over. His fingers slide through my hair and hold it back while I scrub. His physical presence against me is soothing. The face powder, mascara,

false eyelashes, and blush disappear. I dry my face, and my eyes find his in the mirror. My skin is bare and pink.

He stares back with unguarded desire.

Nathan clears his throat from the doorway, and we startle. “So what are we going to do about your hair?” he asks.

My heart falls. “I guess I’ll wear a different wig. Something simple.”

“Maybe . . . maybe I can help,” Cricket says. “I do have some experience. With hair.”

I frown. “Cricket. You’ve had that same hair your entire life.

Don’t tell me you style it that way yourself.”

“No, but . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sometimes I help Call with hers before competitions.”

My eyebrows raise.

“If you’d asked me yesterday, I would have said it was a seriously embarrassing skill for a straight guy.”

“You’re the best,” I say.

“Only you would think that.” But he looks pleased.

It’s in this moment that I finally register what he’s wearing. It’s a handsome skinny black suit with a shiny sheen. The pants are too short—on

purpose, of course—exposing his usual pointy shoes and a pair of pale blue socks that match my dress exactly.

And I totally want to jump him.

“Tick tock,” Nathan says.

I scooch past Cricket, back into my bedroom. He gestures to my desk chair, so I lift my skirts up and around the back, and I find a way to sit down. And then he finger-combs my hair. His hands are gentle and quick, the movements smooth and assured. I close my eyes. The room is silent as his fingertips untangle the strands from roots to tips and run loose throughout my hair. I lean back into him. It feels like my entire body is blossoming.

He leans over and whispers in my ear, “They’ve gone.” I look up, and, sure enough, my parents have left the door ajar.

But they’re gone. We smile. Cricket resumes his work, and I nestle into his hands.

My eyes close again. After a few minutes, he clears his throat.

“I, um, have something to tell you.”

My eyes remain shut, but my eyebrows lift in curiosity. “What kind of something?”

“A story,” he says.

His words become dreamlike, almost hypnotic, as if he’s told this to himself a hundred times before. “Once upon a time, there was a girl who talked to the moon. And she was mysterious and she was perfect, in that way that girls who talk to moons are. In the house next door, there lived a boy. And the boy watched the girl grow more and more perfect, more and more beautiful with each passing year. He watched her watch the moon.

And he began to wonder if the moon would help him unravel the mystery of the beautiful girl. So the boy looked into the sky.

“But he couldn’t concentrate on the moon. He was too distracted by the stars.”

I hear Cricket remove a rubber band from his wrist, which he uses to hold a twist of my hair.

“Go on,” I say.

I hear the smile in his voice. “And it didn’t matter how many songs or poems had already been written about them, because whenever he thought about the girl, the stars shone brighter. As if she were the one keeping them illuminated.

“One day, the boy had to move away. He couldn’t bring the girl with him, so he brought the stars. When he’d look out his window at night, he would start with one. One star. And the boy would make a wish on it, and the wish would be her name.

“At the sound of her name, a second star would appear. And then he’d wish her name again, and the stars would double into four. And four became eight, and eight became sixteen, and so on, in the greatest mathematical equation the universe had ever seen. And by the time an hour had passed, the sky would be filled with so many stars that it would wake his neighbors.

People wondered who’d turned on the floodlights.

“The boy did. By thinking about the girl.”

My eyes open, and my heart is in my throat. “Cricket . . . I’m not that.”

He stops pinning my hair. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve built up this idea about me, this ideal, but I’m not that person. I’m not perfect. I am far from perfect. I’m not worth such a beautiful story.”

“Lola. You are the story.”

“But a story is just that. It isn’t the truth.” Cricket returns to his work. The pink roses are added. “I know you aren’t perfect. But it’s a person’s imperfections that make them perfect for someone else.”

Another pin slides into place as I catch sight of the back of his hand. A star. Every star he’s drawn onto his skin has been for me. I glance at my doorway to make sure it’s still empty, and I grab his hand.

He looks at it.

I trace my thumb around the star.

He looks at me. His eyes are so painfully, exquisitely blue.

And I pull him down into me, and I plant my lips against his, which are loose with surprise and shock. And I kiss Cricket Bell with everything that’s been building inside of me, everything since he moved back, everything since that summer, everything since our childhood. I kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone before.

He doesn’t move. His lips aren’t moving.

My head jerks back in alarm. I’ve acted rashly, I’ve pushed him too quickly—

He collapses to his knees and yanks me back to his lips.

His kiss isn’t even remotely innocent. There’s passion, but there’s also an urgency verging on panic. He pulls me closer, as close as my dress and my chair allow, and he’s gripping me so tightly that I feel his fingers press through the back of my stays.

