Cicadas

It started with a smile neither of them really understood. By nine, Jake Monroe felt the Fort Worth summer pressing through his work shirt as he rolled a dolly of water jugs across the cracked asphalt behind Lewis Supply Co. Cicadas rattled loud enough to make the whole town vibrate. It wasn’t a bad life, just a loop.

“You ever notice how summers get shorter once you work through them?” Danny asked. “You blink, and you’re buying a turkey.”

Jake shoved the empty dolly back down the ramp. “You’ve been saying that for five years.”

Danny smirked. “I’m serious. One day, we’re gonna look up, and this will be all we ever did.”

Jake thought about the enlistment packet in his glove compartment, his name printed neatly across the top, the ship date circled in blue ink.

“Maybe not,” he said.

“Maybe not,” Danny echoed, eyeing him. “You thinking about doing something else?”

“Working on it,” Jake said and turned toward the alley before Danny could ask more.

He was halfway across the lot when a pale blue Ford sedan bumped in from the street. He knew the car before he knew why; the Staffords’ old Ford, same faded paint, same missing hubcap.

The passenger door opened. A woman climbed out, one hand up to block the sun.

Erin Stafford.

She wore a faded college t-shirt and cutoffs. Her gaze slid past him, scanning the yard. Then it stopped, and the question on her face melted into recognition.

“Jake?” she called. “Jake Monroe?”

He let go of the dolly handle. “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, Erin.”

She crossed the gravel. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.

“Sadly, Lewis Supply is very real.”

She laughed, and suddenly they were sixteen again on the bleachers, making fun of the marching band.

“You work here now?” she asked.

“Yep,” he said. “Delivery. Somebody has to keep the water flowing.”

“You always did like to carry things,” she said.

“You home for the summer?” he asked.

“All summer,” she replied. “Then London. Master’s program.”

He repeated the word before he could stop himself. “London.”

She smiled like it was both a dream and a sentence. “My mom needed me to drop paperwork off to Mr. Lewis, so I thought I’d get it over with before the afternoon heat tried to kill me.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You escaped.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Escaped for now. Came back voluntarily, so it barely counts.”

He held her gaze a second too long. “Well, welcome back anyway.”

She let that hang, then tilted her head. “We should catch up,” she said. “Properly. Not in a parking lot where you’re melting into the asphalt.”

He smiled despite himself. “You asking me out, Stafford?”

“I’m asking you to meet me at the Cicada at seven,” she said. “You still know where it is?”

“Hard to miss the classiest bar in Tarrant County,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “See you there.”

He watched her go inside. The lot felt brighter and smaller.

“Was that Erin?” Danny called from the bay.

“Maybe,” Jake said.

“You look like someone dropped a toolbox on your head,” Danny said. “You’ve always had a thing for her.”

“Get back to work,” Jake muttered, and didn’t deny it.

The Cicada’s lights glowed low and familiar. Erin was already there, on a stool at the end of the bar. Warm lights washed over her hair, turning the copper strands a shade of yellow at the edges. She had a glass with a lime wedge sweating on the rim.

“You’re punctual,” she said when he saddled the seat next to her.

“You doubted me,” he said.

“In high school, you were late to everything,” she said. “You called it ‘arriving with a presence.’”

He winced. “That sounds like me.”

“It was very you,” she said, smiling.

The bartender slid a beer in front of him and disappeared again. For a moment, they just looked at each other, letting the awkwardness pass.

“So,” Erin said. “Catch me up, Monroe. What did I miss?”

“Not much,” he said. “Work. Helping my mom. Watching Danny hit on people out of his league.”

“That’s a full-time hobby,” she said. “Anybody special?”

He shook his head. “Not really. You?”

“A few disasters. One almost not a disaster. No one worth a cross-country move.

“But London is worth it,” he said.

“Sometimes it feels that way,” she said. “Sometimes it feels like I jumped on a train because it was the only one in the station.”

“Who takes trains anymore?”

She laughed. “You know what I mean. I’m good at school, so everyone assumed the next steps: Ivy League, grad school, one of those jobs where you apologize for being busy.”

“You don’t want that?” he asked.

“I do,” she said. “I think I do. I just…” She traced a ring of water. “I miss being in a place where people know who my parents are. I miss deciding something is good because it tastes good, not because an online list said so.”

“This place isn’t on any lists,” he said.

“That’s kind of the point,” she replied.

He watched the way her eyes softened when she talked bout here. The girl who had cannonballed into every pool life offered was suddenly unsure which one she wanted to stay in.

“What about you?” she asked. “You ever think of leaving?”

He thought of the packet in the glove compartment. “Sometimes.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere that is not on my route,” he said lightly. “Haven’t figured out the rest.”

She held his gaze like she knew there was more, then let it go. “Promise me something,” she said.

“Big ask for a first drink,” he said.

