Page 28 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You were talented back then.”
Hunter ignores my comment. “Do you still have time to paint with that big city job of yours?”
He says this like it’s simply an acknowledgment, carrying no judgment, even though he has every right to judge me. After all, I was the one who told him Oakley was too small-town for me. I was the one who said I needed something bigger.
You can’t get bigger than New York City.
And look where that got me. Nowhere near a paintbrush, that’s for sure.
And nowhere near Hunter Williams.
What I realize as I watch Hunter NOT look at me while he flips one of the tiles over and over in his calloused fingers, is that he has no idea the depth of hurthecaused. Even if he didn’t mean to.
Maybe you should tell him about the day you came back. That Day.
Hunter has no idea about what I think of as That Day. He couldn’t know that after a few years of being miserable about my parting words, of missing him, of wishing I hadn’t blocked and deleted his number so I could text or call, I decided to throw it all on the line. I came back for him.
And he most especially doesn’t know that I showed up on—day of all days!—his wedding day. To a visibly pregnant Cassidy in a wedding dress, standing next to Hunter. My Hunter.
NotmyHunter anymore.
“I’d like to present Mr. and Mrs. Hunter Williams,” the officiant says, holding out both arms. Cassidy smooths her hands over her very pregnant belly and beams up at Hunter, whose expression I can’t see. But his eyes are on her.
That’s all I really need to know.
The best man, one of the guys I vaguely remember as one of Hunter’s football friends, leans over and whispers something to the officiant.
“Oh, sorry! I almost forgot. You may now kiss your bride,” the man says.
And I run.
Away from the beach where they’re holding the simple sunset ceremony. Away from the sight of Hunter and Cassidy together.
Married.
Having a baby.
I barely make it to Gran’s back porch before throwing up in the hydrangeas next to the path. She finds me there, on my knees, panting and crying so hard I can’t see.
When she finally gets me up and in the house, my knees are bleeding—cut open from the oyster shells in the path.
I still have the scars.
“I’ll tell Dante to put the tile on my account,” Hunter says, taking a step back from the counter.
I hop off the stool without thinking. He’s leaving, but I don’t really want him to leave. We’re talking, and something about that feels good. We need more of it—I sense this—but I don’t know how to ask him for it.
Also, I can’t walk—stupid, stupid ankle—and as soon as my weight lands fully on my feet, I wince and wobble.
Hunter lunges toward me, his hand darting out to grab my elbow. “You okay?”
I close my eyes, hating that I need his help while simultaneously loving the heat of his fingers against my skin. I lean in the slightest bit, momentarily surrendering to the weird gravitational pull that wills my body to curve into his.
What would happen if I let my hands slip up to his chest? If I apologized for all those things I said about Oakley, about him, right here, with my touch, my lips, my—
Hunter’s grip on my elbow tightens, and I lift my eyes to his face.
His jaw is clenched, his lips pressed together. He looks like a statue of a man ready to pounce. Or run. Or both. He doesnotlook like a man who wants anything to do with my lips.
