When Cicadas Cry (12 page)
Authors: Laura Miller
Past (1.5 Years Earlier)
Rem
“H
ey, Mr. Katz.” I tip my cap to his stone. Then I turn to Owen’s. “Hey, buddy,” I say, noticin’ somethin’ hidden behind several blades of grass. It’s another postcard. I reach down and pick it up.
This time, the card reads
Fiji
.
I flip it over. As usual, there’s nothin’ on the back. It’s blank, except for the four lines that mark where an address is supposed to go.
I turn the card back over. A photo of an island covered in palm trees and surrounded by blue-green water makes up the front of the card. I look deeper into the photo, tryin’ to imagine bein’ there. It looks so exotic, so different from what I’m used to. Even the colors don’t seem like any I’ve ever seen in real life. Hell, the place might as well be on a different planet; I can’t even imagine bein’ somewhere like that.
I set the card back down against the gravestone and take my seat on my little stool.
“So, you might know this already. Or maybe you don’t. I don’t know what you can see up there.” I take my cap off, run my hand through my hair and then go to habitually squeezin’ the cap’s bill until its sides are touching. “I met a girl,” I blurt out.
I sit there quietly after I say it, imaginin’ what Owen would say next.
“Man, I know what you’re thinkin’
: Girls are trouble. Girls aren’t worth it...”
I tug at my jeans and stretch the fabric back down to the bottom of my boots.
“I get it, and I hear ya, but this girl’s different. I mean, she’s beautiful. And she’s, sure as hell, smarter than I am. That’s gotta count for somethin’.” I laugh and rest my cap on my bended knee. “And she’s kind, like really kind—like kinder than I’ve ever seen anybody be around here. I mean, you can really tell she cares about people. You know how most people here are. They see somethin’ every day, and it just becomes a part of life. No one ever thinks to change it up or anything. But she does. Hell, yesterday, she bought Crazy Kip a meal from Nancy’s Diner, ‘just because,’ she said. And I know it sounds crazy, but she’s got this story in her eyes, and I want to know it. I want to know everything about her.” I look up at the dark-blue-and-white-painted sky and then level my gaze on the tree in front of us. “This girl,” I say, shakin’ my head. “She’s just... She’s city. And well, you know, I’m pretty country. But she can sit through rush hour and not be fazed by it. Yet, she can also sit on a porch swing and just watch the sun go down for hours. And oh, man, is she sexy! Jeez, I could go on about that for days.” I stop to laugh. “But I won’t torture you with that. And I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is she’s so much of everything at one time that she makes her own type of real...and beautiful.” I stop on that word, not even carin’ that Owen would be makin’ fun of me right about now for even sayin’ the word
beautiful
.
“I just wasn’t expectin’ her, you know? I didn’t see her comin’. But, I guess, it doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s here, and I’m here, and I’m glad that I’m here with her.”
I mindlessly pick up a rock and trace its edges with the tips of my fingers. “Plus, you can’t give me too much shit. I know all about your girlfriend. Maybe you could hide the fact that you were in love in life, but you sure as hell aren’t very good at it now.”
I smile and let the rock drop from my hands. “You probably already know this—that’s if you can see us all down here still makin’ fools of ourselves—but Jack thinks it’s Kristen. You know, leavin’ the postcards. And hell, I guess it very well could be. I’d ask her, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to spoil your secret. So, I tell you what, buddy. I just won’t ask.”
I stop talkin’ for a few minutes and listen as the freight train passes in the distance. It roars and clanks and then roars some more, and then it’s quiet again.
“But...,” I go on, “at the same time, it would be nice to know someday who she is. You know, if you wanted to tell me,” I add.
My gaze slowly wanders to his stone and the indented letters that spell his name—
Owen Katz
. And I sit there thinkin’ about him and thinkin’ about Ashley and wishin’ these two could have met.