I pull back, gasping for breath. Reeling. His breath is ragged, and I place my hands on his cheeks to steady him. “Is this okay?” I whisper. “Are you okay?”

His reply is anguished. Honest. “I love you.”

Chapter thirty-four

Moonlight shines into my bedroom and reveals his fragile state.

“I didn’t say it so you’d say it back,” he says. “Please don’t say it if you don’t mean it. I can wait.”

I rise and detach my gown from the chair. And then I help him stand, and I place his hands around my waist. I lean onto my tiptoes, rest my fingers against the back of his neck, and kiss him gently. Slowly. His tongue finds mine. Our hearts beat faster and faster, and our kisses grow hotter and hotter, until we burst apart from breathlessness.

I smile, dizzily, and touch my swollen lips. These are not the kisses of a sweet, wholesome boy next door. I draw him closer by his tie and whisper into his ear, “Cricket Bell, I have been in love with you for my entire life.”

He doesn’t say anything. But his fingers tighten against the back of my bodice. I ache to press my body into his, but my dress is making full

contact impossible. I wiggle into a slightly better position. He glances down and notices that I’m still wearing a certain blue something, and, this time, it’s his index finger that wraps underneath my rubber band.

I shiver wonderfully. “I’m never taking it off.” Cricket brushes the delicate skin of my wrist. “It’ll fall off.”

“I’ll ask you for another one.”

“I’ll give you another one.” He smiles and touches his nose to mine.

And then he spasms violently and pushes me away.

Someone is coming upstairs. Cricket grabs the songbird off my desk and shoves it into my hair as Andy pops his head in. My dad gives us a look. “Just making sure everything is okay. It’s getting late. You should get going.”

“We’ll be down in a minute,” I say.

“You’re not even wearing shoes. Or makeup.”

“Five minutes.”

“I’m timing it.” Andy disappears. “And it’ll be Nathan up here next,” he calls out.

“So what do you think?” Cricket asks.

“You’re good. Very, very good.” I poke his chest, giddy with the knowledge that I can touch him now whenever I want. “How did you get so good?”

“It’s safe to say that you’re the one who brings it out of me.” He pokes my stomach. “But I meant your hair.”

I’m beaming as I turn toward the mirror, and . . . “OH.” The updo looks professional. It’s tall and splendid and elaborate, but it doesn’t overwhelm me. It complements me.

“This is . . . it’s . . . perfect.”

“You will never tell anyone I did that on pain of death.” But he’s grinning.

“Thank you.” I pause, and then I look down at my pale blue fingernails. “You know that thing you said about someone being perfect for someone else?”

“Yeah?”

My eyes lift back to his. “I think you’re perfect, too. Perfect for me. And . . . you look amazing tonight.You always do.” Cricket blinks. And then again. “Did I black out? Because I’ve daydreamed those words a thousand times, but I never thought you’d actually say them.”

“THREE MINUTES,” Andy calls from downstairs.

We break into nervous laughter. Cricket shakes his head to refocus. “Boots,” he says. “Socks.”

I point them out, and while he finishes prepping them, I mascara my lashes, powder my face, and gloss my lips. The makeup is dropped into my purse. I have a feeling I’ll need retouching before I come home. Cricket sweeps me up by my waist and carries me to the bed, and I’m lifting my

skirts as he sets me down on the edge. His eyes widen, but it turns into more laughter when he sees how many layers are underneath.

I grin. “There’s more than panniers under here.”

“Just give me your foot.”

From downstairs: “ONE MINUTE.”

Cricket kneels and takes my left foot into his hands. The sock comes on too fast. My boot squeaks as he slides it over my leg.

His careful, quick fingers lace it all the way up to my knee, where they linger ever so slightly. I close my eyes, praying for the clock to stop. He tugs and tightens the buckles. And then he repeats everything on the other side.

Somehow, this is the sexiest thing that has ever happened to me.

“I wish I had more feet,” I say.

“We can do this again.” He tightens the last buckle. “Anytime.” There’s a knock against my door frame as Betsy eagerly bounds toward us. My parents are both here. Cricket helps me stand.

Nathan’s expression softens into astonishment. “Wow.” I hesitate. “Good wow?”

“Standing ovation wow,” Cricket says.

The way everyone is staring makes me nervous again. I turn toward the mirror, and I see . . . a magnificent gown and beautiful hair and a glowing face. And the reflection smiling back at me is Lola.

“One more,” Andy says. “From the side, so we can see the bird in your hair.”

I turn my head to pose for another picture. “This is the last one.”

“Did you get a shot with the boots?” Nathan asks. “Show us the boots.”

I lift my hem and smile. “Tick tock.”