Authors: Julianna Keyes
Nothing
about enduring a forty-five minute sex talk—with Dean Ripley’s ninety-year-old
secretary called in to “witness” the lecture—is fun. I stop reliving that
horror, however, the moment I hurry into Beans for my evening shift and feel
like I’ve walked right into a freezer.
I toss my
coat into the storage closet and pull on an apron over my prim blue dress, but
the second I step foot behind the counter I can almost see my breath fog in the
air. “What the…?” I look around, perplexed. It doesn’t take long to find the
source: the shop’s large front window is missing, several sheets of wood
resting against the wall. Despite the damage and the cold, the business is
still open, patrons sitting at tables with jackets on, steaming cups in hand.
When people want coffee, they want coffee.
“What’s
going on?” I exclaim when Nate hustles through the front door, coat zipped to
his chin, wool hat tugged low over his ears.
“Freak
accident. They had a couple of guys working on the power lines out front when
one of their ladders fell over and smashed through the window.”
“Was
anybody hurt?”
“Nope. It
was just Marcela and I at the time, and we were both in the back.”
“That’s
lucky.”
“Yeah.”
But his face is grim and his jaw is set, and Nate’s just not a guy who really
looks angry a lot. It’s worrisome.
“Isn’t
it?” I try. “I mean, despite the damage.”
He sighs.
“It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”
“Where’s
Marcela?”
“I sent
her to the hardware store to pick up a couple of space heaters.”
I glance
around. The ladder’s gone and the glass has already been swept up. “How long
ago did this happen?”
“Almost
two hours.”
“And
she’s still gone?”
A curt
nod.
“Did you
look for her?”
“I don’t
need to look for her.”
I frown.
“Are you sure? The hardware store is three blocks down. I know Marcela likes to
shop, but two hours is a lot, even for her.”
Nate
sighs and runs a hand over his head, knocking the hat askew. “We had
a…disagreement.”
“About
what?”
“I’m
dating someone.”
I do a
double-take. He could have admitted to smashing out the window in a drug-fueled
rage and I wouldn’t have been so surprised. “Come again?”
“You
heard me.”
“You—I—But—Who?”
“Thanks,
Nora. That’s really great.”
“Well,
I’m sorry, I’m just surprised. I thought you…”
The look
he gives me warns me not to say “loved Marcela,” so I bite my tongue. “I
don’t,” he says tersely. “Not anymore. I’m dating Celestia, and it’s going
well. And how Marcela feels about it doesn’t factor in.”
“Celestia?”
“Yeah.
You know her, actually. She comes in from time to time. Blond hair, really
pretty…fur coat.” He mumbles the last words into the crook of his arm,
pretending to fix his hat.
I gape.
“Did you just say
fur coat
?”
He clears
his throat. “Maybe?”
“As in
mink?”
“I don’t
know what animal it is.”
“You’re
dating Mink Coat.”
“I’m not
sure it’s mink.”
“No
wonder Marcela’s annoyed! Her drink orders are dreadful.”
“They’re…specific.”
“She
wears mink year-round!”
“What’s
wrong with—Okay, fine. The fur’s a little odd, but on days like today, you have
to admit, it’s perfect.”
I roll my
eyes. “Okay, Nate. You got me.”
He smiles
a little. “Sometimes you have to accept what’s right in front of you.” He
gestures to the window. “And what’s not.”
“I really
don’t think that analogy works.”
At least,
it doesn’t, until Marcela strides up, a boxed space heater tucked under each
arm. She shoulders her way through the front door and dumps the heaters on the
counter. “Voila,” she says without stopping. We watch her disappear into the
kitchen in a rush of particularly frosty air.
We’re
quiet for a moment. “Wow,” I say finally.
“Yeah.”
“What’d
she say when you told her?”
He blows
out a breath. “I didn’t exactly ‘tell’ her. We bumped into her last night when
we were walking home from dinner and she looked startled, but not angry. Then
when she came in this morning I tried to tell her I’d been seeing Celestia for
the past month—”
“
Month?
”
“And she
just froze me out.” A pause. “That was before the window broke.”
“Life
imitating art.”
“Or just
shitty luck mirroring shitty luck.”
“Well,
for what it’s worth, if you like Mink Coat, I’m happy for you.”
“I like
Celestia, I do not like mink coats.”
“It’s too
cold for mink, anyway. Fox, maybe.”
He glares
at me and tries not to laugh. “Go do some work. I have to call these glass guys
and ask what’s taking so long.”
I head
into the back and find Marcela smearing frosting on a tray of cooled cinnamon
buns. “Smells good.”
“They’re
warm, that’s all that matters.”
“Fair
enough.” Because of the ovens and the sanitizer, the kitchen is always hotter
than the front. Normally we complain about it, but today it’s a blessing. When
Marcela doesn’t say anything else I add, “Nate told me about Celestia.”
She
snorts. “Me too.”
“And
you’re…angry?”
“That
she’s dating him to get half-price drinks? Of course I’m bothered.”
I watch
her massacre a cinnamon bun in the name of caring. “You look more than a little
bothered.”
She sighs
and tosses down the spatula. “I was just surprised.”
“So was
I.” I watch her closely. “Are you jealous?”
“What?
No! Look, you should be bothered, too. She’s going to come in here even more
now, with her fur coats and her ridiculous drink orders. We’re all affected.”
“It’s
not—”
She holds
up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s not important. Tell
me something good.”
I rack my brain, filtering past the
Dean-Ripley-gave-me-a-sex-talk horror until I come to something I know she’ll
like. “I got invited to the Alpha Sigma Phi Halloween party.”
Her eyes
light up. “You’re kidding!”
