When Cicadas Cry Page 5

  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.”

  She doesn’t say anything at first, but somehow I can tell her smile is sincere, and maybe it’s because her eyes are as bright as that dusk-to-dawn light we just passed. “Wow, that explains it then,” she eventually says, right before another pause. “I graduated from the University of Minnesota this past spring...”

  “The University of Minnesota, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  I try to swallow.

  “I’m twenty-three,” she says.

  “Well,” I say, clearin’ my throat. “I can assure you, I’m the oldest twenty-one-year-old you’ll ever meet.”

  She laughs and elbows my arm. I don’t miss the fact that she touches me—even if it was just her elbow.

  “We’ll see about that,” she says, givin’ me another challengin’ smile.

  I love that smile. God, I love that smile.

  We walk a few more steps, side by side, and then all of a sudden, she stops.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Bamboo plants,” she says.

  I look in the direction she’s lookin’. Rose Darren has been sellin’ these funny-lookin’ plants for decades here. There are rumors that her house is lined wall to wall with the things and that she even put the ashes of her late husband
in one of the plants she sleeps with every night. But I can neither confirm nor deny the rumors because, honestly, when you hear that story as a kid, you tend to keep your distance. Hell, I didn’t even know what the funny-lookin’ things were called until just now.

  I watch Ashley walk over to the stand and focus first on a plant with two long, green stems juttin’ out of a glass jar.

  “Two stalks mean love...and luck,” she says.

  I walk closer to her and give the plant a funny look. I always thought they looked like pigs’ tails the way they curl at their ends. Love or luck never came to mind.

  I watch her as she moves over to a jar with three long, green stems stickin’ out of it next. And without even knowin’ I’m doin’ it, I memorize the way she gently brushes her fingertips over each stem. There’s a certain awe and tenderness in her movements. I’ve never seen anybody treat a plant that way. And I know it might sound crazy, but just like that, I gain this new admiration for her.

  “Three stalks mean happiness, a long life and wealth,” she says, draggin’ me out of my thoughts.

  I look up at her expression now. It’s soft and thoughtful. “How do you know all this stuff?”

  She runs her fingers over the little leaves of the plant. “My grandmother loves these things. She knows what each one means.” She pauses on a leaf and then takes her hand back. “Every number of stalks means something different.”

  I nod and smile, and at the same time, make eye contact with Rose, who’s sittin’ behind the wall of plants. She’s in a lawn chair, knittin’ something long and blue. She pretends to be a bystander to our conversation, but I know she’s secretly listenin’. I notice her look up and smile every once in a while. And I notice somethin’ else, too: She’s not nearly as scary as my eight-year-old mind made her out to be.

  “I like the two stalks, I think,” Ashley says. “I mean, what good is a long life and wealth if you don’t have love?”

  She looks up at me with the question still hangin’ in her eyes.

  “Good point,” I say. “We’ll take the jar with the two...uh...”

  “Bamboo stalks,” Ashley says, finishin’ my sentence, thankfully.

  I reach for my wallet in my back pocket.

  “No,” she says, touchin’ her hand to my arm. “You don’t have to get it.”

  “But I want to,” I assure her.

  I pull out a bill and hand it to Rose. “Plus, Rose would have never let me get away with lettin’ you pay for a love plant.” I give Rose a wink.

  “That is true,” Rose says. The gray-haired woman gives me a stern look, but it’s quickly followed by an approving smile. And the smile doesn’t go unnoticed as I pick up the jar and hand the plant to Ashley.

  “Your love plant,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says, taking the plant. She looks happy. I hope she is.

  We continue walkin’ then, until we reach the park bench on the other side of Sunny Square, aptly named Shady Park, a few minutes later. The bench sits right on top of the levee and overlooks the river. It’s dark now, and without lights, it’s even darker on this side of the block. In fact, until my eyes adjusted, I couldn’t even see my own hand right in front of my face. But now, after a few moments, everything’s a little clearer.

  I take a seat, and she does too, as my eye catches on her love plant she’s settin’ on the ground at our feet.

  I smile, then I look up and see the stars are poppin’ out of the black sky now, and below, the water is flowin’ like thick, dark oil inside the river’s banks.

  “So, what was your major?” I ask, lookin’ over at her.

  “Literature,” she says, findin’ my eyes before returnin’ her gaze to the river.

  “That makes sense—the children’s books.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees.

  “So you like it—what you do?” I ask.

  She hesitates for a moment. “Yeah,” she says, noddin’ her head. “Yeah, I do...for now.”

  I look over at her. “Then what? What big dreams do you have up your sleeve, Ashley Westcott?”

  “Well...” I think I notice her inhale a little. “Someday, I’d like to write a book.”

  “A children’s book?”

  “Maybe...or maybe one for grown-ups. But that’s a long way off.”

  “A novel?”

  She just smiles.

