When Cicadas Cry (6 page)

She could have stalled on purpose. She could have just needed somethin’ out of her carry-on. Either way, I’m happy to see her. I take a few moments just to watch her. There was a time I called her mine. I used to be able to walk up behind her and put my arms around her waist and kiss the soft skin on the back of her neck. I used to be the only man in the world that could get away with doin’ that.

I used to be.

Those are the four saddest words in the English language, according to my grandpa. And it’s not until just this very moment that I understand why.

I feel my smile startin’ to fade the moment I realize that
that
time is gone now. And after a few more seconds of me starin’ at her, not exactly knowin’ what to do next, she finishes what she’s doin’ and looks up. Immediately, our eyes meet, and she smiles. I feel the hesitation in my bones. It’s as if there’s this disconnect between my mind and my feet, all of a sudden. I want to go to her, but I can’t, and she knows it. I see the hesitation in her eyes, too, and it kills me.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

I can’t look away from her, even as her happy smile turns sad and falls from her pink lips.

And then she waves.

It’s just a simple, subtle wave, but it holds a word I’ve grown to hate.
Good-bye.

I force myself to keep it together, as I manage to lift my arm, open my hand and muster a small smile. She gives me this knowing look, and then she turns.

And she walks away.

And I just stand there for a few moments, watchin’ her, watchin’ her walk away. And the whole time, my heart is screamin’ at my mind—tellin’ me to chase after her—but it’s not doin’ any damn good. My feet stay planted exactly where they are, until eventually, I can’t see her blond hair anymore. And it’s not until then that I take a step after her.

But then I stop.

And just like that, the world comes to a halt. Everything’s at a standstill—except my heart. It keeps beatin’ a hole into my chest, tearin’ right through every bone and muscle fiber I’ve got tryin’ to protect it. It beats like that until I draw in a long, deep breath, and then I feel it eventually startin’ to slow. And after a few more telling moments, I mindlessly sling my backpack over my shoulder and start my walk in the opposite direction.

It was just like the movies. I don’t look back. I’ll never know if she does. And that’s it. The love of my life comes back into my life for exactly one hour and forty-five minutes, and it’s nothin’ how I expected it would be. Nowhere even close. Yet, it’s exactly as it should be. It’s exactly as it needs to be.

Chapter Nine

Past (2 Years Earlier)

Rem

“S
o, this is it,” I say, spreading my arms wide. “The Times Square of Ava. I know all the lights and fanfare are probably burnin’ your eyes. Just try not to look at it all at once.”

She gives me a sweet smile.

It’s our first date. I’m nervous as hell, but she seems as cool as the other side of the pillow. I wish I had some of her courage.

I look over at a crowd gatherin’ around the stand that sells grilled hot dogs and cheap beer. “Can I tell you somethin’ you probably already know?” I ask.

She looks up at me. “Sure.”

“All right, well, this right here,” I say, pointin’ to the ground at our feet, “is quite possibly the only place to be on a Friday evening in Ava.”

She nods. “Somehow, I gathered that.” Her eyes wander over the crowd. “Is everyone here?”

“Just about,” I say, takin’ in all the people and the street vendors and the lights that line the walkway. We’re downtown. Everyone calls it Sunny Square. Most people don’t know why it’s called that, but I do. My grandma told me why years ago.

“Can I tell you somethin’ you probably don’t already know?”

“Sure,” she agrees once more, showin’ off her teeth this time.

“This place got its name years ago, back when the farmers market was goin’ on down here and they used to play matinées at the theater.” I point in the direction of the big glass doors framed in oak with the black and white marquee hangin’ above them. “You wouldn’t know it now because it’s gettin’ dark, but this is the sunny side of the block by early afternoon. Hence, Sunny Square.”

It looks as if she tries not to laugh. “That sounds very...logical.”

“Well, we’re a simple people, Miss Westcott.”

She bows her head and just nods as we continue our walk down the sidewalk, passin’ by Joe Kimper sellin’ his county-famous kettle corn.

“Wait, you’ve gotta try this,” I say, backin’ up and stoppin’ at the stand. “Can I have a bag, Joe?”

He nods and hands me a long, white paper sleeve. I immediately offer some to her, and she obliges.

“So, I know your name and where you’re from,” I go on. “And I know you showed up here a few months ago. And I know you’re pretty as hell, but I don’t know anything else about you.”

