The place where his chest touched mine burns. Every place where his body touched mine feels alive. What kind of guy did he think he was, and who is he now?
“It’s okay.” He peeks inside the carton. “No harm done. All eggs accounted for.”
“Here, let me take that.” I reach for a carton, but he holds it above his head. It’s way out of my reach.
“It’s okay.” He smiles softly. “I have a much better grip on things now.”
I make for the other carton. “The least I can do is carry one.”
Cricket starts to lift the other one up, too, but something solemn clouds his eyes. He lowers them and gives one to me. The back of his hand reads: EGGS. “Thanks,” he says.
I look down. Someone has drawn a game of hopscotch onto the sidewalk in pink chalk. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll need them back, though. My mom was craving deviled eggs, and she asked me to pick those up. Very important mission.”
Silence.
This is the moment. Where I either make things permanently awkward or I make genuine on our friendship. I look up—and then up again, until I reach his face—and ask, “How’s college?”
Cricket closes his eyes. It’s only for a moment, a breath, but it’s enough to show me how thankful he is for my question. He wants to be in my life.
“Good,” he says. “It’s . . . good.”
“I sense a but.”
He smiles. “But it’s been a while since that whole surroundedby-other-students thing. I guess it takes time to get used to.”
“You said you were homeschooled? After you moved?”
“Well, we moved so often that it was easier than enrolling over and over, always taking the same classes. Always being the new kid. We’d done it before, and we didn’t want to do it again. Plus, it allowed us to work around Cal’s schedule.”
The last sentence sticks to me in an unpleasant way. “What about your schedule?”
“Ah, it’s not as bad as it sounds. She only has so long to do this. She has to make a run for it while she can.” I must look unconvinced, because he adds, “Another five years, and it’ll be my turn in the family spotlight.”
“But why can’t it be your turn now, too? Maybe I’m being selfish, because I’m an only child—”
“No. You’re right.” And I catch the first glimpse of tiredness between his forehead and his eyes. “But our circumstance is different. She has a gift. It wouldn’t be fair for me not to do everything I can to support her.”
“And what does she do to support you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Cricket’s expression grows sly. “She does the dishes. Takes out the trash. Leaves the cereal box out for me on weekends.”
“Sorry.” I look away. “I’m being nosy.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.” But he doesn’t answer my question.
We walk in silence for a minute, when something strikes me. “Today. Today is your birthday!”
His face turns away from mine as fast as a reflex.
“Why didn’t you say something?” But I know the answer before I finish asking the question. Memories of the last time I saw him on his birthday fill me with instant humiliation.
Cricket fidgets with his bracelets. “Yep. Eighteen.”
I follow his lead to keep the conversation moving forward. “An adult. Officially.”
“It’s true, I feel incredibly mature. Then again, maturity has always been my greatest strength.”
This time, his usual self-deprecation makes me flinch. He was always more mature. Except, perhaps, around me. “So . . . you’re here to visit Calliope?” I shake my head as the embarrassment continues. “Of course you are. It’s her birthday, too. I’m just surprised to see you since it’s Saturday night. I assumed you’d be at some party across the bay, chugging beer in the handstand position.”
He scratches the side of his neck. “Cal would never admit this, but it’s been a rough adjustment for her. Me being away while she’s still at home. Not that I wouldn’t have come home tonight otherwise, of course I would. And I actually did drop by one of those parties for a minute as a favor to someone, but . . . perhaps you didn’t notice.” Cricket adjusts his tie. “I’m not the kegger type.”
“Me neither.” I don’t have to explain that it’s because of Norah. He knows.
“What about your boyfriend?” His voice betrays a forced cool.
I’m embarrassed he’d assume it, but I can’t deny that Max looks the type. “He isn’t a party guy either. Not really. I mean, he drinks and smokes, but he respects my feelings. He never tries to get me to join him or anything.”
Cricket ducks underneath a pink-flowered branch in our path. Our neighborhood blooms year-round. I walk below it without having to bend. “What do your parents think about you dating someone that old?” he asks.
I wince. “You should know that I’m really tired of having that conversation.”
“Sorry.” But then like he can’t help it, “So, uh . . . how old is he?”
“Twenty-two.” For some reason, admitting this to him feels uncomfortable.