But then . . . he does.
He sits me on the bus stop’s fold-down seats, and he lets go, and he won’t look at me. We wait in agitated silence. The distance between us grows with each passing minute. Will he take my arm again, or will I have to take his? I steal a glance, but, of course, I can’t see his expression. Our bus exhales against the curb, and the door whooshes open.
Cricket reaches for me.
I look at the yellow glow in the sky that can only be the moon. Thank you.
We climb aboard, and before I can find my Muni pass, he’s paid for my ticket. The bus is empty. It rumbles forward, not waiting for us to sit, and he grabs me tighter. I don’t need to hold on to him, but I do anyway, with both hands. We lower ourselves into a seat. Together. I’m clutching his shirt, and his heart is pounding like a drum.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He peels off my hands and turns toward the aisle. “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is,” he whispers back.
And I feel like the world’s biggest jerk.
“Right.” I sink as far away from him as possible. “Sorry. No.”
Max’s ghost takes a seat between us. It spreads out its legs territorially. The bus is cold, and the ride to the station is short. This time, I have to take his arm. He leads me robotically. Our trip from Van Ness to the Castro is bleak. The train rocks back and forth through the dark tunnels, and my humiliation grows bigger and bigger with each forced jostle against his shoulder. I need out. NOW. The doors open, and I race through the station and out the turnstile. He’s on my heels. I don’t need him.
I don’t need him, I don’t need him, I don’t need him.
But I trip on the sidewalk again, and his arm is around my waist, and when I pull from his grasp, he only tightens it. There’s a silent struggle between us as I try to wriggle my way out. “For a skinny guy, your arms are like a steel trap,” I hiss.
Cricket bursts into laughter. His grip loosens, and I break away, stumbling forward.
“Oh, come on, Lola.” He’s still laughing. “Let me help you.”
“I’m never going anywhere again without a backup vision plan.”
“I should hope not.”
“And I’m only accepting your help because I don’t want to run into something and accidentally rip this glorious polyester uniform.”
“Understood.”
“And none of this has changed anything between us.” My voice shakes.
“Also understood,” he says softly.
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
Neither of us moves. He’s leaving it up to me. I tentatively reach for him again. He extends his arm, and I take it. The gesture of one friend helping another. There’s nothing more, because as long as there’s Max, there can’t be anything more. And I love Max.
So that’s that.
“So,” Cricket says, one quiet block later. “Tell me about this famous dress.”
“What dress?”
“The one you’re making the stays for. It sounds important.”
My conversation with Max rushes back in, and I’m embarrassed. Dances are such feminine affairs. I can’t bear to hear scorn from Cricket, too. “It’s for my winter formal,” I say. “And it’s not important.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s . . . just a big dress.”
“Big like a parachute? Big like a circus tent?”
As always, he makes me smile when I’m determined not to. “Big like Marie Antoinette.”
He whistles. “That is big. What are those things called? Hoop skirts?”
“Sort of. In that period, they were called panniers. They went out to the side, rather than around in a perfect circle.”
“Sounds challenging.”
“It is.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Maybe it would be if I had any idea what I was doing. Panniers are these giant, structural contraptions. Making them isn’t sewing; it’s construction. And I have illustrations, but I can’t find decent instructions.”
“Do you want to show me the illustrations?”
My brow creases. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I could figure it out.”
I’m about to say I don’t need his help, when I realize . . . he’s exactly the right person for the job. “Um. Yeah. That’d be nice, thanks.” We’ve reached my steps. I gently squeeze his arm and let go. “I’ve got this part.”
“I’ve taken you this far.” His voice becomes unsteady. “I can take you that much farther.” And he reaches for me one last time.
I brace myself for the contact.
“Cricket!” A call from between our houses, and his arm drops like an anchor. She must have been taking out the trash. Calliope hugs him from behind, and I can’t really see her, but she sounds like she’s about to cry. “Practice was a nightmare. I can’t believe you’re here, you said you couldn’t come. God, it’s good to see you. I’ll make hot cocoa and tell you all—Oh. Lola.”
Cricket is oddly petrified into silence.
“Your very kind brother walked me home from work,” I explain. “My glasses broke, and I’m completely blind.”
She pauses. “Where is it you work again?The movie theater?”
I’m surprised she knows. “Yeah.”
Calliope turns back to Cricket. “You went to the movies? What about that huuuge project due tomorrow? I thought that’s why you couldn’t come home. How strange.”
“Cal—” he says.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” She stalks away.
I wait until she’s inside. “You have a project due tomorrow?”
He waits a long time before answering. “Yes.”
“You weren’t coming home tonight, were you?”
“No.”
“You came home for me.”
“Yes.”
We’re quiet again. I take his arm. “Then take me home.”
Chapter eighteen
I’m encouraging him. And I can’t stop.
Why can’t I stop?
I press my palm against the front door, and my forehead comes to rest against it, too. I listen to his footsteps descend on the other side. They’re slow, unhurried. I’m the one making our lives harder. I’m the one making this friendship difficult. But he’s the one who won’t stop coming back. He’s smarter than that. He should know it’s time to move on and to stay away from me.