“Why not?” I asked. She shrugged her right shoulder. “Have you even offered?”
“Lots of times,” she confessed sadly. “After the hundredth ‘no, thank you,’ I stopped asking.”
I was impressed she didn’t let those rejections stop her from doing something she loved. I admired courage, especially in women.
“Well, I’m flattered you asked me.”
“I know,” she said. “That gives me such a high.”
Because it’s me, or because it was anyone? I wanted to ask but couldn’t pluck up the mettle. I was afraid her answer might damage me.
“Well, happy to oblige,” I said instead.
I watched her work for close to half an hour before she took these giant sharp scissors and started shaping pieces with such ease, I wondered if she truly could be that talented.
She assembled something that resembled the shape of a bird head, but I couldn’t envision where she was going with it until, that is, she began to shape intricate feathers. One by one, she soldered them on before adding a delicate beak and eyes.
She held the finished bird head in front of me and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The work was so detailed; I didn’t think it was possible with a medium like metal.
“Cricket, I,” I began but was struck dumb. Rather than prattle on, I took the bird head in my hands, careful not to damage it, and consciously memorized it.
I handed it back to her. “I’m floored…It’s astonishing. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you,” she said, studying it with a massive smile on her face.
“You dazzle me,” I told her.
Her cheeks flamed and she bit her bottom lip, further staggering me. She checked her watch.
“Crap!” she exclaimed, breaking the moment. “It’s nearly midnight.”
I laughed. “I remember a time when midnight meant the beginning of an evening, not the decided end.”
“I’ll remember you said that when we’re shoveling horse manure at five in the morning.”
I groaned. “Definitely time to go.”
I put on my jacket and cap while Cricket reached for her headscarf, pulled it down and ruffled her bangs before grabbing her own coat. She wasn’t wearing her usual jacket but rather a floor-length brown suede one. I took it from her and helped her in it. I wanted very badly to run my hands down the curves of her coat, but I restrained myself.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you a ride.”
She put out the fire in the stove and I followed her around the side of the little building to another four-wheeler. She got on and started the engine. I hesitated a moment, knowing this would be the closest my body had ever been to hers. I straddled the seat behind her, my legs bracing the sides of both of hers. My hands itched to run the length of her thighs, so I tucked them into my sides.
“Hold on,” she whispered, making me reel. I peeled my hands away from myself and wrapped them around her tiny waist. I nearly groaned at the feel of her.
We lurched forward and her hair whipped with the wind, sending the unlikely scent of her vanilla and grapefruit shampoo my way. It was such an odd combination but I recognized it immediately. Oh God, can’t I just run my fingers through it? Just once? I breathed deeply and my eyes slid into the back of my head.
All too soon, we were at my door and I slid off, away from her warmth, away from her scent.
I walked up the steps and turned back around. “Goodnight, Cricket Hunt.”
“Goodnight, Spencer Blackwell.”
I laid down and tried to sleep. I knew I was going to be exhausted the next day as it was, but I couldn’t keep my thoughts from straying toward Cricket.
I used to keep this obnoxious list of criteria for the girls I dated. I would often hang with my friends and we would amend it, sharpen it up, add a few things. I kept the list and used it, even after I graduated prep school. These were the basics.
1) She must be a minimum of five foot ten.
2) Her hair can never be cut above the shoulders.
3) No fatties, but she has to maintain enough curves to satisfy.
4) No smaller than a C-cup.
5) Private school educated.
6) She must run in our circle.
7) Minimum seventy-five thousand dollar vehicle.
Now for my more personal preferences:
8) Blonde.
9) Elegant features.
10) Perfectly symmetrical face.
11) Facial features must look balanced.
12) No nicknames.
13) Quiet.
14) No clingers.
I’d memorized the list. Oh my God, I thought, what a douche I’ve been.
Cricket had obliterated it, just annihilated my previous criteria. She only shared a few attributes on the list, but I’d discovered something that evening that startled me. It didn’t matter to me what I wanted before, because I somehow didn’t want that anymore. I wanted someone short, thin and wispy with chin-length dark hair. Someone with grit, with gumption, with personality, with character, with humor. Someone who represented feisty, capable and talented. Someone like Cricket.