“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.”