She raises her head just a little, just enough that she’s lookin’ up at me through her dark eyelashes. I’d swear she was tryin’ to hide the little blush on her cheeks. “Well, what do you want to know?”

She puts some of the kettle corn to her mouth, and for a moment, my stare is stuck on her pretty, pink lips.

“Everything,” I say to her.

“Everything?”

“Yep,” I agree with a nod. “I want to know you better than I know this town.”

“Hmm,” she hums. “I’m guessing that would be everything then, all right.”

“Pretty much,” I agree.

She puts another handful of kettle corn to her mouth.

“Well, I can tell you I love this popcorn.”

I just smile wide. I knew she would.

She giggles then and quickly covers her mouth. It looks as if she’s tryin’ to keep the food from spillin’ out.

“Okay,” I say, tryin’ not to laugh, “so what about...your favorite childhood memory then?”

“My what?” She swallows and reaches into the white sleeve again.

“Your favorite memory—like the one that defines your childhood. You know? The one memory you couldn’t make leave your head, even if you tried.”

She eyes me, and at the same time, pushes her lips to one side. “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

I just shrug my shoulders, offering her no escape. In response, she tilts her head back and looks up into the darkening sky before levelin’ her eyes back on me. “Does everyone have one of these?”

“They sure do,” I say with a definitive nod. “You can tell a lot about a person by the memories they hold dear.”

“Can you now?”

I laugh. “Well, that’s what my grandma always used to say.”

“Okay,” she concedes. “Um, well...” Her gaze wanders to the ground for a few seconds. “Okay. When we were growing up, we had this old house, like turn-of-the-century kind of old.” She pauses. “Like the last century. Not this one.”

“I gotcha,” I say. “Like horse-and-buggy old, not Y2K.”

She looks at me and smiles. “Right,” she agrees, “like that. And anyway,” she goes on, “the house had a furnace room. It was just this little room with this big, scary gray box that would kick on with this loud bang every time the heat would come on. But the room was so warm in the winter, and my sister and I would always huddle in the corner next to the big box. It was like our secret hiding place. We would sneak back there when no one was looking, and we’d eat frosted flakes out of the box.” She stops and laughs. Her eyes are trained on somethin’ out in front of us, but it looks as if she’s more interested in seein’ the memory than whatever it is her eyes are stuck on.

“Frosted flakes?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “My mom hated when we ate the cereal straight out of the box. We thought we were such rebels.”

I smile because she looks so happy and because I like her memory.

“Well?” she asks.

“Well, what?”

“Well, what does that tell you about me?”

“Oh,” I say. “Well... You like your sister—well, enough to share a box of frosted flakes with her. ...And you’re tough.” I stop there because she’s givin’ me a funny look.

“Tough?”

“Yeah, you weren’t afraid of the big, scary furnace.”

“Aah,” she says, with a smile.

“And...you’ve got a little of a wild streak in ya.”

She laughs. “So, it all started with those frosted flakes.”

I look at her with raised brows. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

We both laugh this time.

“Well, what about you?” she asks. “What’s your favorite memory?”

I suck in a deep breath. “Well,” I say, forcin’ the breath back out. “Every spring, my dad and I would go mushroom huntin’.”

She gives me a questionin’ stare, and I figure I’ve probably gotta explain a little more.

“Morels.”

She’s still givin’ me that confused look.

“You’ve never had one?”

She shakes her head, and little wrinkles form above her nose and on her forehead. “No, I can’t say I have.”

“Oh, well, city girl, you need to add fried morel sandwiches to your bucket list. You won’t be sorry.”

She laughs. “Okay, I’ll look for them next time I’m at the grocery store.”

I look at her to see if she’s joking.

“What?” she asks.

“No, sweetheart, you don’t get these from the grocery store. You’ve gotta find ‘em.”

“Find them?” She looks sincerely surprised.

“Yeah, but don’t worry, I’ll take you sometime.”

There’s a slight pause in her expression, but then, thankfully, she smiles and holds her stare on me. I swear her eyes could kill a man, if he weren’t strong enough to take the hit to his heart.

“But anyway, we would spend hours lookin’ for ‘em,” I go on. “I really can’t remember anything specific we talked about. I just remember bein’ with them, and that might as well have been the best thing in the world.”

“Them?”

