When Cicadas Cry

by Laura Miller

  I grab the mushrooms and fly back through the bar’s back door not even a minute later and head for the kitchen.

  “Rem, what are you doin’?” Kristen asks.

  “Fryin’ up some morels.”

  “What?”

  “It’s fine, Kristen,” I say, assurin’ her. “We’ll be fast.”

  “You know, this is like 110 different health code violations,” Kristen says, her hands on her hips.

  “I won’t tell,” I promise.

  She just rolls her eyes and heads back into the area where they keep all the tables and most of the people, while I set the morels next to the fryer and look back.

  Ashley’s at the door to the kitchen. “Come on,” I say, wavin’ her in. “It’s okay.”

  It looks as if she contemplates it for a second before glancin’ over at Kristen.

  “Might as well,” Kristen says, shruggin’ her shoulders. “I’ve never won against a Jude. I don’t even try to fight it anymore.”

  Ashley smiles and then looks back at me, and before I know it, she’s plantin’ her feet right next to mine.

  “That’s my girl,” I say.

  She gives me a half-scoldin’ look before her lips turn up at their corners. I’ll take that.

  “Okay, so let’s get some breading materials together,” I say, lookin’ for the flour.

  “Ohhh...” The word that escapes her mouth sounds somewhat defeated.

  I stop and look at her. She’s got this half-smile, half-revelation thing goin’ on. “Let me guess. You didn’t bread ‘em?” I ask.

  She closes her eyes and squishes up her little nose. I just throw my head back and laugh at the ceiling.

  We make the sandwiches, but mostly, we laugh. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, and there’s flour everywhere. It’s even on her forehead. And I can’t help but love everything about this moment. I wish it didn’t have to end. I already know I’m gonna miss it when it’s gone.

  I take a bite into the bread and the morels, and I look over at her. She’s sittin’ on the counter, swingin’ her legs and chewin’ away. I could stare at her all day, and I both hate and love that thought.

  “Jeez, Rem!” Kristen steps inside the kitchen and throws her hands on her hips.

  Her shrill voice startles the both of us. I stand up. Ashley jumps off the counter, and when her feet hit the grease-covered floor, she loses her balance. I notice she’s fallin’, so I drop my sandwich and slip my arm around her waist. And for a moment, she stops fallin’ and looks into my eyes. And I see my Ashley. And I swear she sees me.

  “Okay...well,” Kristen stutters, soundin’ now almost as if she’s sorry for interruptin’ somethin’. “Karen’s comin’ in for her shift soon. Just make it look half descent again.”

  I’d turn around, but I already know Kristen’s gone. So instead, I make sure Ashley is steady, and then I back away a step.

  She straightens her tee shirt and brushes back a few stray strands of her hair. “Thanks,” she whispers.

  I just nod. I can’t seem to find any good words to say. She’s starin’ at me, and I’m starin’ back at her. There’s somethin’ still between us. I can feel it. But after a moment, she looks away, clears her throat and grabs the bag of flour, solidifyin’ the fact that the moment’s gone. And I just stand there and sigh inwardly for what feels like an eternity, before reachin’ for my sandwich on the floor.

  We get everything put away and all the counters wiped down before I walk her out to her car.

  “Hey,” I say, “you’ll send me a book when it’s finished, right?”

  She gives me that look that I never could quite figure out. I don’t know if it’s sympathy or sadness or somewhere in between. “Sure,” she says, nodding.

  Then, she turns and gets into her car.

  “Hey,” I say, regaining her attention.

  I wait until I can see her face.

  “If everything were different, would we be together?”

  Little wrinkles form on her forehead. I can tell she’s thinkin’. “Do you mean that if I lived in a fairy tale, and that if you lived in a fairy tale, and that if we both lived in that fairy tale together, would we be together?”

  I slowly nod. “Yeah,” I say. “Somethin’ like that.”

