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  “Crosbie, no. Get out.”

  “It’ll just be this once, Nora. I swear. I’ll never ask you for anything again.”

  “Stop looking at me like that. It’s not working.” I think about how awkward I felt hurrying past Crosbie and Kellan on my way to the bathroom; what would I do with a bunch of drunk guys and strippers? Hunker down in my bedroom and hope I didn’t have to pee all night?

  “What’s the problem?” he asks. “I’m sorry we can’t invite you, but it’s guys only, unless you’re there to strip.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “I promise to keep everyone out of your room,” he says. “All this…” He gestures to my meager belongings, “will be safe.”

  “What am I supposed to do during this party, Crosbie? I don’t—” I stop myself before I can blurt out that I don’t have any friends or anywhere else to stay. I could go to work or hang out at the library until it closes at eleven, but after that I’d be wandering around on my own, and I don’t imagine the party will wind down early.

  I see realization dawn. “You can…you can stay in my room,” he announces, sounding pleased with himself. “The door locks, I’ll stay here all night, most of the guys will be here, and no one will know you’re there. I’ll even change the sheets for you.”

  I shake my head. “This isn’t—”

  “One night,” he says. “And I’ll owe you.”

  How the hell did my plan to stay away from the Frat Farm fall to pieces so quickly? Now I’m about to agree to not only spend the night there, but spend the night in Crosbie Lucas’s room.

  “If it’s the Crosbabes thing, I swear to God I’ll kill anyone who talks about you. No one will think we…whatever.”

  I run a hand across my brow. “It’s not that.”

  “Then—”

  “Show me a magic trick.”

  His grin freezes. “What?”

  “Right now. Show me a magic trick.”

  He stares at me for a long moment. “Why?”

  “Because I want to see one.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I’ll let you throw your party here.”

  He scrutinizes my face, and I really wish I wasn’t standing here with messy hair and no makeup, ready for bed, with Crosbie Lucas eight inches away, peering at me with so much doubt that I know no one has ever asked to see his tricks without fully intending to mock him afterward.

  “I won’t laugh,” I promise.

  His chest puffs up a bit. “I don’t care if you laugh.”

  “Then I—”

  “You need cash for this one. Two bills.”

  I hear the stubborn note in his voice, the unwillingness to back down from a challenge. This is the guy who studies for a class that hasn’t even begun, then spends an hour on the elliptical and runs ten miles that same night. I don’t even care if the trick is stupid or disastrous; I’m not going to laugh at him when he’s trying. Instead I crouch next to my “bed” and dig in my purse, glancing over when Crosbie sits on the mat facing me.

  “Are a five and a one okay?”

  “Yeah. Perfect.”

  I pass him the bills then sit down too, cross-legged, so I can watch. He sets the five on his knee then folds the one lengthwise and shows it to me. “A normal one dollar bill, folded in half. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Do the same with the five.” He hands me the bill and I carefully fold it lengthwise. When I finish he’s waiting patiently, still holding the first bill between his fingers. “Good. Fold it in half again, the other way.”

  I do, and he takes the folded five back and places the one behind it. He flips the bills back and forth so I can see that it’s the folded one pressed to the back of the folded five like a lowercase t. “Pretty straight forward,” he says. “Now count to three.”

  I know there has to be something shady going on here, but whatever it is, I can’t see it. “One…two…three.”

  As I count he jerks his hand slightly, and on the third count the one dollar bill suddenly slips through the folded halves of the five so it’s scissored in between. “How did you—”

  “Shh. I’m not done. See how it’s in there?” He tugs the one so it bumps against the edge of the five, trapped inside.

  “Crosbie, seriously, how—”

  He ignores me. “Now watch.” I stare closely as he tugs the one against the solid folded edge. “One,” he says. “Two. Three.” On the count of three the one dollar bill pops through the five and comes free in his hand.

  I’ve only just managed to shut my mouth when it falls open again. My eyes fly to his. “Tell me how you did that.”

