Lola and the Boy Next Door

He watches me wring my hands. “Cool nails,” he finally says.

They’re black with a pink stripe down the center of each nail. And then . . . I know how I can touch him. “Hey. Let me paint yours.” I’m already getting up for my favorite dark blue polish. Somehow, I know he won’t protest.

I carry it to the floor, where he’s still leaning against my bed. He sits up straight. “Will this hurt?” he asks.

“Badly.” I shake the bottle. “But try to keep your screams low, I don’t want Nathan coming back.”

Cricket smiles as I reach for my chemistry textbook. “Put this on your lap, I’ll need a steady surface. Now place your hands on it.” We’re close to each other, much closer than we’ve been while working on my dress. “I’m going to take your left hand now.”

He swallows. “Okay.”

Cricket holds it up slightly. Tonight the back of his hand has a star drawn on it. I wonder what it means as I slide my hand underneath his fingers. His hand twitches violently. “You’ll have to hold it steady,” I say. But I’m smiling. Contact.

I paint his nails Opening Night blue by the light of the moon. Our grips relax as I focus on my work. Slow, careful strokes. We don’t talk. My skin and his skin. Only a book between my hand and his lap. I feel him watch me the entire time—not my hands, but my face—and his gaze burns like an African sun.

When I finish, I lift my eyes to his. He stares back. The moon moves across the sky. Her beams hit his eyelashes, and I’m struck anew that I’m alone, in the dark, with a boy who once shattered my heart. Who would kiss me, if I didn’t have a boyfriend. Who I would kiss, if I didn’t have a boyfriend.

Who I want to kiss anyway.

I bite my bottom lip. He’s hypnotized. I lean forward, moving the curves of my body into the slender shadow of his. The air between us is physically hot, painfully so. He glances down my shirt. It is very, very close to his line of vision.

I part my lips.

And then he’s stumbling away. “I want to,” he croaks. “You know I want to.”

He tests the bridge for firmness and springs onto it. Cricket Bell doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t see the tears spilling down my face. The only thing he leaves behind is a smudge of blue polish on my window frame.

Chapter twenty-four

Loooo-laaaa. Beautiful Lola.” Franko’s eyes are red and dilated. As usual.

I dig through the box-office drawers, throwing dry pens and dusty instruction manuals to the floor. “Have you seen the ink cartridges for the tickets?”

“No, but have you seen the popcorn today? It’s so . . . aerodynamically inclined. I think I might’ve eaten some. Do I have kernels in my teeth?”

“No kernels,” I snap.

“I think I have kernels in my teeth. Like, right between my front teeth.” He stands, and his tongue explores his own mouth in a disgusting form of self–French kissing. “The strings are beautiful tonight.”

“Sure. The strings.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t cut one, but if I did, I’d say . . . that’s a beautiful string.”

Seriously, if he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m strangling him. My patience is at an all-time low. I wave my arms at St. Clair, who is ripping tickets tonight. There’s no one around, so he strolls over. “For the love of God, you two have to switch jobs,” I say.

“You’re beautiful, St. Clair,” Franko says.

“Everyone is beautiful to you when you’re high.” He sits in Franko’s seat. “Scat.”

Franko lumbers away.

“Thank you,” I say. “I just . . . can’t handle that right now.”

He gives me a full-bodied shrug. “Right now or for the entire month of November?”

“Don’t even,” I warn. But it’s true. Since my complete and total humiliation with Cricket two weeks ago—and his subsequent disappearance from my life—I’ve been extremely unpleasant. I’m hurt, and I’m angry. No, I’m furious, because it’s my stupid fault. I threw myself at him. What does he think of me now? Obviously, not much. I’ve called him twice and sent three apology texts, but he’s ignored them all.

So much for Mr. Nice Guy.

“Mr. Nice Guy?” St. Clair asks. “Who’s that?”

Oh, no. I’m talking out loud again. “Me,” I lie. “Mr. Nice Guy is gone.”

He sighs and checks the clock on the wall. “Fantastic.”

“I’m sorry.” And I mean it. My friends—Lindsey, Anna, and St. Clair—have all been patient with me. More than I deserve. I told Lindsey what happened, but St. Clair, and through him, Anna, must have heard some version of something from Cricket. I’m not sure what. “Thank you for taking Franko’s place. I appreciate it.”

The European shrug again.

We work quietly for the next hour. As the minutes tick by, I feel more and more guilty. It’s time to change my attitude. At least around my friends. “So,” I say during the next customer lull. “How did it go with Anna’s family? Didn’t her mom and brother visit for Thanksgiving?”

He smiles for the first time since coming in here. “I wooed them off their feet. It was an excellent visit.”

I grin and then give him a nod with exaggerated formality. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says with equal formality. “They stayed with my mum.”

“That’s . . . weird.”

“Not really. Mum is cool, easy to get along with.”

I raise a teasing eyebrow. “So where did YOU guys stay?”

“Where we always stay.” He stares back solemnly. “In our very separate dormitories.”

I snort.

“What about you?” he asks. “Did you spend Thanksgiving with the boyfriend?”

“Uh, no.” I stumble through an explanation about Norah being difficult and Max being busy, but it sounds hollow and forced. We’re silent for a minute. “How do you . . .” I’m struggling to find the right words. “How do you and Anna make it work?You make it seem easy.”

“Being with Anna is easy. She’s the one.”

The one. It stops my heart. I thought Max was the one, but . . . there’s that other one.