Page 11 of A Little Crush
“Hey, where’s Hades?” my dad asks, leaning closer and stealing my attention.
“I think he went out back with Fasa,” I answer.
He nods. “You just missed a good one. Kovu stole the ball, and Archer chased after him until he tripped on one of your Barbies in the grass.” He laughs. “Then you came out, defending Kovu. What were you? Three?” He chuckles even more. “Hell on wheels, Rore.”
“Whatever. I was an angel,” I quip, refusing to give Jaxonanother ounce of my attention. Or at the least, die trying. Fake it ‘til you make it and all that.
“A grumpy angel,” Maverick adds. “Dad didn’t mention the part where you were bawling your eyes out after you saw the Barbie’s arm was bent out of place.”
“Hey, it was one of my favorites,” I argue when the sound of me crying in the video cuts me off.
Turning toward it, I find myself front and center, my eyes welling with tears and my hair a mess as I cry over…something. Not the Barbie, obviously. That was the last video. But I’m clearly upset in this one, too. On the screen, my mom rushes forward and dips down, asking me what’s wrong, but my younger self is crying so hard I can’t make out a single recognizable word. With a sigh, she looks over my head, and calls, “Jax?”
“Yeah?” A young Jaxon, who can’t be more than fifteen, rollerblades toward me and my mom in the driveway, decked out in his hockey pads with a stick in one hand.
“Any chance you know why she’s sad?” my mom asks him, well aware that the only person who could usually translate my emotions was Jax, even when I was little.
Setting his stick on the grass, he kneels in front of me and wipes at my cheeks with his thumbs. “Hey, Squeaks. Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”
On the screen, I mumble a few more unrecognizable words, and a furrow forms between Jaxon’s brows as he tries to decipher what the heck I’m saying. Coming up empty, he simply asks, “You want a hug?”
My head bobs up and down in the video while a fresh wave of tears drips down my bright red cheeks and off my quivering chin in one rivulet after another, making my heart crack in the process. I have no idea why I was so sad, and I don’t think Jax knew, either. But the compassion andwarmth in his teenage gaze makes it hard for me to breathe as I sit on the couch, motionless.
“Come here, Squeaks.” He opens his arms and the younger me charges into them before my little legs give out. He holds me close, rubbing his hand up and down my tiny back as he looks at the camera and smiles, mouthing, “I have no idea.”
Sometimes I tell myself I’m crazy. That it was only the hormones that made me fall for him. That my feelings had nothing to do with the man, er,boy,himself. But as I watch a younger Jaxon comfort a younger me, I can’t help but feel it again. The sweet, innocent pull. The connection. The memory might be foggy at best, but the feelings it evokes? Those are as vivid as ever, and a not so small part of me hates myself for it.
“Any chance you know what had you all worked up?” my dad asks.
My head snaps toward him. “What?”
“Do you remember why you were sad?”
I pause before giving him a shrug. “No idea.”
“Well, I think it’s adorable,” Tatum’s mom, Blakely, interjects. “You were seriously so in love with Jax when you were little. It was the cutest thing ever.”
Cute? I glance at the television again. Right now, it looks cute. I’m nothing more than a five-year-old little girl who worships an older boy. If only it would’ve ended there, then I wouldn’t have had to battle years of dread and shame. I wouldn’t have felt the need to hightail it out of Lockwood Heights out of fear of running into him again. I’m not stupid. I know I’m not a little girl anymore. I know trying to kiss Jaxon Thorne wasn’t the end of the world. Not in the big scheme of things, and definitely not from a logical standpoint. But my heart? My gut? They have a harder time embracing the memo. And what’s worse is the fact that thesame man is in this very room. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face as my Aunt Blakely’s words hang in the air.
You were seriously so in love with Jax when you were little. It was the cutest thing ever.
“Yeah, I was a needy little thing,” I quip, hoping to lighten the mood, even if I’m the only one who feels the heaviness from it. Digging my fingernails into my palms, I force my lungs to exhale on a slow breath. Thankfully, the video ends, and another starts right after it. The respite gives me a moment to breathe. To get a handle on my warring thoughts and emotions as I try to stay in the present.
No one cares, I silently remind myself.No. One. Cares.
The new home video shows Lia pointing at Maverick. She can’t be more than nine years old, and she’s shouting that he pulled her hair. I tune out what’s happening, force myself to act normal, and take a bite of food. It tastes like ash. My dad rubs my back, catching onto my discomfort like a seasoned pro. Then again, he’s my dad. I guess heisa seasoned pro at reading my thoughts and feelings, especially since I’m shit at hiding them in the first place.
I’m not sure how much time passes. How many more videos are saved and filed away for the wedding. But now the hockey videos feature my brothers’ time at Lockwood Ames University, while Lia’s are set in high school.
As she reads her scholarship letter to the camera with a giant grin, I catch Maverick squeezing Ophelia’s knee in our family room, appreciating the way their paths intertwined to bring them where they are today.
Engaged and happier than ever.
The video ends, and another replaces it.
It’s me. With a big, dopey grin. I’m hiding in my bedroom after stealing my mom’s phone. The memory tickles the back of my brain.
Shit.