  He looks decidedly pleased with my reaction. “You wanted a trick, and you got one. I’ll give you the key to my place on Friday and you can spend the night. I’ll protect your trusty yoga mat while you’re gone.”

  “I don’t even do yoga.”

  “No?” He glances down at my bare legs, pale against the dark blue of my shorts. “Could have fooled me.”

  He returns the money and stands, and I do too. If he were any taller, he’d be too big, but I’m five-five, and he’s not even six feet. I like his height. He’s so broad that any taller would be too tall; he’d be enormous. Right now he just feels like he takes up a lot of space. Suddenly I’m too warm in my sweatshirt; I’m wide awake when I should be falling asleep.

  He’s about to say something when a sharp rap on the door startles us, and we both turn to see Kellan peering in. “Cros?” he says, looking between us. “What are you…?”

  “Just showing Nora a trick,” he says.

  Kellan looks suspicious. “What kind of trick? I promised you wouldn’t bother her.”

  “He wasn’t bothering me,” I say quickly. “And it was a pretty good trick. You should see it sometime.”

  The suspicion fades to surprise. “Oh yeah?”

  I try to sound casual. “If you want.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  He steps back as Crosbie exits. “Good night, Nora,” he says, before Kellan closes the door on him.

  “Good night, Crosbie,” I say to no one.

  chapter five

  My full class load and shifts at Beans keep me busy, but the real reason I haven’t opened the boxes containing the pieces of my bed frame and desk is because I don’t want to. I’ve set up the box spring and mattress in a corner of the room, dutifully covered them in a fitted sheet and comforter, and now inch out of my room whenever Kellan’s around so he doesn’t see that I have neither the inclination nor the know-how to build things.

  It’s Friday evening, the night of Kellan’s twenty-first birthday, and I have to be at work for five. I met Crosbie on campus earlier and he gave me his house key and promised every guy in the frat would be gone by ten. This suits me just fine, since that’s when I finish work and the last thing I need is to be the lone girl in a house full of horny frat guys on a Friday night.

  At least, not this year.

  Anyway, Crosbie told Kellan his parents were coming to take them out for dinner and they’d head back to the frat afterward to party, so Kellan’s sitting on the couch in a suit and tie, a textbook open on his lap, video game controller in his hand, trying to straddle the line between college kid and dutiful son.

  “Hey,” I say, slipping on my jacket. I close my bedroom door behind me and wish not for the first time that it had a lock. As it stands, I’ll have to trust Crosbie that he’ll keep everyone out. Not that I have anything worth stealing—I’ve got my laptop in my bag, and nothing else I own is valuable. Or built.

  Kellan pauses the game. “Off to work?”

  “As always.”

  “You know, for roommates, we don’t see very much of each other.”

  It’s true. Most of my classes are in the morning so I can work in the afternoons and evenings, and Kellan picked afternoon classes so he could sleep in or run in the morning. If I’m not working I spend my evenings in the library studying—I really did
n’t think “applying myself” would be this difficult, but it is—and when I get home Kellan’s either out or asleep.

  To his credit, he’s been keeping up his end of the bargain about not bringing people home. With the exception of Crosbie, he’s done all his socializing away from the apartment. I pretend I’m doing the same, though I mostly just spend time by myself. Even though I know it has to be killing her, Marcela has not brought up the “roommates with Kellan McVey” thing, and Nate’s too nice to really tease me about it.

  Strangely enough, the person I talk to most…is Crosbie.

  I’m not going to think about that.

  I shoot him a smile. “Happy birthday. Enjoy your dinner.” What I really mean is, “Coat this place in spray bleach after the strippers are gone,” but when he grins back and says thanks, I do nothing more than wave goodbye and head downstairs to grab my bike.

  Beans is bustling when I arrive. From five until eight we’re pretty much run off our feet. We could use more staff, but the place is small enough that there wouldn’t actually be room for more people behind the counter. As it stands Nate, Marcela and I bump hips and elbows and stomp on each other’s feet with such regularity that we no longer bother with “ouches” and “sorrys.”

