“Sunday.” Max lifts a dark brow. “Brunch. Right.” He drops my hand and puts his own in his pockets. “So are you serious about that dance?”
I’m startled. I’ve talked about my dress a hundred times before. I wipe the tears from my cheeks, wishing I had something other than my fingers. “What?”
“Lola. I’m twenty-two.” Max reacts quickly to my crushed expression. He reaches for both of my hands this time, and he draws me into and against his body. “But if it makes you happy, I’ll do it. If I can survive these stupid meals, I can survive one stupid dance.”
I hate that it sounds like a punishment.
Chapter seventeen
Ta-da!” St. Clair bursts into the lobby with the flourish of a magician. He’s showing off for Anna as he always does. It’s Thursday, and he isn’t scheduled to work, but of course he’s here anyway. Though tonight is different.
He’s brought someone.
Here’s the thing about Cricket Bell. You can’t NOT notice him when he walks into a room. The first thing that registers is his height, but it’s quickly followed by recognition of his energy. He moves gracefully like his sister, but with an enthusiasm he can’t quite seem to control—the constantly moving body, hands, feet. He’s been subdued the last few times I’ve seen him, but he’s fully revived now.
“Anna,” St. Clair says. “This is Cricket.”
Cricket dwarfs St. Clair. They look like Rocky and Bullwinkle, and the comfortable manner between them makes it appear they’ve been friends just as long. I suppose when one overly kind person and one overly outgoing person become friends, it’s easy like that.
Anna smiles. “We keep missing each other in the dorm. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” Cricket says. “I’ve heard nothing but good things. In fact, if I weren’t standing next to your boyfriend, I’d be tempted to ask you out myself.”
She blushes, and St. Clair bounds inside the box office and wrestles her into a hug. “Miiiiiiiiine!” he says. The couple buying tickets from me eyes him warily.
“Cut it out .” Anna pushes him off, laughing. “You’ll get fired. And then I’ll have to support your sorry arse for the rest of our lives.”
The rest of their lives.
Why does this always make me uneasy? I’m not bothered that they’re happy, am I? He hops into his usual sitting position on the counter, and they’re already laughing about something else. Cricket waits on the other side of the glass, looking amused. I hand the couple their change. “So . . . what are you doing in the city on a weekday?” I ask him.
“I ran into St. Clair an hour ago, and he talked me into coming along. He said we’d see a movie,” he adds loudly.
“RIGHT,” St. Clair says. “That moving-pictures thing. Let’s do it.” But he returns to his conversation with Anna.
Cricket and I exchange smiles. “Come in.” I nod at the box-office door. A man in a fuzzy chartreuse sweater approaches my window, but even that’s not enough to distract me from watching Cricket as he moves toward the door. Those long, easy strides. My chest swells with both heartache and heartbreak. He enters, and I jerk away my gaze.
“Enjoy the show,” I tell the sweater man. Cricket waits behind me while I print tickets for two more people. It’s impossible to concentrate with him standing there. The lobby empties again, and he takes the chair beside me. His hems rise and reveal his socks. Blue and purple stripes. On his left hand is a list: CH 12, SHAMPOO, BOX.
“How are you?” he asks. It’s not a casual question.
I remove my glasses for a moment to rub my tired eyes. “Surviving.”
“But she won’t be there for much longer.” He fidgets with his watch. “Will she?”
“Her credit is shot, and she’s failed the background check for every potential apartment.”
He grimaces. “In other words, she’s not leaving tomorrow.”
“The break-in charges from when she tried to get back inside her apartment aren’t helping either.” I cross my arms. “She wants Nathan to sue to have the charges against her dropped, but he won’t. Not when she was in the wrong.”
Cricket’s frown deepens, and I realize that he doesn’t know about Norah’s recent arrest. I fill him in, because . . . he already knows everything else.
“I’m sorry.” His voice turns to anguish. “Is there anything I can do to help?” There’s a certain restraint in his muscles as he struggles to keep from reaching out to me.
“What’s box?” I blurt.
He’s thrown. “What?”