Chapter 30
Cricket Jenkins
I wake up to my phone chiming, alerting me that a text has come through.
I groan and roll over, not wanting to wake up just yet.
The hotel sheets are silky against my skin, far more luxurious than my cotton ones at home, and I burrow deeper into their cool embrace.
I was having a wonderful dream. Micah and I were in the Christmas display, and I’d had the courage to press my lips to his.
The world was suspended in time as his lips moved over mine, soft and warm and tasting faintly of peppermint.
But I’m awake now, and my dream has dissolved like sugar on my tongue, leaving only a bittersweet ache in my chest. I grab my phone from the nightstand, squinting against the bright screen in the dimly lit room. It’s River texting.
I think it’s time to break up.
I rub my eyes, unsure that I’m seeing his text clearly through my grogginess. The words blur and refocus as I blink. And then I remember the charade. Making Micah jealous.
I text him back.
Are you giving up trying to make Micah jealous?
No, it’s time for phase two.
I slowly nod as I text him back, my fingers still clumsy with sleep.
What’s phase two?
His text comes quickly.
Where we break up in front of Micah, so he’s there to pick up the pieces.
Sadness envelops me as I think about River’s plan. Could that work? I’m not even sure his jealousy plan worked. But I’m tired of pretending to be with River in front of Micah, so I text back.
Sure. When should we break up?
Today. I’ll let you down easy, but you can still be upset about it.
Guilt constricts my throat for lying to Micah, but it’s too late to go back on it.
All right.
I roll out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, the plush carpet soft beneath my bare feet. We fly home this afternoon, and we made plans to walk to the Venetian and see the gondolas before we head to the airport.
I shower, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of sleep, and get dressed in comfortable jeans and a soft sweater that still smells faintly of home. Then I meet River and Micah.
The Horseshoe’s lobby is all marble and gold accents, designed to impress, but it feels cold compared to the cozy charm of Willow Shade.
We walk through the casino to get outside, passing rows of flashing slot machines and the soft chinking of coins dropping.
The air is thick with cigarette smoke and artificial air freshener, and I wrinkle my nose.
Las Vegas in daylight is a strange contradiction.
All the lights seem somehow muted under the harsh desert sun.
The famous Strip stretches before us, and while it was fun, I’m ready to go back home to the quiet beaches and slow pace of life where the only sounds are seagulls and waves lapping against the shore.
As we walk, dodging tourists and street performers, a group of three teenage girls stops Micah.
“Are you Midnight Velocity?” one of them asks.
He blushes and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, his shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah.”
The girls squeal, the sound sharp enough to make nearby pedestrians turn and stare. “We just love your music!” the tall one says. “Can we get your autograph?”
I watch closely, cataloging the signs I’ve learned to recognize. The tight set of his jaw, the way his breathing changes, the slight tremor in his hands. I step closer and put out my hand. “Micah can sign a few things, then we need to get going.”
Micah gives me a grateful smile. I get their names, and Micah signs their backpacks. I make sure they keep their distance so Micah’s not overwhelmed. After they get autographs, they take a photo with him then disappear into the crowded streets, their excited chatter fading into the urban din.
Micah clasps my arm. “Thanks.”
I smile at him. “You handled that well. You didn’t freak out or anything.”
He blushes as we join the throng of people walking down the street. “Because you helped.”
“Still, you didn’t seem to get as anxious.” I study his face, noting how his shoulders have relaxed again.
He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar it makes my heart flutter. “You were right. The meds are helping. And the doctor taught me a couple of things I can do to help with the anxiety.”
I smile at him, happiness blooming warm in my chest. As we walk, Micah and I chat about the flight home and what we want to do first when we get back to the island, but River seems unusually quiet.
His usual easy smile is strained, and he keeps running his hand through his hair.
I turn to him, concerned by his silence.
“You okay?”
He smiles, although it seems forced. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just… that sort of thing used to happen to me all the time. Now, well, I bet those teens have never even heard of me.”
The sadness in his voice tugs at my heart. Micah frowns at him, his brow creasing with genuine sympathy. “Sorry, man. That’s got to suck.”
“I just have to accept that I’m starting a new era in my life.” River’s voice is resigned, and I can hear years of disappointment weighing down each word.
We get to the Venetian and take the moving sidewalks into the building. The inside is designed to look like Venice, complete with a painted sky ceiling. River suggests we get some coffee at a small shop tucked between faux Italian storefronts.
We walk to the counter and order. I get a caramel latte, Micah gets black coffee, and River orders something complicated with multiple shots of espresso.
We sit at a little round table with wrought iron chairs that dig into my back.
The ambient noise of tourists chattering creates a constant buzz around us.
Micah and I drink our coffee, the corrugated cardboard sleeve warm against my palms. River fidgets with his cup, turning it in endless circles without taking a sip.
“Is your coffee okay?” I ask him, noticing the way he keeps staring into it like it might hold answers.
“It’s fine.” He sets it down then sighs deeply, the sound heavy. He reaches across the small table and takes my hands in his. “I need to be honest with you, Cricket.”
This is it. He’s going to do the breakup. Guilt once again assaults me, but I nod at him like I don’t know what he’s going to say. “Okay.”
“This isn’t working out between us,” River says, his voice soft.
I blink at him, unsure how I should act. I can’t cry on purpose; I’m not an actor. So I put on a frown and try to look sad.
