A Field Guide To Catching Crickets: ( a sexy second chance tearjerker romance )

by Unknown

  “Can I talk to you?” she whispers in my ear, up on her toes.

  “Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

  She scoops her arm into mine and leads me away from the guys. “If Oma corners you tonight, or, or anyone in my family, can you…”

  “What?” I chuckle, noticing glitter on her face.

  “Are you even listening to me?” she says nervously, fingering a growing rash at her collarbone.

  I cup her jaw with my hand. “You look gorgeous tonight.”

  “Can you take me seriously for one minute? I’m trying to tell you something,” she says in challenge, a stick planted firmly up her ass.

  “I am. Very.”

  “Jesus, Hawke. I’m asking you something—stop drooling like I’m candy. It makes me nervous—my family talking. Could you avoid them? Just for tonight?”

  “I’m in quarantine?” A wedge of anger stabs my gut as I run my hands through my hair. “Of course. I’ll avoid every-fucking-one.” I shake my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Is this why you pulled me away from Fletch and the guys too?”

  “Well.” She sighs. “There’s more we need to talk about, and this weekend is not the time.”

  “Tell me something. You ever gonna trust me like you do everyone else? What is this crap? You’re asking me to avoid your family? My best friend is getting married, and he’s your brother. I’ll talk to him or anyone else in your goddamned family if I want to. Are you trying to fuck this up? Just level with me once and for all.”

  “This? What’s ‘this’?”

  “Us. You and me. We have this gorgeous universe between us, and you seem intent on seeking out a black hole.”

  “I’m afraid once everyone gets drinking they’ll get loose-lipped,” she says, twirling a chunk of hair in her trembling fingers.

  “Didn’t we go through this earlier? May as well get it all out on the table. God forbid someone does slip up and tell me whatever it is you don’t want me to know.”

  “You’re not being fair. You don’t understand,” she says, her eyes big as saucers.

  “Well, if that isn’t a crash-dummy-tested response. Fair? I don’t understand? The fuck I’m not fair. You’re starting to feel like a timeshare—one I have zero access to. How is it I feel like a damn birdcage liner? I’m not sure what’s worse: how much I need you or how little you seem to need me.”

  “Goddammit, Sloan. You portray yourself like you’re a trap.”

  I’ve crossed his line. What I want to tell him is, No, actually. That’s why I left in the first place.

  He walks away before I say what I should have. I just treated him as if he were a child.

  This is almost worse. He knows half. Half is worse. What the hell did I think I’d feel by telling him? Relief from my hurt and guilt?

  Quinn approaches me, cringing. “Shit. What was that? Looked like a train crash. Sounded like one too.”

  “I told him.” I roll my eyes in disgust. “Half. What was I thinking? I told him I had a baby that died. That’s it,” I whisper as she hands me her glass of champagne. I down it.

  “Well, that was dumbass stupid. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Thanks for the support. I don’t know what to do,” I say, looking around for more champagne.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Tell him everything. What was that, anyway? A little fallout from part one of your saga?”

  “No. I told him not to talk to anyone in my family tonight.”

  She laughs. “You should stop being a pussy.”

  “That’s sweet, Q.”

  “Do what’s right. Woman up.” She takes her lipstick from her clutch then grips my chin in her fingertips. “You need some color,” she says as she applies the lipstick. “What’s your plan?”

  “I can’t tell him now. Or this weekend. We need some time together. We’re just getting to know each other again.”

  “Oh, like, ‘Hey, Hawke. Welcome home to my tight snatch, and now that I’ve got you, here’s some—’”

  “Shut up!” I smack her on the arm.

  “Oh, is it not that simple? Are you guys sharing things like your favorite colors and TV shows along with the house party in your vagina? How about some real-live truths? Give him what he needs. Lay it all out on the table.”

  “I can’t do this with you. I swear, all of you are crazy!”

  “Sorry. I’m a little buzzed. And horny. Hoping one of your brothers’ll fall for me tonight.” She chuckles.