“I think you would have liked her. She’s elegant and proper and all that, but she’s also got this free-spirit thing goin’ on. I guess you could say, she’s like Kate Middleton and Kate Hudson all wrapped into one—if you can imagine that.”
I let the space around us grow quiet then, so quiet that I can hear the squirrel scamperin’ in the tree next to us. It’s really a small graveyard. I never see anyone else here. But I know people come. There’s two beer cans sittin’ next to Owen; Jack’s been here again. And of course, there’s the postcard. I laugh to myself. I guess I could set up a stakeout. Then I’d find out who’s been leavin’ these cards. But then again, somethin’ tells me Owen will let me know when he wants me to know...and not a minute sooner.
After a little while longer of just sittin’ and thinkin’, I hear the first of the cicadas startin’ their evening cry, remindin’ me it’s gettin’ late.
“Well, buddy, I guess I better be takin’ off,” I say, pushin’ up from the little stool. “I’ll see ya when I see ya.”
I stand there and look at the postcard one last time. I know next time I come here, this one will be gone and another one will be in its place. I wonder where he’s goin’ next. Paris? Sydney? Naples?
I push the milking seat closer to Owen and squeeze my cap back over my head. Then I tip my bill to Mr. Katz and start my slow trek back to the old, iron gates that flank the entrance to the little cemetery.
Present
Rem
I
get out of my truck and make my way to the mailbox. It wasn’t a hard day at work, just a long day. When computers decide to crap out on ya, and when all you deal with is computers, that makes for a fun day.
Inside the box, I find a couple envelopes—all junk mail—and a small package. I grab it all but look at the package first. There’s no return address on it. There’s just my address written front and center in black marker.
I tuck the junk mail under my arm and make my way back up the driveway. And in the meantime, I try to rip the box open with my hands first, but that doesn’t work. So, I grab my keychain and use my house key to cut through the tape. That works.
I wrestle the tape away and finally loosen one of the cardboard sides. And when I peek inside, I notice a book.
My feet immediately stop flat on the little white rocks, and my heart comes damn near close to doin’ the same thing. At the top of the book is a name, but not just any name. It’s her name,
Ashley Westcott
—in big, bold, capitalized letters. And under her name, there’s a title.
Worth It.
I take a second to look at the cover. There’s a guy and a girl on it. She’s on a swing. He looks as if he’s pushin’ her. I pull back the cover and finally feel a smile pushin’ past my lips.
Wow! She did it.
I glance over the first page, and immediately, my eyes stop and come to rest on some familiar handwriting:
Rem,
Was it?
Was it? I turn the page to see if there’s anything written on the back or the next page.
Was it? Was it what?
There’s nothin’ else. Just the question. I close the book and look at the cover again. It’s her name, all right. I flip it over and notice her photo on the back. It says she lives in Lakeway, has a dog named Tiger and is working on her next novel. She looks the same in the photo as she did at Hall’s—the last time I saw her. And she looks just as beautiful as the first day I met her.
Well, I’ll be. She did it. She wrote a book—a real book. It feels a little weird to be proud of her, but I am.
My eyes skim the back and follow over the text. The words say it’s a book about a girl who fell in love with a boy and the boy who broke her heart.
I finish reading over the words, and then it slowly sinks in.
“Oh, shit.”
Past (1.5 Years Earlier)
Ashley
“Y
ou sure there’s a big city out this way?” Rem asks, looking out the window.
We’ve been driving for the last forty-five minutes in Iowa. And there hasn’t been much more than fields the entire time.
“Patience, my dear,” I say, catching his gaze for a moment. He looks so cute sitting over there in the passenger’s seat. I feel as if he doesn’t exactly know what to do when he hasn’t got a steering wheel in front of him. For the first half hour of our trip, he worked on my glove compartment. About a year ago, I stuffed the car’s manual in there and got it stuck. For the last year, I haven’t been able to open the compartment door. But that changed today—the first day that Remington Jude had to sit in my passenger’s seat for more than five minutes.
