Page 43 of Lovesick
What about your parents, Merit? They’d have synced heart attacks if they found out you were grinding your ass over a guy’s crotch to a terrible 90s remix.
Hey, who said anything about grinding?
Seriously?
Why can’t I just have fun for one night? I deserve it, don’t I?
You need to be careful with your heart. Both emotionally and physically.
Wow, internal monologue. You sound a lot likeDad.
Though despite all arrows pointing to PARTY HARDY, that obedient little girl inside me is still too afraid to compromise her relationship with her parents, even if she realizes it’s killing her.
Out of nervous habit, I rub Crew’s hoodie cuff between my thumb and forefinger, searching for solace in the maroon threads. “I’m not sure if my parents would approve,” I whisper, ashamed that I’m still a twenty-one-year-old adult who needs her parents’ permission.
His thunderclap of a growl cuts through me. “You’re in college, Merit. You don’t have to run everything by them. It’s your life.”
He’s right. I know he’s right, but I’m so scared. The last time I trusted someone, it broke me completely, and I’m still trying to glue the pieces back together. A mosaic of crudely cobbled together shards.
“What if something bad happens?”
The surprises just seem to keep coming because Crew—chivalrous, sweet Crew—drops his arm so he can come closer to me, cupping my face in both of his calloused palms. I stare into the pools of his eyes, and ironically, I’ve never felt safer than I do right now.
“I won’t let it, Princess. I promise. You’re safe with me, okay? I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”
13
SINCERELY, YOURS TRULY
MERIT
Ididn’t expect Marketing 101 to be an easy A, but an unforeseen power is testing me on this unusually bright Monday afternoon, and I’m the human sacrifice that’s been chosen to bridge the gap between hockey players and the general public. Apparently, though, it’s not an indomitable feat considering half the girls in the class are drooling over our…acclaimed…guests.
Crew and his muscle-bearing jock-tourage seem to be too big to fit in their seats, sticking out like sore thumbs amongst the rest of the proportionately sized fundraiser committee. Prismed hues of marigold slip through the large, lancet windows, the sleepy sun smelting the deep-bellied corners of a cloudless sky. Even with the additional light, exhaustion bombards me, drooping my eyelids and weighing heavy like tungsten. Mrs. Burke had a family emergency come up, so she’s left me in charge of the nonexistent lesson.
“Ideas, people. We need ideas,” I say, smushing the edge of the chalk into the glaringly empty blackboard. Mrs. Burke wants us moving like a well-oiled machine, and right now, we’re about a few gears short.
“What about a bake sale?” Marley proposes, while somehow simultaneously eye-fucking one of Crew’s teammates. I wouldn’t be surprised if we lost two committee members before class ended.
A guy with model-worthy bone structure pipes up, annoyance working through thick, unhurried syllables. “A bake sale? What are we, twelve?”
It feels like my brain is going through a rough patch of turbulence, pressure squeezing my temples in the form of a headache. “There are no bad ideas, okay? This is a safe space.”
Sort of.
I don’t know how to get the ball rolling. Nobody wants to be talking logistics on a muggy Monday in fall. My lips are dry, my patience is draining, and Crew’s threatening to out our not-so-hateful relationship to the entire class by staring at me like some lovesick idiot.
“Ooh, we could do a car wash!” someone suggests.
“I don’t think a bunch of stuck-up donors are going to want to have their car windows washed by shirtless hockey players,” Irelyn interjects from beside me, but in her reassuringly soft “good try” tone.
I swear I can hear the ticking of the clock as each torturous second passes by, like the incessant ringing of a tuning fork in my ears. Ideas are thrown out left and right, trampled by opposing opinions—a committee at odds with nothing in common except the pursuit of a passing grade.
“A yard sale!”
“What are we selling? Hopes and dreams?”
“No, wait—a talent show!”