  “Wow, that’s some big stuff, Miss Westcott.” I look out onto the black water, takin’ in the way the tiny waves break, pickin’ up what little light there is to pick up from the moon and the stars. “The most I’ve ever written was a letter to my mom when I was in the second grade. It was a five-page dissertation on why I needed a dirt bike.”

  She laughs. “Did it work?”

  “No,” I say, lowerin’ my head. I listen as her voice continues to hitch in soft laughter.

  “But you know,” I say, memorizing the way her laugh sounds to my ears, “it doesn’t have to be...a long way off? You could start your novel now, right?”

  Her smile grows a little wider. She almost looks giddy, like her heart is just plain full. “Well, I don’t exactly have a story, yet.”

  I nod. “Well, I suppose someday you will.”

  “I hope so,” she says, lookin’ as if that dream is just plastered right on her eyelids, just out of reach.

  “Come here,” I say, gesturing her closer to me. I don’t know where the bravery comes from all of a sudden. In that moment, she just looked so happy, so beautiful, so full of life; I couldn’t help but have her nearer to me.

  She eyes me hesitantly.

  “Come on,” I say, noticin’ her pause. “It’s only a limited-time offer. You refuse now, I’ll have to leave the offer open indefinitely, and then my credibility will be shot to hell.”

  She looks as if she tries not to laugh right before she closes the gap between us. And when I feel her warm body press up against mine, I put my arm around her bare shoulder and squeeze her even closer. This feels right. In fact, this feels better than right.

  “What about you?” She looks up at me with a playful, little look.

  “What about me?” I ask.

  “Oh, come on, Remington Jude, I know you dream. I can see it in your eyes.”

  I laugh. “In my eyes, huh?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says. “You ain’t foolin’ a soul.”

  I look down at her nestled in the crook of my arm. “Where did that sweet, little small-town accent come from?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe it just comes with the territory.”

  “Aah, I see.” I feel myself chuckle a little more.

  “Now, tell me your dreams, small-town boy,” she demands.

  “All right,” I say, a smile playin’ on my face. She settles into my arm, and I take a second to gaze out onto the river. “I think I want to travel. I’ve been thinkin’ about it a lot lately. I’ve been here my whole life, and besides Austin, I haven’t really seen too much. I’ve got these pictures...in my mind...of places I want to go. And I figure if I get to see even one of them in this life, I’d be pretty darn happy.”

  She glances up at me with a pair of warm eyes, and it’s almost as if she gets lost there for a moment.

  “What?” I ask. “It’s a stupid dream, isn’t it? I know it’s not about a career or anything. But I’m already happy doin’ what I do...”

  “No,” she says, stopping me short. “I think that’s a nice dream.” She says her last word and then rests her hand on mine.

  My gaze falls to our hands. The feel of her skin touchin’ mine makes me forget about everything but her touch. And slowly, my stare wanders back to her beautiful light eyes. And that private moment passes between us again. I like you. I think you like me. I want you, and I think you want me, too. I don’t want this moment to end.

  And then, without another thought, my lips are moving toward hers. And it’s as if my world just breaks open when our lips touch. I close my eyes, and I can’t think of anything better th
an kissing her, until she kisses me back, and then I can’t think of anything better than her kissing me back. Her lips are soft, and her kiss is hungry. I just want more of her. I take my arm from around her shoulders, and I gently touch my fingertips to her suntanned face. And she kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before. She kisses me like she knows me, even though this is our very first kiss and we’ve only really known each other for a week. It’s comfortable but also new and exciting, and I’m findin’ out fast that I just can’t get enough of her. I just can’t get enough of the sweet taste of her lips and the way her mouth moves along mine. It’s sexy and so damn addictive. But before too long, I need a breath. I try to fight it. I try to fight it with everything I have in me. But in the end, nature wins, and after a few lightning-fast moments, our kiss breaks.

  I lean my forehead against hers. I’m smilin’, and I can hear my breathing. “Ashley Westcott,” I manage to get out, “you’re one hell of a kisser.”

  I can feel the breaths from her soft laugh hit my lips.

  “It must be part of my wild side,” she whispers, her siren-like voice slowly pullin’ me more and more in.

  God, I want this girl so bad.

  “It must be,” I say, laughin’ under my breath. “That frosted-flake lifestyle really did you in.”

  I can’t see it, but I’m almost certain a playful smile fights its way to her mouth. “I guess it did,” she softly confesses.

  She keeps her forehead pressed against mine for a few more seconds, and then she pulls away slightly, and her green-eyed stare carefully wanders back into my eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper, “your secret’s safe with me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Present

  Rem

  The guys are over. The game’s about to start. This time, Mike went to get the cheeseburgers from Hall’s, and he’s not back yet, but Jack’s sitting on the couch playin’ with his phone, and I’m in my chair.

  “I saw her,” I say, barely over a mumble. I’m not sure yet if I want him to hear it. I just know I need to say it.

  He doesn’t look up. It doesn’t even look as if he heard me. I sit back in my chair and breathe a little sigh of relief. I said it. That’s all that matters.