“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.
His arms slacken. “You look incredible.”
Oh. Right. It’s been a month since he’s seen me in anything other than black. I give him a shy smile. “Thank you.”
Cricket points at my coat. “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I was on my way out.”
“Meet me on the sidewalk first? Would your parents would mind?”
“They’re not home.”
“Okay. See you in a minute?”
I nod and hurry downstairs. “I’ll be back in an hour,” I tell Norah. “There’s something I have to do. Tonight.”
She mutes the television and raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Does this mysterious errand have to do with a certain guy?”
I’m not sure which one she means, but . . . either is correct. “Yeah.”
She studies me for several excruciating seconds. But then she un-mutes the television. “Just get back here before your parents do. I don’t wanna have to explain.”
Cricket is waiting at the bottom of my stairs. His willowy figure looks exquisite in the moonlight. Our gazes are fixed on each other as I walk down the twenty-one steps to my sidewalk. “I’m going back to school,” he says.
I nod at his bag. “I guessed as much.”
“I just wanted to say goodbye. Before I left.”
“Thank you.” I shake my head, flustered. “I mean . . . I’m glad. Not that you’re going. But that you found me before leaving.”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We’re quiet for a minute. Once more, I smell the faintest trace of bar soap and sweet mechanical oil, and my insides nervously stir.
“So . . . which way?” He gestures in both directions down the sidewalk. “Where are you going?”
I point in the opposite direction from where he’ll go to catch his train. “That way. There’s, uh, some unfinished business I have to attend to.”
Cricket knows, from my hesitation, what I’m talking about. I’m afraid he’ll tell me not to go—or, worse, ask to escort me—but he only pauses. And then he says, “Okay.”
Trust.
“You’ll come home soon?” I ask.
The question makes him smile. “Promise you won’t forget me while I’m gone?”
I smile back. “I promise.”
And as I walk away, I realize that I have no idea how I’ll manage to stop thinking about him.
The dread doesn’t hit until I arrive at his apartment and see the familiar brown stucco walls and pink oleander bush. I glance up at Max’s apartment. The light is on and there’s movement behind the curtain. Doubt creeps in like a poisonous fog. Was it wrong of me to come here? Is it selfish for me to want to apologize if he doesn’t want to hear it?