Lola and the Boy Next Door

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.

I don’t want him to stay away.

What DO I want? The answers are murky and unreadable, though it’s clear I don’t want another broken heart. Not his and certainly not mine. He needs to stay away.

I don’t want him to stay away.

“That Bell boy grew up well,” Norah says.

I startle. She’s in the turquoise chaise longue that rests against the front bay window. How long has she been here? She must have seen us. Did she hear us? She watches him, until I assume his figure disappears, before turning her attention to me.

“You look tired, Lola.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Fair enough.”

But she’s right. I’m exhausted. We stare at each other. Norah is blurry, but I can see enough. Her gray shirt hangs loosely against her chest, and she’s wearing one of Andy’s grandmother’s old quilts wrapped around her for warmth. Her long hair and her thin arms are limp. Everything about her hangs. It’s as if her own body has rejected her.