I turn to look out the window where a light snow has started to fall, sifting over tree branches and clinging to the grass. I don’t know what the forecast is, but if I want to complete this move tonight, I can’t waste any more time feeling sorry for myself. Not here, anyway. I can do it at my new apartment.
I throw the empty carton in the trash, rinse out my glass and stick it in the dishwasher, then start the cycle so Kellan comes home to a clean kitchen. Fresh starts for everybody.
I’ve just carted all the pieces of the bed frame down the stairs to the front door and am reaching for my boots when there’s a sudden knock. I freeze, then slowly straighten. After a second, another knock. I already know Burnham is deserted. I’d passed only three other people on my trips back and forth from Marcela’s apartment, and none of them have reason to visit me at nearly ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve.
I rise onto my tiptoes to peer warily through the peephole. And for the second time in as many minutes, I freeze.
It’s Crosbie.
Though I’m perfectly warm in my jeans and fitted wool sweater, my fingers are numb as I fumble with the deadbolt and twist the knob to pull open the door. Frigid night air rushes in and I shiver. Even though I knew it was him, I’m still stunned to see Crosbie two feet away, head ducked down against the cold, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. His puffy black jacket is zipped to his chin and he shifts from foot to foot, stopping only when he looks up to meet my eye.
“Hi,” I say, when I can’t come up with anything else.
He nods briefly. “Hey.”
Whatever small, desperate hope had been blooming quickly withers. “He’s not here,” I say, nodding over my shoulder. “He’s not back until the second.”
“I know.” He’s watching me, face expressionless, the shadows beneath his eyes deepened by the yellow porch light.
“Then what are you…” I shiver again. “Did you forget something? Do you want to come in?”
A slight hesitation. “Yeah.”
I step back as he enters, scuffing his feet on the mat and closing the door behind him. Without the white noise of the night, it feels deathly quiet in here, the tension thick and painful. He finally looks away, taking in the familiar slats of wood resting against the wall. “What are you doing?” His voice is raspy and he clears his throat, looking embarrassed.
“I’m moving,” I say, also looking at the frame. “To Marcela’s. This is my last trip.”
He nods and looks over my shoulder, up the stairs. “No kidding.”
“No kidding.”
More silence.
“Did you need something?” I ask when I can’t take it anymore. “A video game or something? Why are you back so soon? There’s no one else in town.”
He meets my eye again. “I know.”
My heart thumps so hard in my chest it feels like it’ll bruise. “You know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Then…what?” I think about all my unanswered texts. The apologies. The Christmas present. “The necklace?” I ask softly. “It’s on the counter. I can get it. I was going to ask Kellan to return—”
“Not the fucking necklace, Nora.”
I’m mid-turn, one foot on the bottom stair, when the quiet words bring me to a halt. There’s no vehemence there, no anger, only sadness. Exhaustion. As though being angry has left him wrung out and raw. I know the feeling.
For a long, exposed minute, we just look at each other, and then I can’t do it anymore. I blink away tears as best I can, but I feel them catch on the ends of my lashes and finally I give up and shrug helplessly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I texted you a thousand times, I left messages. I’m sorry, Crosbie. I’m so sorry. I don’t have anything else to say.”
His jaw flexes and he nods. “Right.”
“Do you want me to say something else? To say I regret it? That I regret not telling you? That I regret going to that stupid party? Because I do. I regret everything. But how was I supposed to know you—I—this—” I gesture between us weakly, “was going to happen? I couldn’t know—I didn’t know—” I break off when the tears are too heavy and I taste them on my lips. “I need a tissue.” What I really need is space. Because though I’ve spent the past two weeks wanting nothing more than to see Crosbie, talk to Crosbie, the reality of him is so much different now.
The reality of me is different for him, too.
I’m Nora Bora and Red Corset and everything in between.
I grab a tissue from the bathroom and mop up my eyes, dragging in deep breaths and willing myself to calm down. When I come back out, Crosbie’s sitting on the arm of the couch, jacket unzipped. With the exception of the now-missing Chrisgiving decorations, the place looks pretty much the same. My life had been contained to my room, and unless he went to the door and peered inside, there’s really no way to tell I’d ever been here.
I just stare at him. I don’t know what else to do.
“It’s not fair,” he says, scuffing his socked toe on the hardwood floor.
I swallow. “I know.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not fair that I have a list I have to fucking paint over, and you have, what—five minutes in a closet?—that gets you a nickname and a witch hunt.”
I’m not sure I’m breathing anymore. “Wh-what?”
“I mean, it’s not fair that my girlfriend had sex with my best friend, but how could we have known?”