Page 41 of For Crosby

While Aunt Pat continued discussing Crosby and his parents like she knew them, I grabbed my phone from beside me on my chair and checked the hockey schedule. The team didn’t have a game until January twelfth. I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. Was he alone on campus? Alone on the holiday? Alone until January twelfth?

That night, after everyone left, I lay in bed scrolling through news stories about Crosby’s parents. It was as Aunt Pat had said. Millions of dollars embezzled. Millions of dollars owed. Pictures of Crosby’s parents in the courtroom accompanied most of the articles. His mother was a beautiful woman. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair showed sophistication, but her eyes showed regret and pain. His father was an older version of Crosby. Same dark hair. Same intense blue eyes. But his dad’s eyes told stories of deceit—not regret for stealing from innocent people or for letting down his only son.

I wondered how Crosby felt about his parents now. Did he love the people who brought him into this world or despise the greedy people they’d become—the ones who destroyed his family and the life he’d been brought up in?

I moved on from the stories about his parents and searched social media. Crosby had no accounts. No social media presence at all. Had he been forced to shut down his accounts after everything happened or was he just not into stuff like that? I guess I didn’t know him well enough to know the answer.

My search gave way to a miserable night of tossing and turning. I was unable to sleep as thoughts of Crosby alone on the holiday consumed my mind. He had no one, and regardless of our differences, that was not okay with me.

* * *

I awoke the day after Christmas, exhausted from not having slept for more than two hours. I stumbled out of bed and showered. Guilty thoughts plagued my mind. My last conversation with Crosby sat at the forefront of my brain, and my constant lack of tolerance for him turned my stomach. I was better than that.

After my shower, I dropped down onto a stool at the kitchen island where my mom cooked breakfast and my dad read the newspaper. “Morning.”

My dad glanced over the top of his newspaper at me. “Morning.”

My mom placed a glass of orange juice down in front of me. “Why are you already showered and dressed?”

I wrapped my hands around my glass but didn’t drink it. “Well…”

My dad folded his newspaper in front of him, ready for whatever I planned to say.

“You’ve always taught me to never have regrets,” I began.

“I feel like I might need to sit down for this,” my mom said as she abandoned the food and sat down beside me.

I spent the next twenty minutes explaining what had happened on campus since the night I stumbled upon Crosby tied to the tree. My parents agreed—as I knew they would—that the only way to feel right about something unsettling was to do something about it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sabrina

I knew I was about to do something completely insane because I didn’t call Finlay, and I didn’t stop driving the entire six hours. I feared if I stopped, I would’ve talked myself out of it.

When I pulled onto campus with my gas tank teetering on empty, it was a ghost town. No one walked on the paths. No cars were parked in front of buildings or occupied the deserted lots. I pulled in front of the dorm behind mine and switched off my ignition.

What the hell was I doing?

I dropped my forehead onto the steering wheel and closed my eyes. What if he wasn’t there? What if he had a girl in there? What if I was making the biggest mistake of my life?

It had been a long trip. I was tired and cranky. Maybe having Trish turn on me really did a number on my sanity. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight at all. I’d had six hours to consider my actions, but I’d drowned out my thoughts with loud music and junk food during my trip.

I guess I knew in my heart, it was the right thing to do. It was normal to help someone in need. Even if I did hate that person most of the time.

A loud bang on my window jarred me upright, sending my heart walloping. I turned slowly. Crosby stood outside on the sidewalk staring in at me. I wasn’t ready to see him yet. I had no idea what I even planned to say.

Exhaling a deep breath, I pushed open the door. Crosby took a couple steps back as I stepped onto the sidewalk, stretching my legs for the first time in hours.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, a tinge of anger in his voice.

“What am I doing here?” I looked around the empty streets and sidewalks. “Care to tell me what you’re doing on this deserted campus?”

“It’s not deserted. Me and the exchange students are doing just fine.”

I shook my head, wanting to laugh but feeling sorry for him at the same time. His parents were in jail. He had no one. It wasn’t funny. It was unfortunate.

He crossed his arms, flashing those colorful tattoos right in my face. For the first time, I noticed a bright green four-leafed clover on his left inner forearm. Swirls of black wrapped around both arms and what looked like hockey pucks shaded in the bare areas connecting everything together. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” he said.

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