He blushes when he smiles. “Any time.”
The rest of the meal is only slightly less awkward, though it’s admittedly more than a little weird when Kellan tidies the kitchen while Crosbie plays video games and I work on my archaeology paper. No one really speaks, and eventually Kellan joins Crosbie and they blow things up for a while. Around eleven I’m sick of analyzing cave finds in the fictional region of Malaruhu, and I shut down my laptop and head into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash up. When I come out the explosions abruptly stop, and Crosbie looks from me to Kellan and back, then slowly stands.
He wipes his hands on his thighs, hesitant, and I realize we’re at a turning point. If he stays the night, the entire pretense of my arrangement with Kellan is shot to hell. If he goes home, the entire pretense of our relationship is undermined. We’re standing in a room with the most popular guy on campus, and we’re choosing each other.
“There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom,” I offer. “If you want to brush your teeth before you come to bed.”
I see heat flare in his eyes and very slowly, he nods. “Will do.”
“Fuck,” Kellan groans. “Is this what it’s going to be like from now on?”
“I know this isn’t what we agreed,” I say, balancing on the arm of the couch when Crosbie leaves to clean up. “I’m sorry to flip the script on you.”
He shakes his head. “I lived in a frat house last year,” he says. “You really think I didn’t hear Crosbie banging—” He cuts himself off way too late.
I cross my arms. “Huh.”
“Dude!” Crosbie exclaims from behind me.
Kellan hesitates, then unpauses the game, turning the volume way, way up, and studiously ignores us. Slowly I look at Crosbie.
“That was last year,” he says quickly. “I’m different now.”
I glare at him, then relent. “Me too.”
His relief is palpable as he follows me into the bedroom, closing the door and waiting until I’ve turned on the bedside lamp before shutting off the ceiling light. “Don’t be pissed,” he says.
“I’m not.” I slip out of my jeans and sweater and pull on a tank top, stopping as I reach for a pair of shorts. I glance over my shoulder to find him staring at my ass. “Should I bother putting these on?”
He yanks off his shirt and undoes his pants so fast he almost falls. “No,” he says, tackling me onto the bed. “You’re not going to need them.”
*
Crosbie Lucas is my boyfriend.
I’m not the only one who’s stunned by the news, but I really don’t care what other people say. Well, except for Marcela, who gave me an earful about keeping secrets.
Two days after the spaghetti debacle-turned relationship reveal, I’m sitting across from Crosbie at one of the tiny tables at Beans and splitting a cinnamon bun during my fifteen minute break. Nate attributes my excellent mood to all the orgasms I must be enjoying—and I do enjoy them—but my buoyed spirits are due in no small part to the phone call I’d gotten from the campus clinic this morning, informing me that my test results had come back all clear. It’s what I expected, but it’s still nice to have it confirmed.
I’m wearing a turtleneck under my apron, but I still shiver when a customer strolls in, the late November winds following. “Grr,” I say, trailing my finger through a smear of cream cheese frosting left on the plate. “I hate the cold.”
“Seriously?” Crosbie pops the last bit of cinnamon bun into his mouth. “I love winter. You get snow, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years—it’s awesome.”
“Thanksgiving’s in the fall.”
“Close enough. The point is, winter is great and you’re wrong.”
“Bah humbug.”
He smirks. “Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”
Thanksgiving is on Thursday, and my plan is to work overtime to save up money for Christmas presents. My reasoning is if I buy expensive gifts, no one will complain too loudly when I show up late on Christmas Eve and bail around noon on Christmas Day. I love my family, but I do not love the Kincaid family Christmas tradition of non-stop fighting, one small fire, and overpriced pizza delivery when the turkey inevitably winds up either burned or missing.
“No,” I say, when I realize Crosbie’s waiting for an answer. “Are you?”
“Yeah. I’m going to drive down, then join the guys for the mock meet right after.”
“That’s next week?”
“I told you about it.”
And he had, explaining it was a pre-Christmas thing they did every year to test their progress and also remind themselves not to overindulge during the holidays. Apparently they never learn and everyone returns in January ten pounds heavier and still hungover, but it’s a three-day visit of nearby colleges that brings them back to Burnham on Friday.
“I remember.”