I hesitate.
And then I take it.
And then we’re so close that I smell him. I smell him.
His scent is clean like a bar of soap, but with a sweet hint of mechanical oil. We don’t speak as he leads me across the street to the bus stop. I press against him. Just a little. His other arm jumps, and he lowers it. But then he raises it again, slowly, and his hand comes to rest on top of mine. It scorches. The heat carries a message: I care about you. I want to be connected to you. Don’t let go.
But then . . . he does.
He sits me on the bus stop’s fold-down seats, and he lets go, and he won’t look at me. We wait in agitated silence. The distance between us grows with each passing minute. Will he take my arm again, or will I have to take his? I steal a glance, but, of course, I can’t see his expression. Our bus exhales against the curb, and the door whooshes open.
Cricket reaches for me.
I look at the yellow glow in the sky that can only be the moon. Thank you.
We climb aboard, and before I can find my Muni pass, he’s paid for my ticket. The bus is empty. It rumbles forward, not waiting for us to sit, and he grabs me tighter. I don’t need to hold on to him, but I do anyway, with both hands. We lower ourselves into a seat. Together. I’m clutching his shirt, and his heart is pounding like a drum.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He peels off my hands and turns toward the aisle. “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is,” he whispers back.
And I feel like the world’s biggest jerk.
“Right.” I sink as far away from him as possible. “Sorry. No.”
Max’s ghost takes a seat between us. It spreads out its legs territorially. The bus is cold, and the ride to the station is short. This time, I have to take his arm. He leads me robotically. Our trip from Van Ness to the Castro is bleak. The train rocks back and forth through the dark tunnels, and my humiliation grows bigger and bigger with each forced jostle against his shoulder. I need out. NOW. The doors open, and I race through the station and out the turnstile. He’s on my heels. I don’t need him.
I don’t need him, I don’t need him, I don’t need him.
But I trip on the sidewalk again, and his arm is around my waist, and when I pull from his grasp, he only tightens it. There’s a silent struggle between us as I try to wriggle my way out. “For a skinny guy, your arms are like a steel trap,” I hiss.
Cricket bursts into laughter. His grip loosens, and I break away, stumbling forward.
“Oh, come on, Lola.” He’s still laughing. “Let me help you.”
“I’m never going anywhere again without a backup vision plan.”
“I should hope not.”
“And I’m only accepting your help because I don’t want to run into something and accidentally rip this glorious polyester uniform.”
“Understood.”
“And none of this has changed anything between us.” My voice shakes.
“Also understood,” he says softly.
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
Neither of us moves. He’s leaving it up to me. I tentatively reach for him again. He extends his arm, and I take it. The gesture of one friend helping another. There’s nothing more, because as long as there’s Max, there can’t be anything more. And I love Max.
So that’s that.
“So,” Cricket says, one quiet block later. “Tell me about this famous dress.”
“What dress?”
“The one you’re making the stays for. It sounds important.”