I really don’t want to have this conversation in front of Cricket. “Dad—”
“Is it Norah? I know things haven’t been easy since she got here, but—”
“I’m fine, Dad. Good night.”
“Is it Max? Or Cricket? You turned strange when you saw him tonight, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you when I said—”
“Good night, Dad.”
PLEASE STOP TALKING.
He sighs. “Okay, Lola-doodle. But take off your glasses. I don’t want you to crush them.” I set them on my bedside table, and he leaves. Cricket waits until the footsteps hit the landing below. His head pops up beside my own, and even though I know he’s there, it makes me jump.
“My dad was talking about . . .” I struggle for a nonincriminating answer. “I saw you come home, and it was at the same time Norah was telling us about this awful client. I must have been making a terrible face.”
I hate myself.
He’s quiet.
“So . . . now what?” I ask.
Cricket turns away from me. He leans his back against the side of my bed. “If you want me to go, I will.”
Sadness. Desire. An ache inside of me so strong that I don’t know how I believed it had ever left. I stare at the back of his head, and it’s like the oxygen has disappeared from my room. My heart has turned to water. I’m drowning.
“No,” I whisper at last. “You just got here.”
I want to touch him again. I have to touch him again. If I don’t touch him again, I’ll die. I reach toward his hair. He won’t even notice. But just as my fingertips are about to make contact, he turns around.
And his head jerks backward as I nearly poke out an eye.
“Sorry! I’m sorry!” I whisper.
“What are you doing?” But he grins as he lunges to poke out mine. I grab his finger, and then—just like that—I’m holding on to him. My hand is wrapped around his index finger. But he zeros in on my rainbow Band-Aid. “Is that where you cut yourself?”
“It was nothing.” I let go of him, self-conscious again. “I was doing the dishes.”
He watches me wring my hands. “Cool nails,” he finally says.
They’re black with a pink stripe down the center of each nail. And then . . . I know how I can touch him. “Hey. Let me paint yours.” I’m already getting up for my favorite dark blue polish. Somehow, I know he won’t protest.
I carry it to the floor, where he’s still leaning against my bed. He sits up straight. “Will this hurt?” he asks.
“Badly.” I shake the bottle. “But try to keep your screams low, I don’t want Nathan coming back.”
Cricket smiles as I reach for my chemistry textbook. “Put this on your lap, I’ll need a steady surface. Now place your hands on it.” We’re close to each other, much closer than we’ve been while working on my dress. “I’m going to take your left hand now.”
He swallows. “Okay.”
Cricket holds it up slightly. Tonight the back of his hand has a star drawn on it. I wonder what it means as I slide my hand underneath his fingers. His hand twitches violently. “You’ll have to hold it steady,” I say. But I’m smiling. Contact.
I paint his nails Opening Night blue by the light of the moon. Our grips relax as I focus on my work. Slow, careful strokes. We don’t talk. My skin and his skin. Only a book between my hand and his lap. I feel him watch me the entire time—not my hands, but my face—and his gaze burns like an African sun.
When I finish, I lift my eyes to his. He stares back. The moon moves across the sky. Her beams hit his eyelashes, and I’m struck anew that I’m alone, in the dark, with a boy who once shattered my heart. Who would kiss me, if I didn’t have a boyfriend. Who I would kiss, if I didn’t have a boyfriend.
Who I want to kiss anyway.
I bite my bottom lip. He’s hypnotized. I lean forward, moving the curves of my body into the slender shadow of his. The air between us is physically hot, painfully so. He glances down my shirt. It is very, very close to his line of vision.