Greed

She sighed, deciding something then with conviction she marched over to a shelf tucked into a narrow corner of the cabin. She stretched high, trying to reach one on the top shelf but she was too short. She made a movement to find something to stand on, but I stopped her.



“I’ll get it,” I told her, slinking off the stool and stalking toward her.



She made a movement to make way for me, feinting left then right, but I blocked her in. She looked up at me and it set my heart racing. I studied her face for a moment, unable not to.



“Which one?” I asked softly.



“Th-that one,” she explained, her eyes trained on the sculpture at the far top left.



I reached over her and our bodies grazed from the proximity, sending shivers up my spine. I had never felt shivers before, not before Cricket. Not like that. Never like that.



I picked the piece up and brought it down to chest level for me, eye level for her. “This one,” I breathed.



“That’s the one,” she confirmed, not even glancing at the sculpture.



Her eyes were trained on my lips. She irresponsibly licked her own before drawing her bottom lip under her top teeth. I winced at the pain it caused me, a shot of pure fire blasted from the tips of my toes to the top of my head only to settle in the hollow of my stomach. It was a good burn though. Too good.



I uprooted my weighted feet and somehow walked away from her, but not before glancing back once more. I found Cricket had briefly sagged into the wall beside her before finding her bearings again. Click.



The fire continued to burn in my belly, knowing that if I really wanted to, I could steal a kiss. I knew if I did, though, she’d be all in then, all passion and hands, but just as quickly she’d be all out, an iron door slammed shut over the one I’d built the day we’d taken Bridge to the doctor. The one I erected only to immediately search out the weakest part. The part I shoved a boot through the second I saw Cricket Hunt in knee-highs and high-waisted shorts. And the last thing I wanted to do was create emotional distance from the very girl who sent me flying to the moon every time she licked her lips, smiled or crinkled her nose.



I set the piece down on the table and found my seat and position, sitting as I had before, as if nothing with lightning-like intensity had just transpired in that small nook. She sat in the stool on the other side of the table and watched me for a moment.



Finally, she spoke. “So,” she said, before clearing her throat, “this is, uh, one of the first pieces I made.”



I sat up, already engrossed, leaning forward and casually placing my forearms on the table. I hoped I fooled her. She inexplicably inclined forward as well, as if incapable of doing anything else.



“Yeah, so, anyway, I had just learned to weld and the work is shoddy, but it’s my proudest piece. I made it all by myself with no one’s help, and I poured myself into it.”



“It’s stunning,” I told her.



She smiled her clever smile and I almost lost my cool. “No, it’s not, but thank you.”



“It’s visually stunning, Cricket.”



Instead of continually denying it, like most girls do, Cricket said, “Thank you, Spencer.”



That kind of confidence is unbelievably sexy.



“How did you learn to weld?” I asked her.



“Pop Pop taught me. We live on a ranch. It was an inevitability. There’s always something to weld around here.”



I smiled at her.



“Tell me something.”



“What would you like to know?” she asked.



“Anything. Anything at all that you want me to know,” I told her.



She laughed quietly. “I shouldn’t care that you know anything about me, Spencer.”



“And? Do you, or don’t you?”



She shook her head. “This is dangerous,” she said, uneasy.



“We’re just talking,” I lied.



She sighed, pausing for a moment, gauging whether she wanted to open up to me. In the end, she said, “I don’t want to live here forever.”



Her face bunched as if bracing for a hit.



I laughed. “And?”



She cracked open one eye and warily peered my direction. “I can’t believe I said it out loud,” she giggled, as if she couldn’t help herself. She looked at me fully. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”



“Where do you want to go?”



“I don’t know,” she said with thought. “I guess-I guess I’ve never thought about it past that. Is that strange?”



“No, I definitely understand that. There’s a fear there. I know that fear very well.” I narrowed my brow, searching her face. “In your case, I suspect it’s a fear of hurting those you love. You don’t want to leave them, but you want to find yourself. You want this,” I told her, gesturing at the shelves filled with extraordinary creativity.



Her breaths deepened with each revelation and her eyes looked on me fiercely. She swallowed, her eyes turning glassy. “Yes.”



“When Bridge has the baby, I could take you to New York. I know someone,” I told her.



I couldn’t believe what I’d just offered, couldn’t believe what I was saying, what I was thinking, what I’d just promised.



She looked at me intensely, her hand going to her neck. I briefly observed her hands were nothing like Piper’s. Her nails were short, unpolished. Her fingers were slender and dainty. They looked so delicate to me, as if made from paper. I wanted to wrap them in my own and keep their porcelain beauty all to myself.



