Free Undecided by Julianna Keyes Page A

and making me promise not to jump anymore.
Otherwise, he’s not really around all that often. He’s been hanging out at
Alpha Sigma Phi, so Crosbie doesn’t have a reason to turn up, either. I try to
pretend I don’t notice, but I do.
    “Earth to
Nora. This is Earth, asking Nora to report to home base.”
    “You’re a
huge loser.”
    Nate
laughs, unoffended. It’s Tuesday evening, ten days since the bed hopping
debacle, and we’re at the Burnham library near the center of campus. We have
Intro to French together, and have to put together a cheesy dialogue about a
French person teaching an English speaker how to order a cup of coffee.
    “How’s
this for a first line?” Nate asks. “ Bonjour .”
    “ Bonjour? We’ve been here for thirty minutes and you came up with one word?”
    “That
word says a lot!”
    “It says
you’re going to fail.”
    He
snorts. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been doodling ‘Mrs. Kellan McVey’ all over
the assignment worksheet.”
    I gasp.
“I have not! I’m brainstorming.”
    “Yeah?
What’d you come up with?”
    “ Je
veux boire le café .” I want to drink coffee. I think.
    “What
does that mean?”
    “Are you
even listening to the CDs?” I’ve been putting in close to two hours a week, and
I’m pretty sure I’d be screwed if I unexpectedly wound up in France. Or Québec.
    “No.”
Nate shakes his head. “What do they say?”
    I laugh
and toss my pen across the table. It bounces off his shoulder and he snickers
and snatches it up. We’re on the fourth floor, which is relatively quiet at
eight o’clock at night, so there’s no one to glare or shush us. It’s this very
silence that makes the low male chuckle filtering through the bookshelves loud
enough to jolt us in our seats.
    “Whaaaat?” Nate mouths, looking delighted.
    I’m about
to tell him it’s probably nothing when a female voice joins in the laughter,
ending abruptly on a heated moan.
    How
annoying.
    I’m
trying to study.
    I’m
trying to concentrate.
    I’m
trying not to be terribly jealous.
    I mean, I
went from high school where I had zero relationships, to college, where the
only way I met guys was when Marcela and I were partying. The combination of a
high volume of alcohol, lowered inhibitions, and Marcela’s expert wingwoman
skills led to a lot of introductions—and a few that went beyond mere
introducing.
    But I
haven’t been drunk since the night I got arrested, and I haven’t had sex since
then either, which puts me firmly at the four-month mark of my sexual hiatus
and I have to say…I miss it. Especially when every time I see Kellan he’s
shirtless or sweaty or eating or playing video games—whatever the guy does,
it’s sexy. What’s worse, of course, is knowing that every time I close my eyes,
the guy I picture leaning in to kiss me isn’t Kellan at all.
    I know
I’m lonely. And with the exception of Nate, who’s among the legions of men
lusting after Marcela, Crosbie’s the only guy I’ve really talked to or hung out
with in eons. And as weird as it is, I’ve kind of missed him this past week.
I’d gotten used to coming home from work and finding him camped out on the
couch, eyes glazed as he blows up cars and robs banks with Kellan, tearing his
gaze away long enough to spare a smile, switching that intense focus from the
TV to me, just for a second. Which is all it takes to kick my hormones into
gear and wish he’d do so much more.
    The moans
are increasing, mostly from the female half of the equation, and they’re
muffled now, like he’s covering her mouth. Nate and I are tucked back in the
corner near the balcony, so unless they’d scoped out the floor or spotted us
from the ground level, they have every reason to think they’re alone.
    Nate
scribbles something on a piece of paper. Ten bucks says it’s Kellan and a
blonde.
    That’s kind of like putting your
money on Meryl Streep being nominated for an Oscar.
    He writes
again. Go look.
    I swallow
a laugh. No.