  I notice her smile, right before she bobs her head. “Yeah,” she says. “I think we might.” She stops and takes a moment before sayin’ her next words. “If there are happily ever afters in life, we just might have a chance, but...”

  She doesn’t finish her sentence, but it doesn’t matter. I already know how it ends. I take a deep breath and bob my head, too, knowingly—knowing we will never get our happily ever after.

  “Rem?”

  “Yeah?”

  She’s pressin’ her lips together and lookin’ away, like she wants to say somethin’.

  “Never mind,” she says, shakin’ it off.

  “You sure?”

  Say somethin’, Ashley. Please say somethin’.

  I know I can’t change a damn thing between us, so I don’t know why I torture myself. But I just can’t help but want her to believe in us—even if all the odds are against us, even if we screwed it all up, even if it’s all just a lie.

  “Yeah,” she says, lookin’ up at me with her pretty eyes. “It’s nothing.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, unwillingly.

  She starts up her car, and I hand her her tea right before I lightly tap the hood and step back.

  “Well, take care, Ash.”

  “You too, Rem.”

  And with that, she slowly pulls out of the gravel parking lot. I watch her car until it disappears about a half mile down the road. And then, she’s gone—she’s gone just as quickly as she had come. And I’m just left with a memory of a moment in an old bar’s tiny kitchen—a sweet, perfect memory, forever frozen in time, where we were almost us again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Past (1.5 Years Earlier)

  Rem

  “Hey, Mr. Katz.” I tip my cap to his stone. Then I turn to Owen’s. “Hey, buddy,” I say, noticin’ somethin’ hidden behind several blades of grass. It’s another postcard. I reach down and pick it up.

  This time, the card reads Fiji.

  I flip it over. As usual, there’s nothin’ on the back. It’s blank, except for the four lines that mark where an address is supposed to go.

  I turn the card back over. A photo of an island covered in palm trees and surrounded by blue-green water makes up the front of the card. I look deeper into the photo, tryin’ to imagine bein’ there. It looks so exotic, so different from what I’m used to. Even the colors don’t seem like any I’ve ever seen in real life. Hell, the place might as well be on a different planet; I can’t even imagine bein’ somewhere like that.

  I set the card back down against the gravestone and take my seat on my little stool.

  “So, you might know this already. Or maybe you don’t. I don’t know what you can see up there.” I take my cap off, run my hand through my hair and then go to habitually squeezin’ the cap’s bill until its sides are touching. “I met a girl,” I blurt out.

  I sit there quietly after I say it, imaginin’ what Owen would say next.

  “Man, I know what you’re thinkin’: Girls are trouble. Girls aren’t worth it...”

  I tug at my jeans and stretch the fabric back down to the bottom of my boots.

  “I get it, and I hear ya, but this girl’s different. I mean, she’s beautiful. And she’s, sure as hell, smarter than I am. That’s gotta count for somethin’.” I laugh and rest my cap on my bended knee. “And she’s kind, like really kind—like kinder than I’ve ever seen anybody be around here. I mean, you can really tell she cares about people. You know how most people here are. They see somethin’ every day, and it just becomes a part of life. No one ever thinks to change it up or anything. But she does. Hell, yesterday, she bought Crazy Kip a meal from Nancy’s Diner, ‘just because,’ she said. And I know it sounds cr
azy, but she’s got this story in her eyes, and I want to know it. I want to know everything about her.” I look up at the dark-blue-and-white-painted sky and then level my gaze on the tree in front of us. “This girl,” I say, shakin’ my head. “She’s just... She’s city. And well, you know, I’m pretty country. But she can sit through rush hour and not be fazed by it. Yet, she can also sit on a porch swing and just watch the sun go down for hours. And oh, man, is she sexy! Jeez, I could go on about that for days.” I stop to laugh. “But I won’t torture you with that. And I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is she’s so much of everything at one time that she makes her own type of real...and beautiful.” I stop on that word, not even carin’ that Owen would be makin’ fun of me right about now for even sayin’ the word beautiful.

