Page 7 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“I think I’m good.”
“Alrighty, then! Just holler if you need me.”
She disappears and I add three different kinds of chips to my cart. This level of wallowing—which seems to keep getting deeper—demands extensive supplies. Preferably the kind loaded with carbs and calories.
My brain is still trying to come up with a solution for the Hunter problem.
Maybe I can leave him notes about the beach house renovation. Texts. Emails. Post-it notes left on the front door or in random places around the property. Honestly, I’d be willing to learn how to send smoke signals if it will keep me from having to see and talk to him face-to-face.
I push my shopping cart around the corner—my ankle still yelling about the motorized cart—and freeze.
Because a few yards away and looking as sweet and pretty and soft and all the things I’m not is Hunter’s wife, Cassidy.
She is inspecting the eggs, one hand thumbing through the carton. Then she lifts it to her nose and smells it. Who DOES that? Why?
I have so many questions, but they disappear the moment I see her rounded belly. Though I know you’re not supposed to make assumptions about women being pregnant, there is no doubt. Especially when Cassidy sets down the eggs and rubs a hand over her abdomen. She’s even got the glow and, as she takes a few steps forward toward the milk, I see she’s also got the waddle.
Okay. So, Hunter is having another baby. Fine. Whatever. I decided a few years ago I would never want kids anyway. Further proof our lives diverged, and he’s better off with Cassidy.
I’m debating how to make my exit since it will mean walking right by Cassidy when I see the little girl beside her. She so obviously belongs to Hunter, it steals the air right out of my lungs. She has his mouth. The same shape to her eyes. Same dusting of freckles and dirty blond hair. When she touches Cassidy’s belly and smiles up at her mom, the sweet moment makes my stomach cramp.
Scratch my earlier thought—there is no WORSE place to be marooned than Oakley Island. And there is no way I’m going to be able to handle this.
I need to escape.
RIGHT NOW.
I can’t just stand here and stare. Eventually, they’ll notice me, and then. . .
Oh.And then nothing. Cassidy probably doesn’t even remember me.
I can’t forgetherbecause I could tell even way back when that she liked Hunter. It was in her not-so-subtle disappointment whenever she tried to hang out with him only to find out he was with me. Hunter missed her hints completely, but it made jealousy rage inside me like an inferno.
It still does.
Because once upon a time, her husband wasmine. I wasin lovewith him—even if I didn’t fully realize it in the moment—and looking back, I think he maybe loved me too. But not anymore. Now, he belongs to Cassidy. And she probably hasn’t given me a second thought. Why would she? It’s been years since my last summer on Oakley Island.
I suddenly have an intense urge to yell my name into the dairy section of Gator’s Groceries just to see if it matters.
To her.To anyone.
I grip the handle of my cart a little tighter, shifting my weight more fully onto my good foot. I’ve already been on my feet too long, and my ankle is throbbing and angry. It’ll probably be black and blue with bruises by tomorrow. I really should get home. Get it elevated and iced. Eat the entire box of Krispy Kreme donuts I just dropped into my cart.
To do that, I just need to wheel past Hunter’s wife and child like a normal, emotionally stable human, which I can absolutely do because I AM an emotionally stable human.
Mostly.
Mostly-ish.
One foot in front of . . . the same foot, Mer. You can do it. Channel the fearless New York Merritt for a minute.
I hop forward, then freeze AGAIN, this time nearly gasping out loud when a man approaches Cassidy and drops an arm around her shoulder.
A man who is definitely not Hunter.
The embrace couldalmostbe brotherly, but then he kisses her RIGHT ON THE LIPS.
At first, I am enraged on Hunter’s behalf. But it only takes a moment for puzzle pieces to fall into place in my brain.