The next project he tackled was my side mirror. Evidently, it wasn’t in the right position. He spouted off something about corners and then asked me to look into it every couple seconds.
The last project was his seat. It’s at the perfect height and angle now, apparently. And now, I guess he’s run out of things to do.
“You know,” I say, regaining his attention. “I’ve never actually brought a guy home before.”
He tears his stare from the window to look at me.
“Like ever?”
I shake my head. “Like ever,” I repeat.
“Well, damn it.”
“What?” I ask.
“Well, now your parents are gonna be expectin’ this perfect guy, who’s like thirty and works for Microsoft and drives a Porsche or somethin’.”
“What?” I start to laugh. “Why would they expect that?”
“I don’t know. That’s who I would expect you to bring home. And I, damn sure, wouldn’t expect some country kid from Ava, Missouri, who drives a pickup truck.”
“Then, you must not know me very well, Remington Jude. Because I’d much prefer the pickup-truck boy from Ava over the Microsoft-Porsche guy, who probably wears too much gel in his hair.”
He looks over at me and smiles.
“Ashley Westcott, you’re too good for me.”
“I know,” I say, with a wide grin.
“P.S., I don’t wear
ANY
gel in my hair.”
I look over at him. He’s got this serious expression plastered to his face. “I know. That’s why I like you.”
He reaches over then and pulls my closest hand away from the steering wheel. “I can’t wait to meet your family,” he says, kissing the top of my fingers, then cradling my hand in his.
“They’ll love you,” I promise. “And your gel-free hair.”
He just gives me a satisfied grin and then goes back to looking out his window again. And all I can think is: How did I ever get so lucky to find this man?
Once we get into Omaha, traffic is traffic—bumper to bumper for several miles, but then it’s fine. We pull up into the driveway, and I can tell he’s nervous. But I can also tell he’s excited. He’s got this look in his eyes he gets when a big game is about to start or when I agree to do something like mushroom hunting with him. I can tell he’s excited, and that makes me happy.
“So, my little sister, Lana, came home for the weekend to meet you,” I say. “She goes to the University of Nebraska, and she’s got a little bit of a hippie thing going on, just to warn you.”
“A what?”
“Hippie. You know? My mom thinks it’s just a phase, but I don’t think it’s a phase.”
“Oh... I don’t think I’ve ever met a real hippie,” he says, looking a little panicked. His little scared face makes me laugh. It looks cute on him.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “She loves everyone.”
“Okay,” he whispers. The big breath he takes doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Seriously,” I say, “you have nothing to worry about.”
He seems to relax a little.
“Oh, and did I mention my dad is a former Marine?”
“What?” He almost shouts the word.
“Kidding,” I say.
“Damn, girl,” he mumbles, lowering his head. “You’re tryin’ to kill me; I know it.”
I just laugh and get out of the car. And when I meet him on the passenger’s side, I grab his hand.
Immediately, he looks down at our hands. “Do you think we should hold hands?” he asks.
“Rem!”
“Well, I don’t know! I’m still not convinced your dad’s not somethin’ mean and big, and I’m not really sure if I should be more afraid of him or your sister.”
I try to choke down my amusement, as I kiss him on the cheek. “It’s my mom you should be afraid of,” I whisper into his ear.
He gives me this terrified look, and it’s absolutely priceless—definitely worth scaring the hell out of him for no reason.
We get inside, and I set my purse down onto the floor next to a bunch of shoes. And almost instantly, the sweet scent of cinnamon fills my nose. I must be home. My parents’ house has been infused with the smell of cinnamon ever since my sister mentioned to my mom one day that the scent can help improve brain function. That was almost three years ago. Now, I can’t smell cinnamon without thinking of home.
“Mom,” I say. “We’re here.”
“Ashley!” My sister comes running into the hall and throws her arms around me and then, without so much as a hesitation or an introduction, for that matter, she throws her arms around Rem, too.
“You have a good aura,” she says, pulling away from Rem. “I can feel it.”