  “I just wasn’t expectin’ her, you know? I didn’t see her comin’. But, I guess, it doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s here, and I’m here, and I’m glad that I’m here with her.”

  I mindlessly pick up a rock and trace its edges with the tips of my fingers. “Plus, you can’t give me too much shit. I know all about your girlfriend. Maybe you could hide the fact that you were in love in life, but you sure as hell aren’t very good at it now.”

  I smile and let the rock drop from my hands. “You probably already know this—that’s if you can see us all down here still makin’ fools of ourselves—but Jack thinks it’s Kristen. You know, leavin’ the postcards. And hell, I guess it very well could be. I’d ask her, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to spoil your secret. So, I tell you what, buddy. I just won’t ask.”

  I stop talkin’ for a few minutes and listen as the freight train passes in the distance. It roars and clanks and then roars some more, and then it’s quiet again.

  “But...,” I go on, “at the same time, it would be nice to know someday who she is. You know, if you wanted to tell me,” I add.

  My gaze slowly wanders to his stone and the indented letters that spell his name—Owen Katz. And I sit there thinkin’ about him and thinkin’ about Ashley and wishin’ these two could have met.

  “I think you would have liked her. She’s elegant and proper and all that, but she’s also got this free-spirit thing goin’ on. I guess you could say, she’s like Kate Middleton and Kate Hudson all wrapped into one—if you can imagine that.”

  I let the space around us grow quiet then, so quiet that I can hear the squirrel scamperin’ in the tree next to us. It’s really a small graveyard. I never see anyone else here. But I know people come. There’s two beer cans sittin’ next to Owen; Jack’s been here again. And of course, there’s the postcard. I laugh to myself. I guess I could set up a stakeout. Then I’d find out who’s been leavin’ these cards. But then again, somethin’ tells me Owen will let me know when he wants me to know...and not a minute sooner.

  After a little while longer of just sittin’ and thinkin’, I hear the first of the cicadas startin’ their evening cry, remindin’ me it’s gettin’ late.

  “Well, buddy, I guess I better be takin’ off,” I say, pushin’ up from the little stool. “I’ll see ya when I see ya.”

  I stand there and look at the postcard one last time. I know next time I come here, this one will be gone and another one will be in its place. I wonder where he’s goin’ next. Paris? Sydney? Naples?

  I push the milking seat closer to Owen and squeeze my cap back over my head. Then I tip my bill to Mr. Katz and start my slow trek back to the old, iron gates that flank the entrance to the little cemetery.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Present

  Rem

  I get out of my truck and make my way to the mailbox. It wasn’t a hard day at work, just a long day. When computers decide to crap out on ya, and when all you deal with is computers, that makes for a fun day.

  Inside the box, I find a couple envelopes—all junk mail—and a small package. I grab it all but look at the package first. There’s no return address on it. There’s just my address written front and center in black marker.

  I tuck the junk mail under my arm and make my way back up the driveway. And in the meantime, I try to rip the box open with my hands first, but that doesn’t work. So, I grab my keychain and use my house key to cut through the tape. That works.

  I wrestle the tape away and finally loosen one of the cardboard sides. And when I peek inside, I notice a book.

  My feet immediately stop flat on the little white rocks, and my heart comes damn near close to doin’ the same thing. At the top of the book is a name, but not just any name. It’s her name, Ashley Westcott—in big, bold, capitalized letters. And under her name, there’s a title. Worth It.

  I take a second to look at the cover. There’s a guy and a girl on it. She’s on a swing. He looks as if he’s pushin’ her. I pull back the cover and finally feel a smile pushin’ past my lips. Wow! She did it.

  I glance over the first page, and immediately, my eyes stop and come to rest on some familiar handwriting:

  Rem,

  Was it?

  Was it? I turn the page to see if there’s anything written on the back or the next page. Was it? Was it what?

