She remembered a discussion she’d overheard that day in the office. Cindy and Purnima had come in from lunch talking about the insects’ seventeen-year cycle and the noise they’d make this year—not to mention the empty exoskeletons they’d leave behind. George hadn’t lived in the area for the last cicada visit, and she didn’t seem to have any around her place, so she could only guess how loud it would get.
Someone had left a copy of the Gazette in the waiting room, and George had read through the feature, headlined CICADAS: SEVENTEEN-YEAR ITCH. She was fascinated. To live for such a short time, only to plant your seed for the next generation and die off…
A wave of sadness overcame her, heavy and familiar. A glance at her watch showed it was too late to call the in-laws.
Somewhere close by, a car door slammed, and she heard voices. Jessie and her son. It must be, since nobody else lived that close by.
Behind her, Leonard announced his arrival with a trilling meow before butting his head against George’s leg. She bent to pick him up just as the cottage screen door squealed open, then slammed shut, only to open again before someone went barreling out into the yard next door.
A second later, the door opened, and a woman’s voice called out. “Gabe! Put your shoes back on! The yard’s a mess!” George craned her neck to see past her landscaping and the tall wooden fence. There was no response. “Gabe Shifflett, you get in here right now, or I’ll… Oh, whatever.” The woman’s voice trailed off, and as she turned to go inside, she glanced at George’s place. Their eyes met with recognition. “George?”
“Jessie!” George called. “You all moved in?”
“Hey, yeah! Wait, this is your house? I thought you were farther down. I thought this place was—” The woman interrupted herself, and George wondered what she’d been about to say.
“This is me.”
“What’re you up to? Wanna come over for pizza? We can sit on the porch and watch it not rain.”
“Well, I…” George searched for something to say, some reason to refuse. And then, suddenly, it occurred to her that she didn’t have to. Jessie was nice. This could be good. A friend. A wish come true. “Why don’t you come over here, instead? I imagine you’re not all unpacked and… Oh, hey, I’ve got cider!”
“Cider?”
“Hard cider. Like beer, only”—George shrugged—“for lightweights.”
“Can I bring my monster?” Jessie asked.
“Of course!” George said through a bubble of excitement.
Inside, her eyes took in her house, wondering what someone like Jessie would think of the bright-colored, barely controlled chaos. It’s fine, she decided, ignoring the self-doubt. Her house was hers, and if people didn’t like it, they didn’t have to come over. On that thought, she pulled out a cider, searched frantically for a good minute and a half for something with which to open it before realizing that her can opener had the right attachment, and took a calming swig.
Okay. You can do this. You can have someone in your house. You can be friendly. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.
No big deal, she thought, throwing seed packs into drawers, straightening up random piles of catalogues and medical journals, in a frenzy of last-minute activity. No big deal having actual friends and an actual life after so many years without. Only it was a big deal.
Having a life—being alive, in fact—was a very big deal when you’d put a husband in the ground and had assumed you’d live the rest of your days alone.
* * *
The liquor store was still open. Clay breathed a sigh of relief.
“Can I help you?” the cashier asked when he made his way inside, and Clay tried his hardest to appear innocent.
“Vodka?”
“Sure. Back corner,” she said in a voice that was friendlier than he’d expected.
He grabbed the biggest, midgrade bottle he could find—just one bottle, he decided; he’d stop after this one—and headed back up front, head low and cap down to shield him from the cameras above the register.
“That it, baby?”
Baby? Clay glanced up in surprise. Nothing, just mild friendliness. Christ, he’d never get used to the South.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thirteen oh seven.”
He handed her a twenty and watched her chubby hands deftly handle the change, despite the half-inch false nails tipping her fingers. He’d never understand stuff like that—why someone would purposely handicap themselves. His eyes flicked to her face, round and bland-looking, then up to sprayed-up blond bangs, then back down over a lumpy body. So, decoration. Harmless peacocking from a woman who hadn’t been dealt the best hand. With a mental shrug, he took his change and gave her a smile.
