Page 23 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
I look at her mouth and for a second, I can’t talk. “Yeah.”
“Scratch that. No grapes—red vines.”
My phone buzzes, and it’s like I’ve been dropped from a four-story building into this kitchen. I’m here. It’s now. Merritt is clearly waiting for an answer while I’m remembering things best left forgotten.
“Sorry.” I blink and try to relocate myself in this room, not in the memory I just fell into. “What did you say?”
“How did you and Lo communicate?” Merritt repeats slowly, like I’m an idiot.
Can’t argue there.
“Text is fine.”
She keeps going, like whatever controls her tongue is malfunctioning and she can’t stop spitting out words. “Text. Good. I can definitely text. Especially since we know I have your number.” She winces, like she’s remembering last night all over again, then she clears her throat. “And um, was it like this?” She motions between us. “You discussing things in the kitchen together? Or over meals? Drinks? Coffee? Did you argue over her choices?”
“Merritt.”
Wringing her hands, she starts rocking a little. I liked seeing her control slip earlier, liked riling her up—but this isn’t that. I’m suddenly seeing that the tough shell is just that. Underneath, there’s something broken here.Merrittseems broken.
Which is shocking, given how together she clearlywantsto be.
“Did you ever make suggestions or give her ideas or did Lo just tell you what she wanted? I know she asked people on Instagram and Sadie said—”
“Mer.”
As her nickname falls from my lips, as it’s wanted to do a hundred times already this morning, I lean forward and cup her cheek.
My hands aren’t the gentle kind. They’re big and sun-toughened, calloused and rough. But when my palm touches Merritt’s soft cheek, the flood of words from her lips stops, and she sighs sweetly.
For approximately half a second, we both seem to forget ourselves, lost in the moment. Lost in memory. Lost in the connection that’s always been there and never left.
I find myself leaning toward her, closing the distance between our foreheads, our noses, ourlips. Her irises are two deep blue pools, drawing me in. My heartbeat grows louder, faster. Her gaze drops to my mouth before her eyes flutter closed.
Then—as though some hypnotist snaps his fingers and wakes us—we remember.
Her eyes fly open as I jerk away, even as she slaps at my hand.
She gasps, looking horrified, then outraged, then embarrassed. “What are you—we—”
“I’m not—you were just—”
“THE TILE!”
We shout this at the same time, liketileis some kind of safe word, and then we both bolt from the room faster than if it were on fire.
Thankfully we go in opposite directions because if we’d had one of those movie moments where the hero and heroine run smack dab into each other, I wouldn’t have hesitated to pull Merritt into my arms and press my mouth to hers. My resistance to the woman is as thin as a piece of tissue paper.
Simon, I remind myself.Stupid, stupid Simon.
The boyfriend does make a compelling case for why moments like this can’t happen. I won’t ever be that man, cutting in on what isn’t mine.
I stop in the hallway outside the kitchen and press my forehead against the wall. It smells like dust and old wallpaper glue. It calms me. As much as Icanbe calmed, anyway.
When the back door slams—evidence of Merritt’s hasty retreat—I finally take a deep breath. Still, with Merritt gone, the air doesn’t quite fill my lungs the same way.
SIX
Merritt
