“But Alexander was still a smart man. He was still an inventor. You get that much honestly. Life isn’t about what you get, it’s about what you DO with what you get.”
“I build things that have no use.” His tone is flat. “It’s just as bad. I should be creating something that makes a difference, something to . . . make up for the past.”
I’m getting angry. “What do you think would happen if I believed genetics played that kind of role in my life? If I believed that because my birth parents made certain decisions, it meant that my life, my dreams were forfeit, too? Do you know what that would do to me? Do you have any idea what it HAS done to me?”
Cricket is devastated. “I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry—”
“You should be. You have a gift, and you’re doubting it.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “You can’t let that kind of shame dictate who you are.You aren’t your name.Your decisions are your own.”
He stares at me.
I return the stare, and my senses surge. The energy between us ricochets so fiercely that it scares me.
I break our gaze.
We climb the rest of the way to the top, and the entire city stretches before us. The jutting houses, the golden hills, the highrises, the glittering bay. It’s stunning. We sit on an empty slab of asphalt overlooking the view. It’s someone’s driveway, but no one will see us. The eucalyptus tree dangling above us releases its soothing fragrance into the night air.
Cricket inhales, long and slow. He sighs his exhale. “I’ve missed that. Eucalyptus always reminds me of home.”
And I fill with warmth because, even with his second life in Berkeley, he still thinks of this as home. “You know,” I say. “When I was little, my parents were embarrassed by the way I dressed.”
“Really? That’s surprising.”
“They were terrified that people would think THEY were dressing me like that. That THE GAYS were corrupting me with false eyelashes and glitter.”
He laughs.
“But they learned it’s who I am, and they accepted it. And their support gave me some confidence. And then, that summer, you taught me how to accept it for myself. To not worry about what other people said. And then . . . things weren’t bad at all.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, you. So I’m telling you this now. I will never forget that mechanical bird you made. The one that only sang when you opened its cage door?”
“You remember that?” He’s mystified.
“Or the fifty-step Rube Goldberg machine that sharpened a pencil? Or that insane train of dominoes that took you two weeks to set up, but was over in a minute? It was incredible. Just because something isn’t practical doesn’t mean it’s not worth creating. Sometimes beauty and real-life magic are enough.”
I turn to face him, cross-legged. “It’s like my Marie Antoinette dress. It’s not practical, but . . . for that one moment, arriving at a dance in a beautiful, elaborate dress that no one else is wearing and that everyone will remember? I want that.”
Cricket stares across the city lights toward the bay. “You will. You’ll have it.”
“Not without your help.” I want to give him a friendly shove, but I settle for a verbal jab. “So are you gonna get started on my panniers tomorrow or what?”
“I already started them.” He meets my eyes again. “I stayed in tonight, too. I didn’t just hand out candy.”
I’m touched. “Cricket Bell. You are the nicest guy I know.”
“Yeah.” He snorts. “The nice guy.”
“What?”
“That was what my one-and-only girlfriend said when she broke up with me.”
“Oh.” I’m taken aback. The Girlfriend, at last. “That’s . . . a really, really stupid reason.”
Cricket scooches forward, and his knees almost bump mine. Almost. “It’s not uncommon. Nice guys finish last and all.”
There’s a dig at Max amid his self-deprecation, but I ignore it. “Who was she?”