Anna and I stare at him in concern, but St. Clair easily takes over again. “Yes, if you ladies no longer require our services, I believe we’re off.” Cricket is already halfway to the door. My heart screams in surprised agony.
He halts. It’s as if he’s physically stopped by something we can’t see. “Will you be here later?” he asks me. “When the movie gets out?”
My throat dries. “I should be here.”
He bites his bottom lip. And then they’re gone.
“He’s so into you,” Anna says.
I rearrange a stack of quarters and try to calm my thumping chest. What just happened? “Cricket’s a nice guy. He’s always been like that.”
“Then he’s always been into you.”
Yes. He has.
Anna whisks out the glass cleaner and sprays a smudge that St. Clair left behind on the window. Her smile fades as she grows deeper in thought. “What’s the matter?” I ask. I’m desperate for a topic change.
“Me? Nothing, I’m fine.”
“No way,” I say. “It’s your turn. Spill it.”
“It’s . . . my family is coming to visit.” She sets down the cleaner, but her hand tightens on the nozzle. “They met Étienne at our graduation last year, and they liked him, but my mom is pretty freaked out by how fast we’re moving. This visit could be so uncomfortable.”
I pry the cleaner away from her. “Do you think you’re moving too fast?”
Anna loosens and smiles again, love-struck. “Definitely not.”
“Then you’ll be fine.” I nudge her. “Besides, everyone loves your boyfriend. Maybe your mom has just forgotten how gosh darn charming he is.”
She laughs. Another patron comes to my window, and I print his ticket. When he leaves, Anna turns back to me and asks, “What about you? How are things with Max these days?”
I’m struck by a terrible realization. “Oh, no. You wanted to meet him. We left!”
“You had a bad night.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’s okay, I swear. Everyone makes mistakes.” Anna stands and grabs her work keys. “The important thing is to not make the same mistake twice.”
My guilt deepens. “I’m sorry about last week. When I came back from dinner late.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I was thinking about.”
“Then what?”
Anna looks at me carefully. “Sometimes a mistake isn’t a what. It’s a who.”
And she goes to rip tickets down the hall, leaving me with thoughts as jumbled as ever. Does she mean Max? Or Cricket? An hour later, Franko wanders in. He’s about thirty, and his hair is unevenly shorn. Like, he has random bald spots.
“Heeeeeey, Lola. Have you seen the thing?”
“What thing?”
“You know . . . the thing with . . . our schedules on it and stuff?”
“You mean our schedule?”
“Yeah. Have you seen it?”