  Mama comes over to get us for the pre-wedding pictures. Thrilling. I’ll be standing next to Hawke for some of the photos. Hawke, who thinks I don’t trust him. Hawke, who can’t understand the real reason as to why I can’t trust him. And there it is. I can’t trust him. Period. I can’t trust he’ll want me once he knows everything. Because, when he does find out, being with me will be far worse than being without me.

  We all get into position for the first few group photos. Thankfully, I’m on the other side of Coco, and he’s on the other side of Fletcher. Then the awkward photos begin. I think I groan out loud when Mama barks out orders, one of which is, “Lovebirds…you’re up next.”

  Great. Let me shimmy my way into the cannon. Hawke, please do the honors and light the sucker up.

  I wonder which way he’ll point it. To Hell, I assume, and the thought makes me chuckle.

  “You need to grow the fuck up,” he says, his jaw moving Nascar fast. He avoids my eyes.

  I grin as he sears me with a scowl. It’s one part fuck you and two parts I hate you, bitch. Then his sear goes up and down my body, like I smell. I’m certain I do. Bullshit is not just a card game. Our arms touch as the photographer moves away from her other victims to us. Every nerve in my body stings when I bump against him.

  She says, “Look happy—smile.”

  I bump into him again with a juicy smile pasted on my face. He moves away, and I swallow over a dry lump in my throat.

  The photographer says, “You look like enemies. Show each other some love. Come on, you two. Get friendly.”

  Then the one glass of champagne I downed speaks up. Who knew bubbly had a voice? I step beside him and jam my elbow into him as if I’m pushing him off the earth. Amazingly, he does it back to me, which lands me on my ass. Me—in a vintage ivory dress. Me—the maid of honor in my gold-glittered shoes. On my ass in the wet, muddy grass. I give pissed off a new name right then—I call her Beelzebub. She’s one angry devil. She has a mouth too.

  “You fucking fucker, how fucking dare you.”

  Unfortunately, my brain is dropping F-bombs like it’s Hiroshima. I wish I had something intelligent to say, some wonderfully sarcastic, spite-filled quip. I’m sure I’ll come up with one later when I’m showering off the mud and my caked-on humiliation. It always works like that.

  He laughs and says, “Sorry ’bout that.” Then he cringes, followed by a smirk as he shoves one hand through his hair while his eyes rake me. Odd combination, I think. The look on my face is very, very different. Teeth bared, eyes ready to pop out of my head. Pissed. Based on the crowd around us, which includes my brothers, my parents, my best girlfriends, and so on, I’m a spectacle. Yay me. I’m surprised God himself hasn’t come to gawk. I am officially the center of attention at my brother and best friend’s wedding. And that makes me…a loser. A bigger one than I was just a few minutes ago.

  “What are you all looking at!” Several of them turn away, others step back. Well good, they heard me. Because I wasn’t enough of a spectacle before. I stagger to my feet and march away, only tripping twice. Grace-fucking-Kelly.

  I head to the cattle barn, because where the hell else does a muddy, pissed-off princess go? Luckily, I nab a glass of champagne on the way. Diesel, my old cow, happens to be in the barn. She’s ancient and loves me like I’m her own. I grab a bucket, tip it over, and struggle my way onto her back. “Diesel, baby. Hawke hates me.”

  The sweet, rotted corn tang of her burps hangs in the air. She moos. A calming low bellow that vibrate
s down her spine, tickling my legs. Maybe she feels my pain. I’m sulking. But I allow it now and again.

  Diesel moos again, when Hawke roams into the barn.

  “Ignore him, girl,” I tell her while I sip my champagne. I focus on a nearby kitten licking its paw. Don’t look at him, I coach myself. Fail. My stomach flip-flops as our eyes meet.

  “What good is a web without a spider?” Hawke asks as he stands in front of me and Diesel.

  She moos. I inspect the open barn doors. Caked on every corner, webs sparkle with water droplets.

  “Plenty good,” I tell him, catching a whiff of Diesel’s burp. Rank, and nose twitch worthy.

  “Yeah? What the hell can it do?” he asks, pulling his hand out of his pocket and bringing it to his face.