  When we finally catch a lull we slump against the counter as Nate makes us each an espresso. The silence has more to do with our tiredness than any lingering awkwardness, but Nate changes that when he says, “So. Kellan McVey’s birthday.”

  I glance over at him. “Uh-huh.”

  “Big plans?”

  I gesture to the shop. “This is my plan.”

  “It’s his twenty-first birthday and he’s not doing anything?”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t doing anything. I’m not doing anything. New leaf, remember?”

  Marcela snorts into her espresso but manages to bite her tongue. After all these weeks I imagine she has a lot to say, but she’s been remarkably composed. Or maybe she’s just bottling it up, ready to explode at any moment.

  “I saw this…” Nate starts, tugging his phone from his back pocket and pulling up his Facebook page. Somehow Nate manages to be invited to absolutely everything, though he never goes. I think it’s a combination of him seeming older than us and therefore cooler, but not actually being older than us, and therefore not creepy. Even though I shouldn’t look, both Marcela and I edge closer so we’re standing on either side of Nate and peering down at his phone.

  It’s a group-only invite to a party at Kellan’s apartment—our apartment—to celebrate TWENTY-ONE ROCKIN’ GOOD YEARS. It promises strippers, beer, and oh yeah, strippers. It actually says strippers seven times.

  Marcela and Nate look at me, their expressions accusatory. “What?” I protest. “Look at the contact list—I’m not even invited.”

  “It’s at your home,” Marcela points out.

  “Guys only, unless you’re a stripper.”

  Nate frowns. “So what are you doing tonight?”

  I shrug awkwardly. “Just…going somewhere else.”

  Marcela forgets she’s mad at me for a second. “Where somewhere else?”

  “Just a friend’s house.”

  Her eyes flash. “You were able to make some ‘decent’ new friends?” She uses air quotes around “decent,” even though I never used that word when I broke things off.

  “I didn’t say I needed ‘decent’ friends, I said I needed different friends.”

  “Better friends.”

  I try to take a calming breath. “Friends who don’t like to party. Who didn’t hide in backseats while I got arrested.”

  She recoils slightly, and I see the flash of pain on her face before it smoothes back into that perfect, angry mask. “You shouldn’t have hidden behind a fucking compost bin.”

  “No kidding!”

  “Who’s this ‘friend?’”

  “It’s no one.”

  “Is it Kellan McVey?”

  “No!”

  Her eyes narrow. “It’s Crosbie Lucas.”

  “No,” I say too quickly. “It isn’t.”

  “Are you fucking him?”

  “Keep your voices down!” Nate finally snaps.

  “Who my friends are is none of your business.”

  “It’s hard to make ‘nobody’ my business,” Marcela retorts.

  “Then don’t.”

  “Girls—” Nate tries to interject.

  “I’m going to do inventory,” Marcela says, whirling on a black leather heel and stomping into the kitchen.

  I feel hot and dizzy with anger, the espresso forgotten in my hand. I set it on the counter with a clatter and try to compose myself.

  “I’m sorry,” Nate says after a moment. “I just thought—”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say stiffly. A customer has bravely approached the register and orders a skim latte. I plaster on a smile as I make the drink and slide it over.

  “Are you okay?” Nate asks, lingering uncomfortably.

  “Just fine.”

  “I don’t mean the fight. I mean, living there. And whatever you’re doing tonight.”

  “Everything’s fine.” But the words are less than convincing when I have to blink back tears afterward.

  * * *

  I wake up confused and disoriented. Warm orange light filters through the window, and when I reach for my phone to check the time, it’s sitting on a desk, not an overturned milk crate.

  Too many mornings last year I woke up much the same way, but this time when I warily turn my head to look beside me, the strange bed is empty.

  Crosbie Lucas’s bed.

