I get the feeling she wants to end the date, so I take another step back. “Well, see you around.”
She seems relieved that I don’t want to kiss her—or ask her out again. “Yeah. See ya.”
I give her a little wave then walk two doors down to Cricket’s house. I unlock the door and head down to the basement. It’s quiet, and I figure Cricket’s not home yet from her date, but I call out anyway. “You home?”
No answer. I walk into the bedroom, get out my guitar, and settle into the familiar chair by the desk. The basement feels too quiet without her chatter filling the space.
I strum a few chords, still working on that song from the other day that isn’t done. The melody has been stuck in my head all evening, but my fingers feel clumsy on the strings. Every time I close my eyes to focus, I see Cricket and River by the fountain. The way he leaned in. The way she didn’t pull away. The kiss they shared.
I shake my head as I grab my notebook and flip to a clean page. I hate my lyrics, so I start over.
I’m losing her like sand through my fingers.Don’t know why it matters. Don’t know why I care.Something’s changing, and I can’t stop it.
I stare at what I’ve written and frown. These lyrics are garbage. Dark and whiny. I rip the page out and crumple it up, tossing it toward the trash can. It misses.
I try writing more lyrics, this time going for something upbeat, but the words that come out are:
Watching from the sidelines as she finds someone new.Wondering why my chest feels tight.Like I’m losing something I never knew I had.
“What is wrong with me?” I mutter, tearing out another page. I haven’t written anything this depressing since I was a moody fifteen-year-old. My songs are usually happy and fun. Lighthearted, not whatever emotional vomit this is.
I don’t understand why I can’t get it together. Just when I’m about ready to sign a huge contract, suddenly I can’t write anything good? Tension sits on my shoulders.
The sound of the front door opening upstairs makes me sit up straight. Cricket’s voice drifts down as she calls out that she’s home, and then I hear her footsteps on the basement stairs. I come out of the bedroom to talk to her.
“Hey,” she says, appearing at the bottom of the steps. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s got that dreamy look girls get after a good date. It makes my stomach twist in a way I don’t understand.
“How was dinner?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but the words come out faster than I intend.
Cricket plops down on the couch and kicks off her shoes. “Really good. River took me to La Cantina del Sol. Did you know he speaks three languages? And he’s read basically every classic novel ever written.”
“That’s… great.” I set my guitar aside and sit next to her. “So what else did you guys do?”
She gives me a curious look. “After the ceremony, we walked around the square for a while. Talked a lot. Then went to dinner. Why?”
“Just wondering.” I fidget with my guitar pick. “Did he… I mean, did you guys…”
“Micah, what’s with the twenty questions?”
The words burst out before I can stop them. “I saw you kissing him by the fountain.”
Cricket’s eyes widen, and color floods her cheeks. “You were spying on me?”
“No! Kiera and I were leaving the cafe and I just… saw.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling like an idiot. “Look, I’m not trying to be weird about it. I want to make sure you’re being careful.”
“Careful of what?”
“Of getting too attached too fast.” The words feel heavy as I say them. “Cricket, you barely know this guy.”
“What does that mean? You’ve kissed girls on the first date, and I’ve been out several times with River.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt if he’s just… I don’t know, a player or something.” I have no idea why those words came out of my mouth, but I go with it anyway. “He was laughing with Kiera.”
Cricket’s expression shifts to one I can’t quite read. “You think he was flirting with her?”
“I think he’s a guy who notices pretty girls, maybe even when he’s on a date with one.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, and I’m not even sure I believe them. But I want Cricket to be cautious. I need her to slow down.
She’s quiet for a long moment as she picks at a thread on the couch cushion. “You think I’m pretty?”