  I know what he’s doing when he dips his chin and his eyes gaze up at me through his dark sweep of lashes. He told me on the drive over that he refused to wash his hands after they’d found their way all over me earlier. He said that he wanted to smell me on himself all night long. I guess that counts right about now.

  “It can still catch things. Sunlight, water drops…a beholder’s eye,” I say, looking away from him toward the mosaic of webs.

  “Please look at me.”

  “What’s in it for you?” I ask, watching only his mouth.

  “Maybe some answers. Maybe your eyes’ll tell me what your tongue won’t. Look at me!” he yells.

  I grind my teeth and manage to kick Diesel, which has her bucking up and tossing me forward. I slam onto her neck, scrambling for balance. My lips crash into my teeth and my champagne glass falls and shatters. The copper taste of blood hits my tongue. This night is filled with silver linings. Maybe I’ll get a kidney stone during the ceremony.

  “Christ, you’re a fucking monster, aren’t you?” he says. Growls. “I’m standing right in front of you. I came to talk to you. Why won’t you look at me?”

  I glare at him, eyes narrowed. “I all but told you I was hiding under your bed. I never kept that from you.”

  “Well, thanks. At least that’s one thing.”

  “You’re bleeding. Your lip is.” I want to drag her off that old cow and kiss her bloody lips. Force her to remember what she loved about us. Were we too young to hold on to something so big? Can we not find ourselves in it again?

  “Yeah, I can taste it.”

  “I love you, dammit. You hear anything I’m saying?”

  She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand then licks it off. “I think you loved me. I think we should take I love you off the table.”

  “And put what, exactly, on it?” I ask as my stomach sinks. “You want to go backward now? Fuck, Cricket. Are you kidding me?”

  “I want to slow down,” she says quietly, “so we can get to know each other.”

  “Ten years gone and you want to slow down? Because you can’t be yourself around me anymore? That it? You need time to complete the compatibility quiz in your brain? Fine. Let’s see here.” I shove a hand through my hair as she avoids my eyes. “Friday nights with my friends? Pizza. How I occupy my free time—will that help you? I take photos, make films, play the drums, work out, read. What else would you like to know? I drive an eighty-three Porsche besides my truck. I still like the smell of your perfume, so I keep a bottle of it and spray it on the pillow next to mine in my bed, hoping one day I’ll wake up to find a woman there wearing it. You—that would be you. My house is modern industrial. I’ve owned it for five years. I still run. I have two pet rabbits. Feel better now? Can we put I love you back on the table? Because I love you like nothing else in the damn world, woman!” Words jolt out of me as I approach her.

  She says nothing back as her hand trails along Diesel’s neck.

  “And I know you love me,” I whisper, hoping she’ll look at me. “And whatever you’re working through, my love is going to help you.”

  “What are their names?”

  Their names? I pivot on my heels and charge at the wall, slamming my hand on it. “Fuck, Cricket. Fuck.”

  “That’s whatyou named them? Fuck Cricket and Fuck? Not very creative.” She hiccups then purses her lips. “You thought School Bus was a lame name?”

  “The Bonapartes,” I tell her. “Napoleon and Josephine.”

  “Oh, royals,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  I’d call the feeling we’re swimming in icy with a side of tornado.

  “Once upon a time, you really loved me,” I say. “Unless that was make-believe, too, which is what you feel like right now.” I journey over to her and rub my hand up and down her calf muscle, thinking how I’d like to run it all the way up her thigh. “You feel like a dream. I’d like to be living that dream. But it’s starting to feel like a nightmare. You just told me you want I love you off the table. Who asks to have that off the table? Who are you?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” she says in a small voice, sounding automatic.

  “Well, let me share one little piece about you. I don’t think you’re mine anymore. A few hours ago, I did. So, if you have some seismic change of heart, you let me know. My house is a few blocks from yours. You’re welcome to come over any time for whiskey. Or tea. Whatever.”

  “Hawke.” She looks at me. “Your eyes are saying goodbye, but I’m guessing your heart is saying something else.”

  “My heart?” I chuckle. “You care? Could have fooled me. My heart is saying it cannot manage to see a future without you in it.”

