Page 2 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
It’s okay to cry.
I swallow. Hard. That’s not my inner snark. It’s a memory of my grandma’s voice, and it’s all too easy to close my eyes and lose myself in the comfort of her words.
“It’s okay to cry,” she says, squeezing my hand.
I clench my jaw, tight enough that it aches with the effort.
I can still feel her soft, wrinkled hand on my cheek, the ghost of her touch. On what was arguably the worst day of my life, it was amazing anyone could offer comfort at all. But she did. That was Gran’s way.
“You don’t need to be a turtle, Merritt Isabelle Markham.”
“A turtle?”
“Wearing a hard shell you can retreat into when you’re scared or hurt. Don’t let this moment make you draw into yourself even more.”
Her gentle smile in my memory almost undoes me. But then—aren’t I already undone?
“Need help?”
A hand flutters in front of my view. Alargeone, encased in a worn suede work glove.
I know that hand. I know that voice. Even if it’s been years since I’ve seen Hunter Williams.
Think of the devil—or, just the worst day of my life—and he appears.
I swat his hand away without touching it at all. Because even if there’s a glove to protect me from the heat of his skin, the familiarity of it, I’m not sure what a touch from this man will do.
“I’m fine, Hunter.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
I surge to my feet, a huge mistake given the throbbing ankle I forgot about. With an undignified cry, I pitch forward—right into a hard, flannel-covered chest. I immediately try to wiggle away, but it’s a challenge when I can’t put weight on my ankle.
Hunter smells different. Not like the boy I knew with his drugstore cologne and teen boy aroma. Now he smells like a MAN. Spicy and woodsy and so, so, so, so good.
No! NOT good. Not at all good.
Hunter’s arms come around me. It’s less of a hug (which I wish I weren’t desperate for) and more like a mall security officer restraining an irate customer. I struggle harder.
“Stop fighting me,” he says, sounding exasperated. “Let me help you.”
“I can’t.”
I really, really can’t.
Already, I feel the tickle on my cheeks and the stinging in my eyes. Ugh—more tears. I cannot cry in front of Hunter Williams. Of all the people in the world, NOT HIM.
It only takes a few seconds of silent struggle for me to give up. Because the truth is, for once in my life, I can’t solve this problem by myself. I can’t put weight on my foot any easier than I can shove the tears back in my eyeballs. I am a crying mess who more than likely just sprained my ankle, and my only rescuer is the man version of the boy I used to love.
To use my most hated phrase in the entire world,it is what it is. But I certainly wish itwasn’t.
“You’re hurt,” Hunter says when I finally look into his face (after discreetly drying my tears on his absorbent flannel shirt).
He's more handsome than he was at eighteen when I last saw him on That Day. The beard is also new. It’s a bit long and unkempt, but it suits the hard planes of his face.
I wonder how it would feel under my fingertips. Or on my cheek…
My heart does some kind of heavy flop, landing with a thud somewhere in the vicinity of my belly button.