Promise you won’t call this place a trap just because you’re still in it,” she said. “It’s easy to make a town into the villain because nothing else is changing.

He thought about that. “Fair.”

“Good.” She leaned back, tension leaving her shoulders. “Now tell me something that will make me feel better about my life choices. How is Danny?”

He snorted. “He’s still trying to impress girls by telling them he knows a guy with a boat.”

“You don’t know anyone with a boat,” Erin said.

“He has an uncle with a canoe,” Jake said. “Same thing in his mind.”

She laughed so hard she had to press a hand to her chest. They stayed until the chairs were stacked. When they stepped outside, the air felt softer, heat finally giving up where darkness began.

In the parking lot, she hesitated by the Ford.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” she confessed.

He tried to play it off. “Somebody has to keep the water flowing.”

“I mean it,” she said.

He swallowed. “Me, too.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. It was quick and warm enough to tilt his whole evening on a different axis.

“See you tomorrow? She asked.

“He didn’t even pretend to think about it. “Yeah.”

They slipped into a summer without planning to. Most days followed the same rough pattern. Jake worked his route. By the time he clocked out, Erin would be leaning against his truck, holding milkshakes or gas station tacos or a bag of fries from the drive-thru that still used paper hats.

“Hydration inspection,” she’d say, handing him something cold. “You look parched.”

“You say that to all the delivery drivers?” he asked.

“Only the ones I know from algebra,” she said.

At Lake Worth, they met up with Danny, who belly-flopped for attention. Erin rolled her eyes and clapped anyway. When the sun dipped low and the air cooled by a fraction, she would sit next to Jake on the edge of the dock, feet in the water, shoulders brushing.

“I forgot how the sky looks here,” she said once.

He glanced up. It was the same big Texas bowl as always. The stars were big and bright.

“What’s different?” he asked.

“Up there, there’s always something in the way,” she said. “Buildings, clouds, expectations.”

“You have those last ones here, too,” he said.

“And better queso,” she added

He wanted to tell her she made everything feel bigger, but the words felt raw.

One humid evening, after Danny left early for a shift, they stayed on the dock alone. Erin sat cross-legged, hands braced behind her, T-shirt clinging to her from swimming. Jake sat beside her, toes in the water.

“You ever feel like you’re living the default version of your life?” she asked.

“Only when I clean the coffee pot at work,” he said.

“I mean really,” she said. “Like, you stepped into a script someone else wrote, and everyone keeps nodding because you’re hitting your marks.”

He thought about his route. House, office, office, restaurant, house. Think about leaving, put it off. “Yeah,” he said.

She looked over at him. The dock light caught the side of her face, softening the sharpness he had seen earlier.

“I keep thinking about what would have happened if I had stayed,” she said. “Would I be here with you anyway? Would we be… this?”

His pulse jumped. “You mean us dating?”

She laughed quietly. “Is that what this is?”

“Feels that way,” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

“Yeah,” she said, voice low. “Me, too.”

She leaned toward him. He leaned toward her. The kiss happened in the middle, slow at first, then deeper when she hooked one hand behind his neck and pulled him closer. The smell of sunscreen, water, and her shampoo crowded everything else out.

When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay what?” he murmured.

“Just… okay,” she said, and kissed him again.

The world didn’t change after that.

His alarm went off at six. The trucks still needed loading. Old man Lewis still yelled about invoices. But the dull parts of Jake’s day started to feel like the time between songs instead of the whole playlist.

At night, Erin stretched out across the bench seat of his truck with her bare feet on his thigh, talking about classes and professors and how weird it was to live in a place with actual seasons. He told her about cookie-tipping customers and the time Danny backed his truck into a hedge and tried to blame a squirrel.

They avoided talking about London. He skipped over the part about the Army entirely. Both futures hovered just outside their shared frame, like actors waiting offstage.

At a backyard barbecue in late July, that future stepped closer.

They stood by the grill with paper plates when a woman from their graduating class swung over, beer in hand.

“Erin!” she squealed. “I heard y’all goin’ to London! That’s insane! You’re never comin’ back, right? God, if I were you, I wouldn’t.”

Jake felt his jaw clench.

Erin smiled politely. “I’m coming back for Christmas at least.”

“No, seriously,” the woman said. “You made it out. Why would you ever wanna live here again?”

Erin watched her wander off before she could answer, the smile sliding off her face.

On the drive home, the air felt thick.

“She kind of has a point,” Jake said.

Erin turned her head. “About what?”

“People leaving,” he said. “People staying. You left. She didn’t. You did what everyone talks about.”

“So that makes me better?” she asked. There was no softness in her voice now.

“I didn’t say that,” he said.

“You didn’t have to,” she replied. “You think I came back here for charity?”

“I think you came back because you can leave again,” he said. “It’s different when you’re the one who goes.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Is that what you think of me?” she asked. “A visitor?”

