“No.” Norah scoots even closer. “You were different. I don’t have many chances to talk to you when you might actually listen to what I have to say. Reading your leaves was an opportunity. I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. I told you what you needed to hear.”
I’m confused and hurt. “I needed to hear bad things?”
She places a hand on mine. It’s bony, but somehow it’s also warm. I turn to her, and her gaze is sympathetic. “Your relationship with Max was waning,” she says, using her fortune-teller voice. “And I saw that you had a much more special one waiting right behind it.”
“The cherry. You did know how I felt about Cricket back then.”
She removes her hand. “Christ, the mailman knew how you felt about him. And he’s a good kid, Lola. It was stupid of you to get caught with him in bed—you know your parents are strict as hell about that shit—but I know he’s good. They’ll come around to it, too. And I know you’re good.”
I’m quiet. She thinks I’m a good person.
“Do you know my biggest regret?” she asks. “That you turned into this bright, beautiful, fascinating person . . . and I can’t take credit for any of it.”
There’s a lump in my throat.
Norah crosses her arms and looks away. “Your fathers piss me off, but they’re great parents. I’m lucky they’re yours.”
“They care about you, too, you know. I care about you.”
She’s silent and stiff. I take a chance and, for the first time since I was a little girl, burrow into her side. Her hard shoulders melt against me.
“Come back and visit,” I say. “Once you’ve moved.”
The lights of the commercials flash.
Flash.
Flash.
“Okay,” she says.
I’m in my bedroom later that night when my phone rings. It’s Lindsey. “On second thought,” she begins, “maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“What?” Her unnaturally disturbed tone gives me an instant chill. “Tell me what?”
A long, deep breath. “Max is back.”
The blood drains from my face. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
“I just saw him. My mom and I were shopping in the Mission, and there he was, walking down Valencia.”
“Did he see you? Did you talk to him? What did he look like?”
“No. Hell no. And like he always does.”
I’m stupefied. How long has he been back? Why hasn’t he called? His continued silence means that he must have been telling the truth: I’m nothing to him anymore.
Lately, I’ve gone several hours—once, an entire day—without thinking of him. This is a fresh dig into my wounds, but somehow . . . the blow isn’t as crushing as I thought it would be. Perhaps I’m becoming okay with being nothing to Max.
“Can you breathe?” Lindsey asks. “Are you breathing?”
“I’m breathing.” And I am. An idea is quickly mushrooming inside of me. “Listen, I have to go. There’s something I need to do.” I grab a faux-fur coat and my wallet, and I’m racing out my door when I hear a faint plink.
I stop.
Plink, my window says again. Plink. Plink.
My heart leaps. I throw open the panes, and Cricket sets down his box of toothpicks. He’s wearing a red scarf and some sort of blue military jacket. And then I notice the leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and this blow is crushing. His break is over. He’s going back to Berkeley.