Page 96 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
Thwack!I split another log, picking up the pieces and tossing them toward the growing pile. Glancing over as I wipe sweat off my forehead, I feel a thrill at Merritt’s expression.
Oh, yeah. She’sdefinitelyinto the shirtless lumberjack thing.
But are you sure youwanther to be into it? What if she plans to leave as soon as the house is done? Or before it’s even done, like Lo did. Has Merritt given you any guarantee or even a hint she’s going to stay on Oakley?
“Shut up, brain,” I murmur as I grab another log.
Talking to myself is usually something I reserve for when I’m alone or with the animals. It’s how I process, especially when I’m loaded down with worried—and loud—thoughts like I am now.
Thwack!
Another big log splits. Two more for the pile.
Why would Merritt stay? What’s here for her now? The woman puts ads up on whole buildings in Times Square. She dates white-collar men like Simon. There’s nothing for her here.
“Except me. I’m here.”
Yeah … but that wasn’t enough back then. Why would it be enough now?
Sweat drips into my eyes, and I wipe it away before lining up one more log.
Thwack!
This is stupid. I’m an adult, acting like a kid. Worrying without talking to Merritt. Making assumptions without asking her what she thinks or how she feels. I watched enough Hallmark movies to last a lifetime while married to Cass—enough to know what I’m doing is the kiss of death to a relationship.
“Talk to her. Stop avoiding, dummy.”
Thwack!
My arms are aching, and my back twinges a little as I toss the latest pieces on the stack. I blink a few times, taking in the pile of logs as Banjo skitters over the top, pressing his nose into the freshly cut wood to smell.
“I didn’t think winters got that cold here.”
I jump a little at Merritt’s voice. I didn’t even see her walking over. I give her a brief glance before turning back to the large pile of logs.
“It doesn’t,” I say. “I’ll give most of this away.”
“Is that something you do every year?” she asks.
Nope. “Only when I have a lot of extra.”
Like when I’m taking out my frustrations and worries on innocent, dead wood instead of having a conversation like a mature adult.
Merritt runs a hand over the log pile, tilting her head like she’s about to ask another question. Or maybe she’s about to call BS on my whole log-chopping thing. She’s no dummy. But Banjo clambers over, a perfect distraction. He stands up on his hind legs, nuzzling into her.
Thanks, nosy raccoon. I owe you one.
“He’s so cute,” she says, petting his back.
“Most raccoons are terrors, so don’t think this is normal.”
“You’re not a terror, are you?” Merritt says in the most ridiculous babytalk voice I’ve ever heard. “You’re just a cute, sweet little bandit, aren’t you?”
Banjo chooses that moment to stuff his entire little raccoon face down the front of Merritt’s v-neck shirt.
“Aah!” She half screams as Banjo manages to wiggle his whole rotund body into Merritt’s shirt. “He’s in my—ow! Banjo!”
I stand there like a dope, waving my hands ineffectually because I don’t know how to help remove Banjo without copping a feel in the process. I’m not about to get to second base during a raccoon extraction, especially not with my daughter twenty feet away. “Banjo!”
