Page 12 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“I’ve got everything I need right here on the couch. My wine, my water, aspirin, my phone … wait—I can’t find my phone!”
“You’re talking on it, Mer.”
The nickname slips out, and I wish I could yank it right back. Especially when I hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone. Squeezing my eyes closed, I swing my legs up into bed and settle in against the pillows. Might as well get comfortable.
I should hang up. But I know I’m not going to.
“Mer means the sea,” she whispers.
“In French, yeah. It does.” I used to tell her that, how she reminded me of the sea—wild and vibrant and beautiful.
The sea is also powerful and dangerous. I didn’t know Merritt was those things too. Not until I’d already been carried out by her riptide and drowned.
Wow. Might as well be dressed all in black at some poetry reading with those thoughts.I shake my head.
“I saw Cassidy today.”
I swallow, wondering where this is going to go. “Okay.”
“AndIsabelle.”
The way she says Izzy’s name—hername—triples the impact of Merritt’s statement. I probably owe her an explanation, but I don’t want to give it under these circumstances. “It’s late, all right? We can talk tomorrow. Right now, I should get to bed.”
“Or you should explain why you gave her our name. I mean,myname. My middle name, Hunter.”
“I know.”
There’s a pause. It’s the space meant for an apology. I mean, it does sound bad when you lay it all out there: I married another woman and named our daughter using Merritt’s middle name. Which was also the name Merritt and I always talked about naming our kids.
Playing games like M.A.S.H., I remind myself.Silly kids’ games.
“She’s so beautiful, Hunter,” Merritt says.
My heart swells. Then sinks.
“She’s amazing. Best part of my life.”
It’s weird how silence can convey a mood just as well as music. This one is weighty but not as uncomfortable as it should be.
“Can you come over?”
Merritt’s voice sparks a memory. Not her words but the tone. Soft. Pleading.
“Will you kiss me, Hunter? Please? I can’t start eighth grade as the only girl who hasn’t ever been kissed.”
She looks up at me with such hope, such trust. It’s the trust that does me in. The feeling that Merritt Markham thinks—for whatever reason—that I’m good enough to be her first kiss.
How can I say no?
“Just to talk,” she adds in that same siren-sweet voice.
She has always been my weakness.
WAS. She alwayswasmy weakness. Not anymore.
“Unless you’re injured or in some kind of trouble, I’ll see you in the morning, Merritt.”
Will she even remember this conversation tomorrow? I can’t tell exactly how much she’s been drinking. Enough to loosen her tongue. But she still seems coherent. Mostly.