“I can’t,” she said, giving me the out my brain was begging for, but confusing my heart, causing it to fall at my feet.



“Why?” I stupidly insisted.



“I just…” she started, her eyes growing glassy once more. “I cannot go,” she told me gently, “and I beg you not to ask me why. Please?”



“I would do anything you asked me, Cricket,” I told her quietly.



Her eyes closed then slowly they fluttered open. “Spencer,” she breathed, slowly shaking her head.



I cemented my arms to the table, my feet to the floor. When she said my name, I very nearly pulled her into me just so I could hold her, just so I could feel her skin against mine, pull the scarf from her head, breathe in her hair. Cricket Hunt was doing things to me I never imagined I could feel.



“I know,” I breathed. “I’m sorry.”



“We have to tread carefully,” she told me.



“I understand,” I told her truthfully.



She began to dig through little pieces of metal, setting aside the ones that interested her and I examined every single movement, riveted to how graceful she was. She was the human equivalent to a butterfly. Light and airy, graceful...and defied logic.



“What are you making?” I asked her, genuinely interested.



She sported her clever smile once more to torture me. “I’m thinking three little birds in a nest.”



“Like Marley’s song,” I commented, not thinking anything of it.



She looked up at me in shock and answered with a nod.



“I’m going to hide ‘smile with the risin’ sun’ somewhere in the nest.”



“I think that’s brilliant.”



She smiled at me.



“These will be small enough that I can solder them.” She went back to studying the pile on her table and a few minutes of silence passed. “Would you like them when I’m done?” she asked, her eyes never leaving her scrap. She was insecure, wary.



I was taken aback by her offer. “I-that would be an honor, Cricket. Thank you.”



She raised her face at me. “I’ve never given any of my sculptures away,” she confessed.



“Why not?” I asked. She shrugged her right shoulder. “Have you even offered?”



“Lots of times,” she confessed sadly. “After the hundredth ‘no, thank you,’ I stopped asking.”



I was impressed she didn’t let those rejections stop her from doing something she loved. I admired courage, especially in women.



“Well, I’m flattered you asked me.”



“I know,” she said. “That gives me such a high.”



Because it’s me, or because it was anyone? I wanted to ask but couldn’t pluck up the mettle. I was afraid her answer might damage me.



“Well, happy to oblige,” I said instead.



I watched her work for close to half an hour before she took these giant sharp scissors and started shaping pieces with such ease, I wondered if she truly could be that talented.



She assembled something that resembled the shape of a bird head, but I couldn’t envision where she was going with it until, that is, she began to shape intricate feathers. One by one, she soldered them on before adding a delicate beak and eyes.



She held the finished bird head in front of me and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The work was so detailed; I didn’t think it was possible with a medium like metal.



“Cricket, I,” I began but was struck dumb. Rather than prattle on, I took the bird head in my hands, careful not to damage it, and consciously memorized it.



I handed it back to her. “I’m floored…It’s astonishing. You’re very talented.”



“Thank you,” she said, studying it with a massive smile on her face.



“You dazzle me,” I told her.



Her cheeks flamed and she bit her bottom lip, further staggering me. She checked her watch.



“Crap!” she exclaimed, breaking the moment. “It’s nearly midnight.”



I laughed. “I remember a time when midnight meant the beginning of an evening, not the decided end.”



“I’ll remember you said that when we’re shoveling horse manure at five in the morning.”



I groaned. “Definitely time to go.”



I put on my jacket and cap while Cricket reached for her headscarf, pulled it down and ruffled her bangs before grabbing her own coat. She wasn’t wearing her usual jacket but rather a floor-length brown suede one. I took it from her and helped her in it. I wanted very badly to run my hands down the curves of her coat, but I restrained myself.



“Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you a ride.”



She put out the fire in the stove and I followed her around the side of the little building to another four-wheeler. She got on and started the engine. I hesitated a moment, knowing this would be the closest my body had ever been to hers. I straddled the seat behind her, my legs bracing the sides of both of hers. My hands itched to run the length of her thighs, so I tucked them into my sides.



“Hold on,” she whispered, making me reel. I peeled my hands away from myself and wrapped them around her tiny waist. I nearly groaned at the feel of her.



We lurched forward and her hair whipped with the wind, sending the unlikely scent of her vanilla and grapefruit shampoo my way. It was such an odd combination but I recognized it immediately. Oh God, can’t I just run my fingers through it? Just once? I breathed deeply and my eyes slid into the back of my head.



All too soon, we were at my door and I slid off, away from her warmth, away from her scent.



I walked up the steps and turned back around. “Goodnight, Cricket Hunt.”