  “It’s just, I’ve gone through some stuff. Stuff that you… Well, we’re going to need to talk it through.”

  “Talk it through with love off the table? You want me here? Yes or no? Kick me out if you don’t. Kick me out of your whole damned life if you want. Hell, I’ve been there before—at least that’s some terrain I know how to navigate. So here goes, once and for all. What are you hanging on to that you can’t let go of? Tell me this minute. Is it worth it? Ask yourself that, because it doesn’t look like it from the outside, which is exactly where you seem to want me. So here’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. You want me in or out?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “The fuck it isn’t. It’s a few steps one way or the other.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I do. I think you’re the one who doesn’t. You let me know when you’re ready to walk back into my life. I’ll be out there, talking with your family and the others. You might want to join us because I’m the one who’ll be walking you down the aisle. At least this once, anyway.”

  Sloan and I stand side by side, waiting for our prompt to walk down the aisle, as a string quartet fills the hollow of the early evening with song. Chickens wander between chairs and children chase after them, their young mothers nervously trying to capture the kids.

  Quiet chatter surrounds us as I thread my fingers through Sloan’s hand; our ring, which is filled with dates, rolls under my thumb. I spin it a few times to feel the spots that have no dates, wondering if we’ll fill those up at some point. My hand dwarfs hers as I flip her arm and scan the line of tattooed numbers. Seven years. She had a son for seven years. And something about that fucked her up.

  Yeah, no shit, moron. He died.

  That alone could be it, but it’s not. There’s more—someone else, I’m guessing. Someone she can’t get her mind off of. I selfishly wish, If only it were me.

  It’s our turn. I glance down at Sloan, her eyes shift and mist with tears, then she drops her head onto her fingertips.

  “Hey, you ready?” This might be my only chance to walk her down a wedding aisle. And everything about that makes my guts sour.

  The world moves in slow motion around us as we step forward. Smiles and nods come at us from left and right, music cues our steps. I silently beg Sloan to want me. A moment after that thought, a stifled sob comes from her. Rivers of tears slide down her face. Are they for me, for us?

  I stare at her face throughout the ceremony. She holds
a gaze back at me most of the time as well, save a few seconds here and there. The vows are short, heartfelt, and spoken lovingly by Coco and Fletch. An ordained minister, an old buddy of ours, marries them. The rain holds off, but the tears seem to never end for my Cricket. After the ceremony, Sloan and I wordlessly walk arm in arm down the aisle. I’m wondering if we’ll talk at all again tonight.

  After making my way through the crowd, I hurry into the house to use the bathroom. I’m not much to look at right now with my muddy grass-stained ass and knees. Mascara tracked face, red puffy eyes. What must he think of me? I’m too mortified to consider. After digging around for a washcloth, I squirt lavender soap into the palm of my hand and lather the cloth. Hawke’s ring slips up and down my finger so I glide it off and set it on the sink’s edge. I scramble but miss my chance to catch the ring as it slides down the bowl and disappears.

  My lips tremble while I finger the slippery, empty drain hole. Our ring. Our history. “You idiot. You know better!” I yell at my reflection in the mirror. Blood rises in a dash of heat through my body. What am I doing?

  Hawke. My eyes prick with tears as I scurry out of the bathroom, nearly knocking my aunt over, and run to find him.

  “Mama, have you seen Hawke?” I croak out over the constraint in my throat.

  “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” She looks past my shoulder and winks. I spin around thinking it’s Hawke, but narrow my eyes on Mickey Hickey instead. “You two lovebirds having a squabble?” she asks.

  “I’ve been a jerk.” I draw in a deep, shaky breath as my pulse quickens. “I told him not to talk to any of you. He got mad as hell and I need to find him.”

  Mama takes my sundress in her hands and yanks the front taut, then brushes her fingers across the fabric. “You also need to change out of this dress, you’re a mess.”

  “A mess is right. Inside and out.” I fight to keep my voice steady as I speak through clenched teeth.

  Speed walking through the crowd while searching for Hawke, I approach Fletch and Huxley.

  “Guys, where’s Hawke?”