Page 12 of A Little Crush
I remember recording this, and I know exactly what’s about to transpire on the screen if I don’t stop the video as soon as possible.
My heart lodges in my throat, and I suggest, “Hey, maybe let’s skip this one.”
“Why?” my mom asks. “Look how cute you are!”
“I know, but we’re looking for videos of Lia and Mav, so?—”
The younger me from the video cuts me off as I grin at the camera. “Hi, my name is Rory Buchanan, and it’s May fifteenth.” I reach for the remote on the coffee table, attempting not to look like I’m seconds from puking while my younger self prattles on like a lovesick idiot. “I am eleven years old, and I’m calling it right now. One day, I’m going to marry Jaxon—” The screen goes black as I drop the remote onto the couch.
But it’s too late.
Everyone heard it. My childish confession. I wish I could at least erase the bravado. The confidence I had. That a guy who’s ten years older than me, a guy who only ever looked at me as a child—as he should have—would ever even think about dating me, let alone marrying me. Delusional. I was so fucking delusional. And no matter what I do, I can’t erase it.
At least six sets of eyes pin me in place as they swivel toward me, one after another. And just like that, I’m brought back to Jaxon’s couch in his penthouse. The flicker of the television as we watched a show. He was babysitting.
Baby. Fucking. Sitting.
And what did I do? I tried to kiss him.
Shame clogs my throat, and a familiar burn hits behind my eyes. I cannot believe this is happening. That even now, I can’t run from my stupid crush or the fact that I spent years living in la-la land, believing it would ever be anything more than a stupid crush.
“Oh, boy. Would you look at that.” I force a smile. “Talk about not understanding boundaries, am I right?” My facade cracks. “Anywho, I’m gonna…” I hook my thumb over my shoulder toward the stairs. “I’m gonna go check on Hades and make sure he didn’t jump in the pool or start humping Fasa or…yeah.”
Praying my legs don’t give out, I push to my feet, keep my pace steady, and walk out of the theater room while the rest of my family stares at me without a word. Hell, it’s so quiet I’m pretty sure you could hear a pin drop, and I don’t mean it figuratively. Can they even hear my erratic heartbeat? Probably. I sure as hell can. Gripping the handrail, I stride up to the main floor, my pulse thumping in my ears with every deliberate step.
I hate it. How no matter what I do, no matter how I act or where I hide, I still can’t get rid of it. The reminder that my entire personality as a kid was who I loved. Who I idolized. And how I handled it in the worst way possible.
When I reach my bedroom, I collapse onto my childhood bed, willing the floor to open up and swallow me whole if it’ll get me out of this mess.
Knock. Knock.
The rap of knuckles against wood cuts through my inner spiral as I cradle a pillow to my chest.
Not now.
Knock. Knock.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I say, “Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
Jaxon.
Despite how much time has passed since we really used to talk, I’d recognize his voice anywhere.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
He’s literally the last person I want to see right now. The last person I want to see,ever, actually.
Go away, I silently seethe. I really don’t think I can handle dealing with him in this moment. Not now. Not after the front-row seats to my childhood lunacy we were both privy to downstairs. However, if I want to keep even a sliver of what’s left of my pride, begging him to go away and leave me alone isn’t the greatest way to handle this. So even though it kills me, I let out a slow breath and call out, “Can we talk later, please?”
“Let me in, Squeaks.”
Squeaks.
I used to love when he called me that nickname. Not because it was a reminder of how much of a bawl-baby I am, but because he was the one who gifted me the nickname. He was the one who was clever enough to paint my most annoying trait as something cute and innocent instead of ridiculously annoying.
Now, it only makes me sad.