River goes on, his eyes glistening with what looks like real emotion. “It’s nothing you did. I’m just going through a rough patch right now, and I think it’s best if we stop seeing each other.”
If I didn’t know any better, I would think he’s really torn up about this, the way he’s looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes, the slight quiver in his voice. I don’t know why his agent dropped him. He’s great.
I nod, feeling awkward and exposed, like everyone in the coffee shop is watching our drama unfold. “Okay,” I say again, not trusting myself with more words.
“I’m going to head out. You two stay. I bought us a gondola ride, but I don’t feel like going, so you two go. I’ll text you the tickets.”
River squeezes my hands and then leaves, weaving through the maze of small tables until he disappears into the crowd of tourists.
I sit there, feeling too guilty to say anything.
Does Micah know it was fake? I feel so awkward.
The artificial Italian music playing over the speakers suddenly seems too loud.
Micah clears his throat, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet between us. “Are you okay, Cricket?”
I nod, feeling weird about this whole charade, like I’m wearing clothes that don’t fit. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” His gray eyes search my face intently, and I can see concern creasing the corners.
“Seriously, that jerk just dumps you like that? In front of me? What a totally rotten thing to do.” Micah’s face flushes red, and he clenches his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “I really want to pound him right now.”
My insides turn into melted chocolate, warm and gooey and sweet.
Micah’s angry on my behalf, his protective instincts flaring like a knight defending his lady’s honor.
That’s such a sweet, swoony thing for him to do, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and smooth the angry lines from his forehead.
“It’s okay,” I say, holding up my hand to calm him.
“Don’t get mad at him. This is for the best.”
Micah stands and pulls me up, his hands firm and steady on my arms. The warmth of his touch sends little sparks up my skin. He grabs our empty cups and tosses them into the trash with more force than necessary. “Let’s go take your mind off that jerk.”
It’s super sweet to see Micah all worked up over my fake breakup, his protective side on full display. Ironically, I wasn’t even that upset when River broke up with me for real.
“Let’s go take that gondola ride,” I say. “We shouldn’t waste the tickets.”
Micah raises his eyebrows, genuine surprise flickering across his features. “Really? You still want to do that?”
“Of course. It will help take my mind off… things.” I feel guilty for lying to Micah, the deception sitting heavy in my stomach like undigested food.
“All right. You deserve it. Let’s go.” There’s something fierce in his voice, like he’s personally going to make sure I have a good time.
I pull up the tickets on my phone, and we walk to the designated area past shops selling overpriced souvenirs. A few people are in line ahead of us, so we wait until our turn, the anticipation building like butterflies in my stomach.
When it’s time, the gondolier helps Micah and me onto the boat.
He’s a middle-aged man with an impressive mustache and a striped shirt that completes the stereotype.
The gondola rocks gently under our weight, and I instinctively grab Micah’s hand to steady myself.
We settle in on the cushioned bench seat, the worn velvet soft beneath us, close enough that our thighs are touching.
The gondolier rows us down the fake river with practiced strokes, his oar cutting through the surprisingly clean water, and begins singing something in Italian, his rich baritone echoing off the walls and painted ceiling.
The whole thing is romantic, designed to mimic rowing through the canals in Venice, and the gentle motion of the boat is soothing.
Micah puts his arm around me, and I snuggle into him, breathing in his familiar scent of sandalwood soap and something uniquely him that I could recognize anywhere. His body is warm and solid against mine, and I feel safe. He kisses the top of my head, his lips soft against my hair.
“I’m so sorry River broke up with you.”
The kiss warms me to my toes, but it’s his tenderness that nearly undoes me. “Thanks.”
“It’s okay if you’re really upset about it. You don’t have to pretend to be okay around me. You know you can cry if you need to.” His voice is soft and understanding, full of care and concern.
I tear up, not because I’m broken up about River but because Micah’s being so sweet right now, so tender toward me, like I’m something precious that needs protecting.
The shops on either side of us blur as moisture gathers in my eyes.
I blink back tears as I look up at him, studying the concerned expression on his beloved face. “You’re sweet.”
He pulls me tighter to his side, his arm a comforting weight around my shoulders. “That’s right. Let it out. I won’t judge you. You know that.”
I do know that. He’s charming and a great support to me.
And lately, he’s been listening to me more, really listening instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.
Really caring about my writing, asking thoughtful questions about my hopes and dreams. He’s been there for me in a way he hasn’t in the past, present and engaged instead of distracted by his music or his own problems.
I don’t know why, but this realization makes me cry even more.
Probably because I know what a wonderful boyfriend Micah would be if he could just see me as a woman instead of the girl down the street who he’s played with since we were little.
If he could look at me the way River did, with desire and possibility instead of comfortable familiarity.
An ache forms in my chest, sharp and persistent like a bruise that won’t heal.
I’m used to feeling pain when I think about how much I want Micah to love me, but this is different.
This is a bone-deep sorrow because the man that I want to hold me and love me is right here beside me, his arm around me, his lips pressing gentle kisses to my hair.
But he feels nothing for me. To him, I’m just Cricket, the girl next door who’s always been there, as familiar and unremarkable as the furniture in his childhood bedroom.
The gondolier’s singing grows more passionate, and the romantic mood mocks my unrequited love, highlighting everything I can’t have despite how close it seems.