“What?”

“You said you remember being with them.”

“Oh.” I try to recall it for a second. “Did I say that?”

She looks at me and just nods.

“I meant my dad.” I shrug it off. “I remember being with my dad.”

“Oh, so you guys are pretty close then—you and your dad?”

“Yeah,” I say, givin’ her a quick nod. “He’s a pretty good dad.”

I catch her eyes and stay in them for a second or two as our conversation grows quiet. I don’t know why or how, but the way she’s lookin’ at me makes me feel good. And I’m also pretty sure that’s what’s causing these thoughts of kissin’ her lips to pop into my head, all of a sudden.

“Okay,” she says. “How did you get into the website business?”

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, but mostly, I just stall so I can get my mind off of kissin’ her and back to our conversation. “Well,” I finally say, barely noticin’ that we’re now roundin’ the corner of the block. “I’ve always kind of been fascinated with computers. I got my associate’s at a small college here and started a company with a buddy I knew in high school. He has a few small clients in Austin. I have some here. It’s worked thus far.”

“Really?” She sounds sincerely interested. “That’s pretty cool.”

I always think the whole computer-job-spiel thing makes me look like a dork. Around here, you farm, work in construction or find somethin’ else to do with your hands. And computers ain’t one of those things. In fact, just the other day, I ran into the town mechanic, a guy who’s been around long enough to tell ya what kind of car your grandpa drove before he met your grandma. Anyway, he asked me what I was doin’ these days. I told him I work in computers. And he just leaned back on his heels, narrowed his eyes, put an oil-stained finger to his wrinkled chin and said: “Well, that there’s some fancy job.” I just smiled. I wanted to tell him I could replace a carburetor if I had to, but I figured he’d already made up his mind. I was fancy, and that was that.

I squint one eye at her. “You did hear the computer-nerd part?”

She laughs. Her laugh is breathy and honest. I think I just fell in love with it, or hell, maybe I just fell in love with her.

“I don’t think computers make people nerds anymore,” she says, her lips pushed to one side.

“Really?”

“Really,” she confirms.

“Could you tell that to the guy behind the counter at Hochman Mechanics?”

“What?”

“Nothin’,” I say, laughin’ to myself.

Our eyes lock then, and we’re both silent for a few beats. Her eyes are beautiful. They’re soft and curious. Everything about them—about her—makes me want to kiss her even more.

“And anyway,” she says, “you’re so young, and you own a business. That’s pretty impressive.”

“Well,” I say, tryin’ to regain my bearings. “I’m not that young.” I notice her hand, and I really want to take it, but I don’t. “You know Steve Jobs?”

“Yeah?”

“He was twenty-one when he started Apple.” I point one finger in the air. “And William Harley...”

“The motorcycle guy?”

“Yep. He was twenty-one, too, when he drew up the plans for the first bicycle motor. So, you see, twenty-one’s not all that young.”

She stops and stares me down for a second. “Wait, so are you...?”

I hesitate before I say my next words. “I just turned twenty-one a month ago.”

It takes her a second, but then she nods.

“Too young? Too old?” I ask.

“No, I just...,” she stutters. “With the company and the house... You seemed older, that’s all.”

“Oh,” I say. “That’s just my real age—the one you could figure out by lookin’ at my driver’s license. I’m older in small-town age.”

“Small-town age?” She barely gets the words out through her giggles.

“Yeah, people in small towns age a little faster than big-city folk.”

“I’m scared to ask why that is.”

And she does look a little scared, but also, a little intrigued.

“Oh, it’s simple really,” I say. “We just do everything earlier out of necessity. We drive younger; we work younger; we drink younger. I guess it all comes down to work really.”

“Work?” She’s got this little, challenging smile on her face. I wonder if she knows it’s drivin’ me wild.

“Yeah,” I say. “For example, in order to help my grandpa out on the farm when I turned thirteen, I had to learn how to drive. And after a long day of workin’ in the field, all I wanted was a cold soda. But Grandpa only ever had cold beer. So, I had my first beer at thirteen, and no one even batted an eye. In fact, my grandpa came into the kitchen right after me, grabbed his own beer from the fridge and sat down across from me, and we had some conversation about Grandma makin’ pork chops and mashed potatoes for dinner.” I shrug. “And so you see, I’m really more like twenty-three or twenty-four, when you think about it.”