. The air is so crisp it feels like something might shatter. The faint dusting of frost on bare tree branches flitters down, glinting in the light from the streetlamps before melting into my hair.
“Crosbie!” I shout.
There’s no one else around, no sounds, no cars, no anything. I know he hears me, but he doesn’t stop. If anything he hunches up his shoulders and walks even faster.
“Crosbie!” I pick up the pace. My lungs hurt because it’s cold and I’m not in shape, and I shiver in my thin shirt and leggings, feeling my hair slip out of its bun and flop against my neck
“Crosbie!” I shout. “Stop!” I’m three car lengths away when he finally halts, though he doesn’t turn around. His hands are crammed in the pockets of his jeans and I can see his breath coming out in fast white pants. I’m gasping when I finally reach him, putting my hand on his arm for balance and nearly falling when he jerks it away.
I’m prepared for his hurt, but not the raw anger on his face.
“Crosbie.” My voice cracks on the word. “It’s not—”
“Don’t bother, Nora.” He stares past me up the street, at nothing.
“I’ve been home for two minutes,” I say. “I didn’t know he was planning this.”
“Right.”
“I thought he had a date with Marcela.”
“You said you knew they weren’t into each other.”