Crosby studies her schedule, and her next class is by the quad. I walk with her, pointing out the different buildings to help her get acquainted with the layout of the U. Heads turn as we walk by arm in arm, and I slowly drop hers because I’m probably being way too obvious. We both looked disheveled in a way that screams hookup. We’ve got to be more careful if this is going to work. At this juncture, everything feels like a roadblock. The Dashens, Asa, especially. Crosby’s dad’s illness isn’t going away. I’ll lose my job if we get caught, and I can’t risk that until Asa’s done with his tour. Trading teaching for real estate sometimes feels like fighting fire with fire. I just want something stable. I want to settle down. I want to be with Crosby—completely and openly.
“Oh my God, what are we going to tell my parents?” Crosby asks, like she’s reading my mind.
“Let me deal with it. I don’t want to give your parents any more stress than they already have.”
Crosby stops and looks up at me, her honeyed eyes full of gratitude. I made my bed, so I’ll lie in it. No matter how difficult it is to come clean, I’ve made my choice. There’s nobody but Crosby for me. She’s the be-all, end-all of my world.
Crosby wraps her arms around me, and I pull her into my chest for a hug. She’s piled her strawberry-blond hair on top of her head in a bun. Her lips are still swollen, and her cheeks and chest remain pink from the orgasms.
“I’m a mess.”
“You look perfect.”
“You’re delusional, Weston.” She looks at me over her shoulder as she joins the masses of students entering the class. The laces of her boots are undone, and her sweater is tied haphazardly around her waist. I will throw myself at that girl’s feet, and I will move mountains to make her happy if that’s what it takes.
9
Crosby
After classes, I fall asleep as soon as I get home. The jet lag combined with Professor Abernathy have me left me absolutely exhausted. I wake up around six, wash my face, and go downstairs. My mom is in the kitchen fixing soup, and the oven is warm with home-baked bread.
“Mom, you should have woken me up. I want to cook for your guys, or at least help out as much as possible.” I kiss her cheek and stir the big pot of soup on the stove.
“We’d love to have you cook, dear. Maybe some recipes you learned in Milan.” She side-hugs me and then grabs potholders to take her loaves out of the oven. “I invited Weston over for dinner. I know he’d love to see you.
“Weston? What time?”
“He should be here any second,” Mom says. She looks confused at my alarm.
“Be right back,” I tell her. I give her a quick peck on the cheek. I need to at least run a brush through my hair and get out of this wrinkled dress that will only remind us both of one thing. A rumpled dress that was a casualty of our pent-up passion. I scramble into jeans and a sweater, pulling my hair into a quick ponytail. In my bathroom, I swipe mascara over my lashes and take in my flushed cheeks. I guess I’ll wear a permanent blush forever now because of how Weston makes me feel.
He arrives fifteen minutes later and stays outside to finish shoveling the snow off the bottom steps. I’m perched on Dad’s hospital bed, dealing us another hand of gin. Dad’s in a cheery mood.
“You’re feeling good today, Daddy?” I ask him. He just beat me twice in a row.
“Because you’re home, pumpkin. It’s been rough without you and Asa. Harder on your mother than me. Thank God for Weston because, without him, we would have been up the creek.”
We both look out the window at West who’s shoveling diligently. He looks like a young, sexy Keanu Reeves, with shorter hair and glasses. The sexy professor with a mean arm for lifting shovelfuls of heavy snow.
“I second that. Thank God for Weston. But you know I would have come home, Dad. All you had to do was ask.”
“Dinner’s on!” Mom calls from the kitchen.
Weston walks in without knocking and stomps the snow off his boots on the mat.
“Something smells good,” he says as my mother grabs his face in her hands and kisses him on the cheek.
“Hey, Mr. Dashen. Hey, Crosby.”
“Hey,” I squeak out. My parents look at us like we’re crazy. Normally, I’d charge into his arms, and Weston would give me a bear hug, swing me around, and then proceed to poke me in the ribs until I screamed for mercy. Now, he shifts his feet, and I stare at my cards.
Our guilt and awkward exchange are an elephant in the room.