“It’s
true.”
“We have
to go. I’ve been trying to think of ways to get in, but my best guess was
tracking down that army man you hooked up with, except I don’t think we ever
saw his face when it wasn’t painted green.”
I groan.
“Don’t remind me.”
“Right.
Sorry. Now let’s talk about our costumes. Slutty cat? Slutty aliens? Slutty
nurses? No, what am I saying? We’re modern women. Slutty doctors!”
I laugh
too. “No slutty anything. How about you go and tell me about it later?”
She gasps
in offense. “Absolutely not. We’re a team. Where you go, I go— Actually, never mind.
You spend a lot of time at the library. But where I say we’ll go, we go. And
we’re going to this party. We can be the Black Swan and…the white one.”
“What?”
“Or the
two broke girls from TV.”
I gesture
to my apron. “Perfect. I won’t need to change.”
She claps
her hands, bits of cream cheese frosting flying from the tips of her fingers.
“Thelma and Louise!”
“We—”
But she’s
on a roll. “It’s perfect. They’re classic, they’re best friends, they’re
gorgeous, and—”
“They die
at the end?”
“And
Thelma bangs Brad Pitt. In the name of friendship, you can be Thelma. I think
you could use a Brad Pitt.”
“You
realize he robs her, right?”
“Your
belongings fit in a milk crate. You’re safe.”
“I don’t think—”
She
presses her frosted fingers over my lips. “You need to stop thinking and take
the night off. Halloween is the Saturday after midterms. You can bury your nose
in a book until then, but on October thirty-first, you’re mine. And we’re
hitting the road.”
“They
drive off a cliff.”
She winks
at me. “That’s the spirit.”
* * *
The
sensible part of my brain tells me to steer clear of all Alpha Sigma Phi
parties, but when Nate closes shop early so the window guys can do their job, I
detour one block over to Duds, Burnham’s only second-store. I can’t stop thinking
about driving off a cliff, so to speak. It’s been a long time since I’ve
“driven” anywhere with anyone, and though I have good reason for hunkering down
to atone for last year’s mistakes, it hasn’t exactly been easy. Or interesting.
Or satisfying.
It’s on
exactly that unsatisfying note that I step into the musty-smelling store and
bump into Kellan. The front row is lined with all manner of Halloween costumes
and paraphernalia, and Kellan is, for some reason, pushing a shopping cart.
“Nora!”
he exclaims. “I thought you were working.”
“I was.
We closed up early, so I figured I’d come get some costume inspiration.”
His face
lights up. “Me too. Clark Kent needs a good suit, and where better to find one
than Duds?”
“Don’t
you already own a suit?”
“Yeah,
but I don’t want to get…bodily fluids on it.”
“Thank
you for that imagery.”
“Are you
going as Lois Lane, then? Because this is perfect. We can coordinate our
outfits. My tie, your shoes—”
“I’m not
going as Lois.”
His face
falls, then immediately lights up when he spots a French maid outfit, still in
its vacuum-sealed bag. “Slutty maid?” he tries, holding it up.
“No
slutty anything.”
“Who’s
slutty? I’m interested.” Crosbie skids onto the scene, sneakers squeaking
across the tiled floor. Duds is a big store for Burnham, full of countless
racks of clothing and walls lined with shelves of shoes and housewares. It’s
mostly empty at this time of day, so the noise attracts nothing more than a
single disapproving stare from an employee hanging up jackets nearby.
Kellan
sighs and replaces the French maid outfit. “Not Nora.”
Crosbie
scoffs. “Obviously. I thought we were talking about someone cool.”
I
shoulder my way past the duo. “This has been fun.”
“Aw,”
Kellan calls to my back. “Come on, Nora. Now that you’re here you can help me
choose a costume.”
“Your
costume is just a suit.”
“But when
I model for Crosbie he tells me I’m fat.”
Crosbie
shrugs. “You are.”
Kellan
socks him in the shoulder. “Dick. I’m going to look at ties. I’ll let you know
when I’m ready to begin modeling.”
“Remember
blue is slimming!”
Kellan
flips him off and wanders away, leaving Crosbie and I next to the costume
display. For a second we just stare at each other, Crosbie rubbing his newly
injured shoulder, me trying to come up with something to say that doesn’t
reveal just how much I noticed his absence these past few weeks. Or how hot he
looks. His hair is damp, like he’d just taken a shower, and he’s wearing jeans
and a puffy black jacket that makes his brown eyes look darker than usual as
they take me in.
“What’s
it going to be?” he finally asks.
“Pardon
me?”
“Your
costume. What is it?” He nods at the options. “Witch? Scarecrow? Viking?”
“Ah,
Thelma.”
“Who?”
“Thelma.
From
Thelma & Louise
? Marcela’s going to be Louise.”
“Which
one was Thelma, Geena Davis or Susan Sarandon?”
“Geena
Davis. I came to shop for some high-waisted jeans and sunglasses.”
He looks
me over. “I can see it.”
“What
about you? Browsing for a cape? Maybe some new tights?”
“I’ve
already got my Superman costume at home. I sleep in it every night.”
“I don’t
doubt it.” I make my way over to the women’s clothing and Crosbie comes with
me, thumbing through the long rack of jeans for a suitably tight, acid-washed
pair. After a minute I get warm and unzip my coat, realizing my mistake the
second Crosbie’s eyes lock on my chest, then slide up to the prim Peter Pan
collar of my dress.
His brows
tug together and he gestures at me with one finger. “Let’s talk about this,” he
says. “Did you have a big date today? Or perhaps a…very pleasant date?”
I smile
thinly, remembering the afternoon’s unpleasantness. “I had a meeting
with…someone.”