  True to his word, the house was empty when I arrived last night, and I’d dragged myself up the stairs, swapped out my work clothes for pajamas, and crawled right into bed. He’d washed the sheets as promised, and they’re soft and lemony, the mattress the right balance between firm and giving.

  Getting comfortable in Crosbie Lucas’s bed is not a thing I am going to do. If the rumors are to be believed, a lot of girls have been in here, but very few have been invited back. And he’s never had a girlfriend. He’s committed to school and track, and while he makes time for fun, it’s never serious. That’s totally fine, it’s just not a road I’m about to go down. Not that that’s an option, anyway.

  I change into jeans and a T-shirt, hurry across the hall to splash water on my face and brush my teeth, put on some mascara and lip gloss, then gather my things. I hesitate at the top of the stairs, listening for voices, but the house is still silent at this hour. I tiptoe down the steps as fast as I can, heart pounding when I make it outside without being spotted. The combination of a hastily packed overnight bag and my normally riotous hair has the two other girls creeping out of frat houses in last night’s party clothes nodding at me as though we’re partners in crime. I nod back even as I cringe inwardly. Because last year, that was me. A bunch of times.

  I start to bike home, then detour, pretty sure whatever mess they made last night is still on full display. Instead I turn around and bike into town, parking my bike in front of a small café and heading inside to order an omelet. The combination of a good night’s sleep and a full load of self pity has made me hungry. I pull out my laptop and bury myself in an English Lit assignment, coming up for air only when the server asks if I want a fourth cup of coffee. It’s nearly noon and I promised myself I’d tackle building the desk and bed frame today. I turn down the coffee. It’s time to face whatever horrors await me at the apartment.

  I settle the bill and bike home, the late summer air crisp and clean. Burnham’s campus is normally deserted on weekend mornings, the students sleeping off last night’s overindulgence, and I pass just a handful of people as I wind my way along leafy side streets.

  The apartment is quiet when I arrive, chaining my bike to the handrail along the steps before trudging up and sliding my key in the lock. The front entrance is tidy, Kellan’s abundance of running shoes lined up neatly along one wall, my two pairs on the other. I add my boot
s to the group and climb the steps to the living room, expecting to find a dozen strangers sleeping on the floor, but there’s only Crosbie, a dust rag in one hand, wiping down the coffee table.

  “Hey,” I say. No response. I realize he’s got earbuds in and say it again, louder. Still nothing. I walk up and tap him on the shoulder. He leaps up and spins around so quickly we both yelp and stumble back. I catch myself on the entertainment console, shoulder blade smacking the TV, and he grabs the couch for balance.

  “Fuck, Nora!” he exclaims, laughing, embarrassed, as he turns off the mp3 player and sticks it in his pocket. He’s wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned over a wife beater. His feet are bare, short hair tousled, cheeks pink from the near heart attack. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” I try not to laugh, but one sneaks out. “I said hi.”

  He pinches his brow. “I didn’t hear you.”

  I glance around the empty space. Both bedroom doors are closed. “Is everyone gone?”

  “Yeah. They left a little while ago.”

  “How was the party?”

  “Pretty epic.”

  I turn slowly to take in the apartment. With the exception of two full trash bags waiting at the top of the stairs, a recycling bin overflowing with bottles, and a blown up photo of Pamela Anderson from one of her Playboy spreads taped to the wall, the place looks the same as usual. And it smells like Lysol.

  “What’d you do to get stuck with cleaning duty?”

  He shrugs. “Luck of the draw.” Then he spots Pam. “Shit.” He hurries to the wall and yanks down the life-size picture.

  “Were you responsible for the décor, too?”

  He blushes. “Sorta.”

  I pass him his keys. “Thanks. I took pictures of all your things and posted them on eBay.”

  “That’s great. And I kept my promise—nobody went into your room but me and a couple of strippers.” I glare at him and he smiles sweetly. “You’re going to need some new sheets.”

  I head for my door. “I know you’re kidding, but I’m still going to check.” I take a breath and turn the knob. The room is exactly how I left it.

  “About this.”