  There’s nothin’ else. Just the question. I close the book and look at the cover again. It’s her name, all right. I flip it over and notice her photo on the back. It says she lives in Lakeway, has a dog named Tiger and is working on her next novel. She looks the same in the photo as she did at Hall’s—the last time I saw her. And she looks just as beautiful as the first day I met her.

  Well, I’ll be. She did it. She wrote a book—a real book. It feels a little weird to be proud of her, but I am.

  My eyes skim the back and follow over the text. The words say it’s a book about a girl who fell in love with a boy and the boy who broke her heart.

  I finish reading over the words, and then it slowly sinks in.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Past (1.5 Years Earlier)

  Ashley

  “You sure there’s a big city out this way?” Rem asks, looking out the window.

  We’ve been driving for the last forty-five minutes in Iowa. And there hasn’t been much more than fields the entire time.

  “Patience, my dear,” I say, catching his gaze for a moment. He looks so cute sitting over there in the passenger’s seat. I feel as if he doesn’t exactly know what to do when he hasn’t got a steering wheel in front of him. For the first half hour of our trip, he worked on my glove compartment. About a year ago, I stuffed the car’s manual in there and got it stuck. For the last year, I haven’t been able to open the compartment door. But that changed today—the first day that Remington Jude had to sit in my passenger’s seat for more than five minutes.

  The next project he tackled was my side mirror. Evidently, it wasn’t in the right position. He spouted off something about corners and then asked me to look into it every couple seconds.

  The last project was his seat. It’s at the perfect height and angle now, apparently. And now, I guess he’s run out of things to do.

  “You know,” I say, regaining his attention. “I’ve never actually brought a guy home before.”

  He tears his stare from the window to look at me.

  “Like ever?”

  I shake my head. “Like ever,” I repeat.

  “Well, damn it.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Well, now your parents are gonna be expectin’ this perfect guy, who’s like thirty and works for Microsoft and drives a Porsche or somethin’.”

  “What?” I start to laugh. “Why would they expect that?”

  “I don’t know. That’s who I would expect you to bring home. And I, damn sure, wouldn’t expect some country kid from Ava, Missouri, who drives a pickup truck.”

  “Then, you must not know me very well, Remington Jude. Because I’d much prefer the pickup-truck boy from Ava over the Microsoft-Porsche guy, who probably wears too much gel in his hair.”

  He looks over at me and smiles.


  “Ashley Westcott, you’re too good for me.”

  “I know,” I say, with a wide grin.

  “P.S., I don’t wear ANY gel in my hair.”

  I look over at him. He’s got this serious expression plastered to his face. “I know. That’s why I like you.”

  He reaches over then and pulls my closest hand away from the steering wheel. “I can’t wait to meet your family,” he says, kissing the top of my fingers, then cradling my hand in his.

  “They’ll love you,” I promise. “And your gel-free hair.”

  He just gives me a satisfied grin and then goes back to looking out his window again. And all I can think is: How did I ever get so lucky to find this man?

  Once we get into Omaha, traffic is traffic—bumper to bumper for several miles, but then it’s fine. We pull up into the driveway, and I can tell he’s nervous. But I can also tell he’s excited. He’s got this look in his eyes he gets when a big game is about to start or when I agree to do something like mushroom hunting with him. I can tell he’s excited, and that makes me happy.

  “So, my little sister, Lana, came home for the weekend to meet you,” I say. “She goes to the University of Nebraska, and she’s got a little bit of a hippie thing going on, just to warn you.”

  “A what?”

  “Hippie. You know? My mom thinks it’s just a phase, but I don’t think it’s a phase.”

  “Oh... I don’t think I’ve ever met a real hippie,” he says, looking a little panicked. His little scared face makes me laugh. It looks cute on him.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “She loves everyone.”

  “Okay,” he whispers. The big breath he takes doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “Seriously,” I say, “you have nothing to worry about.”

  He seems to relax a little.