“You tell me.”

“At least I’m honest about it.”

“That supposed to mean something?” he asked.

“It means I’m not pretending this is permanent,” she said. “I’m here because I wanted to be. With my family. With you. That counts.”

He almost said, I’m leaving, too. The words stalled on his tongue.

“She looked out the window. “Pull over.”

“We’re almost to your house,” he said.

“Pull over,” she repeated.

He did. She opened the door and stepped out, then leaned back in.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said. “Especially with you. But if you’re going to hold my choices against me, this isn’t going to work.”

“I’m not holding them against you,” he said. “I’m just…”

“Stuck,” she finished. “Figure out if you want to be.”

She shut the door and walked away.

After two afternoons apart, he came out of the warehouse to find her sitting on the hood of his truck.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied.

“I don’t want to spend our last two weeks together angry.”

“Ten days,” he said.

“What’s in ten days?” she asked.

He swallowed. The heat in the lot felt sharper.

“You’re not the only one with a date,” he said. “I ship out in ten days.”

She stared.

“Army,” he said. “I signed in May. Basic training, then wherever they send me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to watch you do the math every time you looked at me.”

A dry laugh escaped her. “You’re an idiot.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said.

She stepped closer. “So. Ten days.”

“Yeah.”

She took a breath. Do you want to spend those days pretending none of this is happening?

He thought about the long, quiet nights he would probably have in barracks, the way this summer would echo there whether he invited it or not.

“No,” he said.

She nodded once. “Good answer.”

They stopped going to parties. Stopped inviting other people along. Time felt like a resource they had finally found the bottom of.

They spent a whole afternoon on his mom’s sagging couch watching old movies with the sound off, making up their own lines. They drove out past the edge of town and lay in the bed of his truck, playing “Satellite or Star,” then went to the diner off Belknap where they used to split fries as teenagers.

At one point, Erin stared at the menu and said, “There’s a version of me that stays.”

“Here?” he asked.

“Not just here,” she said. “Here with this.” She waved a fry between them. “I know what that life looks like. I can see it.”

“And?” he asked.

“And there is another version that keeps going,” she said. “London, somewhere after that. People whose names I can’t imagine yet. I don’t know which one I’m allowed to miss more.”

On his last night, his suitcase sat by his bed, half unzipped. His mother had hugged him three separate times and threatened to mail him vitamins.

He drove to Erin’s house with his stomach in knots. The porch light was on. She opened the door before he knocked, wearing an old concert T-shirt and shorts, and her hair pulled up. She looked younger and older at once.

“You packed?” she asked.

“Mostly,” he said. “You?”

She nodded toward the corner of the living room; a suitcase stood ready. They stepped out and sat on the steps. The yard stretched, grass gone patchy from the heat.

“When I was a kid, this yard felt like a whole world,” she said. “I thought it went on forever.”

“Perspective is rough,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “I keep thinking there is a right way to do this. To say goodbye. To make it hurt less.”

“I don’t think there is,” he said. “I think there’s only honest and not.”

She looked at him, eyes dark in the porch light. “Then honestly, I’m glad I came back. Even knowing how much this hurts, I’m glad.”

“Me, too,” he said. “If it didn’t hurt, I’d be worried it wasn’t real.”

She huffed a small laugh that broke into something like a sob. “That’s a terrible comfort.”

“It’s the only one I have,” he said.

He took her hand. She turned it over and traced his palm with her thumb, memorizing every line.

“I love you,” she said.

He knew that. He felt it in a hundred small ways. Hearing it still knocked something out of place inside him.

“I love you, too,” he said.

They let the words sit, heavy and right, without trying to fix anything with them. After a while, she squeezed his hand and stood.

“Walk me to the front,” she said.

At the door, she leaned against the frame, one arm wrapped around herself.

“This isn’t a promise to wait,” she said quietly. “I don’t think that would be fair to either of us.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’m not asking.”

“But,” she said, smiling through the wet in her eyes, “I don’t think this goes away. Not for me.”

“Or me,” he said.

They kissed one last time. It was careful, as if they were setting something important down where it would not break.

“Goodbye, Jake,” she whispered.

“Goodbye, Stafford,” he smiled.

He walked down the path to his truck. The engine turned over, and he backed into the street. She stood framed in the doorway, porch light behind her, hand lifted.

He raised his own hand. Then he turned the corner, and the house, and her, and the block where he had spent his whole life, fell out of sight.

The next morning, his recruiter would check him into a budget hotel near the processing center. In four days, she would watch Texas shrink to patches of green and blue beneath her.

Years later, if someone asked each of them when they first understood how beginnings and endings sometimes occupy the same breath, they might talk about other things. But alone, on quiet nights, their minds would drift back to this town and this summer. To a warehouse lot and a lake serenaded by cicadas.

And always, in that private memory, it would start the same way. It started with a smile neither of them really understood.