I’m envious. I wish erasing my own mistakes were this easy. Failed a bunch of classes? Nope. Got arrested? Never happened. Slept with your future boyfriend’s best friend? Definitely not.
I’m already addressing those mistakes the best I can, so I bend down and stick my brush in the can and help Crosbie cover up his. It only takes a few minutes but it’s unexpectedly rewarding, and soon we’re marching into the men’s bathroom and doing the same. It’s worth noting that the list in here still ends at twenty-five; the three mystery women are conspicuously absent. He doesn’t comment on it, though, and we paint in silence until the list is gone, a pale blue void on the graffiti-covered wall.
For a long moment we just stare at the empty space, and I wonder if he regrets it. If that list was the most tangible type of bragging right, proof positive that he’s a stud. “What do you think?” I ask eventually.
He’s quiet for a second. “I like it.”
“Yeah?”
He glances at me. “Yeah.”
We shuffle out of the stall and rinse off the brushes, then put on our jackets and retrace our steps back to the lobby. With some of his anger burned away, Crosbie makes more of an effort to hide the paint can, though of course now the security guard is back at his post, watching us suspiciously.
“Evening,” he says.
“Evening,” we call back, hustling away. One of the paintbrushes falls out of Crosbie’s pocket, leaving a wet mark on the polished floor, and I quickly snatch it up.
“What’re you all getting up to?” the guard asks, standing. He’s a heavyset guy, armed with nothing more than a flashlight and a walkie-talkie, no threat to us when we sprint through the doors and jump on my bike.
The guard doesn’t give chase but Crosbie pedals like a madman anyway. I grip his waist, feeling the paint can pressed against his stomach, his rib cage expanding with each breath. The cold air is biting and I bury my face in the back of his puffy jacket and close my eyes. Before I even know I’m going to do it, I start to laugh. I laugh so hard the whole bike shakes and Crosbie throws a look over his shoulder, trying to figure out what’s going on.
“Nora!” he shouts, the word whipped away in the icy wind. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I mumble into the fabric, knowing he can’t hear me. “Don’t stop.”
Even though he couldn’t possibly understand, he doesn’t stop until we’re back at the Frat Farm, parking on the lawn again.
“Are you laughing or crying?” he demands, letting the paint can fall out of his coat to bounce on the frozen ground. “I can’t tell.”
“Laughing,” I admit. “I don’t know why.”
It’s too dark for me to recognize the glint that normally appears in his eye when he gets this way, but I don’t stop him when he backs me into the trunk of the ancient oak tree and covers my mouth with his. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling almost painfully, but I don’t stop him then, either. I just kiss him back, angry and relieved and exhilarated, and suddenly much more hot than cold.
“Inside,” I gasp, breaking away to breathe.
“Here?” he asks. “You sure?”
I shove him toward the house. “Yeah.”
He grabs my hand and tugs me up the stairs. I hear a couple of catcalls from the living room but ignore them, unzipping my coat and following Crosbie into his room. We kiss and grope and strip, but when we’re halfway undressed he suddenly stops, pushing me back a step. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Nora, I don’t have any condoms.”
For a second my mouth just opens and closes wordlessly. “Can’t you…borrow some?”
“I will, but do you really want me to go down there and ask? I mean, they’re probably filling in the blanks already, but I know how you feel about your name getting tossed around…”
It shouldn’t, but the words do throw a wet blanket on the whole idea. My shirt is gaping open to my waist and I slowly button it to hide my lacy pink bra. Crosbie groans and scoops his T-shirt off the ground.
My stomach clenches when I see the erection tenting the front of his sweats. He follows my gaze and waves away my proffered apology. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “I kept sticking them in my wallet to bring to your place, and forgot to get more.”
“I should have gotten some more for my room so you didn’t always have to be the one bringing them.”
“You’re right. This is all your fault.”
I smile at his attempt to alleviate some of the tension simmering between us. It’s not quite angry any more, but it doesn’t feel finished, either.
“You know…” I begin, planting my fingers in the center of his chest and bumping him back toward the bed. “Last time you showed me your ‘trick,’ but I didn’t show you mine.”