Free When Cicadas Cry by Laura Miller Page A

just, all of a sudden, turned orange and red—just like it does every fall. Her back’s against this old maple tree, and it’s just the two of us against the world.
    She smiles and bows her head before findin’ my eyes again. I already figured someone had to have told her that by now.
    “Well, then, has anyone ever told you that your eyes look oddly similar to mine?”
    She laughs to herself as her stare turns down again. “No,” she says, lookin’ back up at me. “No one’s ever told me that my eyes look oddly similar to Remington Jude’s eyes.”
    “They do,” I assure her. “I think they’re the same color...almost.”
    “Almost?” she asks.
    “Yeah,” I say, “yours have this little touch of dark to them, like the sky does on one of those days. You know, the kind of day when you don’t know if it’s about to open up and throw down a funnel of wind or buckets of water?”
    She just looks up at me. She’s biting her bottom lip. It distracts me so much that I can’t take my eyes off her mouth, and soon enough, my lips are touchin’ hers.
    The kiss is momentary, but the moment seems as if it hangs in the air—suspended like a bird in the wind. And in that moment, my heart is full, and my life is hers. I know it. She knows it. We both know, without sayin’ a word, that no matter what happens between the two of us, I will always belong to this girl.
    “Ashley?”
    “Mm-hmm?”
    “I really like you,” I say, softly restin’ my forehead onto hers. My heart is beatin’ so hard in my chest that I feel as if I should be able to literally hear its thumps.
    I kiss her sunburned lips again, and then I softly kiss her neck and then her suntanned collarbone. I couldn’t possibly feel any more for this girl. I’ve already given her everything I have. And I should be scared as hell knowin’ that, but I’m not—not even one bit.
    “How did you know my name?” she asks.
    “What?”
    “At the dance, you knew my name. We hadn’t met.”
    I look down at the grass at our feet. “Oh, that.”
    She smiles. “Yeah, that.”
    “I asked,” I say, shruggin’ my shoulders. “Carol, at Sander’s Market, knew. She must have seen your name on your debit card or somethin’.”
    “Aah,” she says, slowly nodding.
    “Yeah,” I go on, “the first time I saw you, you were in the store, and you were wearin’ this tee shirt that was tied in a knot at the bottom. And you had this lace...”
    “Crocheted.”
    “What?”
    “Crocheted. The skirt,” she says.
    “Yeah, I guess. You had this crocheted, long, black skirt on with flip flops. And your hair was down, and it was wavy. And I just... You looked up at me...and it was as if your eyes cut right through me. And I know this sounds crazy, but you literally took my breath away. I just had to know your name. So, as soon as you left, I asked Carol.”
    “You remember all that?” she asks.
    “Of course. How could I forget? That image of you standin’ there is tattooed on my brain. I don’t think I could forget even if I wanted to. And I don’t...want to.”
    Her smile grows as she leans into me. I put my arms around her and let my hands rest on the bare part of her back. She’s wearin’ one of those cut-off tee shirts. I savor the way her soft skin feels against my fingertips.
    “Wait,” I say, pullin’ away from her a little. “How do you remember what you were wearin’ when I first saw you?”
    She bows her head before lookin’ into my eyes. “It was the first time I saw you, too. I was wearing a white top and the skirt. You were wearing a gray, Cardinals tee shirt and dark jeans. I was buying orange juice. You were holding a carton of milk. And you stopped. You literally stopped and looked up at me. And I smiled at you. And you didn’t smile back.”
    I laugh once. “What?”
    “You didn’t smile back,” she repeats.
    “No, that’s not me. I would have smiled at you.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “That’s crazy talk,” I say.
    “I’m