Rem just smiles and nods. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say...or do.
“That’s a good thing,” my sister says.
“Okay,” he says, nodding, but still not completely convinced—I can tell.
“Lana,” I say, smiling, “this is Rem.”
“Remmm...?” she hums, drawing out the last letter of his name. “Is that short for something?”
“Remington,” Rem replies.
“Good,” she says. “Can I call you Remington then?”
Rem glances at me and then smiles at Lana. “Sure, if you’d like.”
Lana bobs her head once. “I think I would like.” And with that, she dances away—like literally twirls into the next room—while Rem leans over and whispers in my ear: “Did she say I smell good?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling, “something like that.”
“Sweetheart, dinner is almost ready.” My mom suddenly appears in the hallway and kisses me on the cheek before she turns to Rem. “And you must be the boy we’ve heard so much about.”
Rem looks at me and gives me a pleased grin before he looks back at my mom. “Hi, Miss Westcott.” He holds out his hand. My mom shakes it.
My dad says that you can tell a lot about a person by his or her handshake. Thus, new people always get handshakes in our house.
“Mom, this is Rem,” I say.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Rem.”
Rem just nods and smiles. He looks shy, but also somehow, confident, at the same time. I think that’s what I like about him so much. He’s always two things at once. For example, he can’t just be sweet. He’s got to be sweet and sexy. Like when he tells me I’m beautiful, it’s always in a whisper or a raspy tone with a hungry look in his eyes. Or like, even when he’s upset, he wears this face that somehow says: I won’t give up on you.
“Why don’t you guys come into the dining room.” My mother’s voice rings through my ears, breaking up my thoughts.
I smile at Rem. “They love you,” I whisper into his ear. I notice his shoulders seem to relax a little right before I take his hand and lead him into the next room. My dad is in there, setting a bowl of cooked carrots onto the table.
“Dad,” I say, “this is Rem.”
“Hello,” my dad says, brushing his hands together, before holding one out to Rem.
Rem takes his hand and shakes it.
“It’s nice to meet you, son,” Dad says.
Rem smiles kindly. And I don’t miss the inconspicuous nod my dad gives me, either. He’s done the same thing all my life. Every person he shakes hands with, he either nods or doesn’t. It’s his way of letting me know who’s “okay” and who’s “not okay.” A nod means:
this person can be trusted.
No nod:
I don’t ever want you alone in the same room with this person
. I know the drill, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I get the nod, even if it is just a formality for me. I already trust Remington Jude, and I don’t think there’s anything in this world that can convince me otherwise.
We all sit down shortly after that. I take a seat; Rem takes the seat next to me. My sister sits across from us, and my parents sit at either ends of the table.
While we eat, my parents quiz Rem on everything from where he lives to what TV programming he watches. My dad’s got this thing with TV shows, too. If you watch sports or the History channel, you’re okay in his book. If you say you watch anything else, he automatically puts you on a list with all the other people he’s not so sure about yet. Rem said he watches a lot of sports, so I guess he passed that test.
“Remington?” my sister says, once there’s a pause in the conversation. She speaks in her usual soft and thoughtful tone.
Rem looks up from his plate in mid-chew.
“What direction does your house face?”
“Sorry?” he says to her.
“Do you live in a house?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah,” Rem stutters.
“What direction does it face?” she asks again.
My mom rolls her eyes and smiles. My dad acts as if he doesn’t hear the question. I think he believes that if he doesn’t “hear” it, it wasn’t actually said. Neither of my parents has fully bought into her lifestyle, yet.
“Oh, uh, east, I believe,” Rem says.
“Good.” Lana nods and then goes back to chewing on her raw carrot.
“Good,” Rem simply repeats, with a smile.
We make it through the dinner without any casualties. And afterward, Lana heads up to her room. My dad retires with my mom to the living room. And I lead Rem out to the back porch.
“You made it,” I say.
“I made it,” he echoes.
I sit down on a padded bench, and he joins me.