I part my lips.
And then he’s stumbling away. “I want to,” he croaks. “You know I want to.”
He tests the bridge for firmness and springs onto it. Cricket Bell doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t see the tears spilling down my face. The only thing he leaves behind is a smudge of blue polish on my window frame.
Chapter twenty-four
Loooo-laaaa. Beautiful Lola.” Franko’s eyes are red and dilated. As usual.
I dig through the box-office drawers, throwing dry pens and dusty instruction manuals to the floor. “Have you seen the ink cartridges for the tickets?”
“No, but have you seen the popcorn today? It’s so . . . aerodynamically inclined. I think I might’ve eaten some. Do I have kernels in my teeth?”
“No kernels,” I snap.
“I think I have kernels in my teeth. Like, right between my front teeth.” He stands, and his tongue explores his own mouth in a disgusting form of self–French kissing. “The strings are beautiful tonight.”
“Sure. The strings.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t cut one, but if I did, I’d say . . . that’s a beautiful string.”
Seriously, if he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m strangling him. My patience is at an all-time low. I wave my arms at St. Clair, who is ripping tickets tonight. There’s no one around, so he strolls over. “For the love of God, you two have to switch jobs,” I say.
“You’re beautiful, St. Clair,” Franko says.
“Everyone is beautiful to you when you’re high.” He sits in Franko’s seat. “Scat.”
Franko lumbers away.
“Thank you,” I say. “I just . . . can’t handle that right now.”
He gives me a full-bodied shrug. “Right now or for the entire month of November?”
“Don’t even,” I warn. But it’s true. Since my complete and total humiliation with Cricket two weeks ago—and his subsequent disappearance from my life—I’ve been extremely unpleasant. I’m hurt, and I’m angry. No, I’m furious, because it’s my stupid fault. I threw myself at him. What does he think of me now? Obviously, not much. I’ve called him twice and sent three apology texts, but he’s ignored them all.
So much for Mr. Nice Guy.
“Mr. Nice Guy?” St. Clair asks. “Who’s that?”
Oh, no. I’m talking out loud again. “Me,” I lie. “Mr. Nice Guy is gone.”
He sighs and checks the clock on the wall. “Fantastic.”
“I’m sorry.” And I mean it. My friends—Lindsey, Anna, and St. Clair—have all been patient with me. More than I deserve. I told Lindsey what happened, but St. Clair, and through him, Anna, must have heard some version of something from Cricket. I’m not sure what. “Thank you for taking Franko’s place. I appreciate it.”
The European shrug again.
We work quietly for the next hour. As the minutes tick by, I feel more and more guilty. It’s time to change my attitude. At least around my friends. “So,” I say during the next customer lull. “How did it go with Anna’s family? Didn’t her mom and brother visit for Thanksgiving?”
He smiles for the first time since coming in here. “I wooed them off their feet. It was an excellent visit.”
I grin and then give him a nod with exaggerated formality. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he says with equal formality. “They stayed with my mum.”
“That’s . . . weird.”
“Not really. Mum is cool, easy to get along with.”