Page 86 of Lovesick
A bank of slow-moving clouds hovers over us, the afternoon sun illuminating the sky in marmalade hues like the glowing tip of a cigarette. A boscage of foliage environs our little patch of the quad, with boughs of old firs wind-cloven and peeling in preparation for winter.
Irelyn quickly sets her drink down on a vacant bench, then uses both of her hands to squish my cheeks, staring past my extra layer of bullshit and straight into the heart of my unspoken truth.
“First off, your health is going to be just fine. Second off, ifCrew’s red flag is worrying about you, then I’d hate to see what his green flags are. And third off, he isn’t a mind reader, Mer. You have to be open about your feelings with him.”
It feels like my stomach draws into my spine. I’m mired in mistakes, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stave off the tears that replenish in the corners of my eyes. It hurts being mad at Crew. It hurts not being near him all the time. It just…hurts. Crew Calloway didn’t simply waltz into my life and become an integral chapter—he turned me inside out with his bare hands, spilled ichor, and dug through the bruised parts of me that everyone else ran from.
“Do you think I overreacted?” I mumble through pursed fish lips.
She sighs, adopting that maternal tone of hers that only comes out in the direst of situations—historically brought about by yours truly. “No, love. I think what he said hurt your feelings, and you reacted accordingly.”
Irelyn drops her hands, giving me my unimpeded speech back.
“But you think I should’ve communicated with him, don’t you?”
She cocks a brow. “What do you think?”
And that, my friends, is why Irelyn is always right. The truth of the matter is that I have a bad habit of assuming the worst about people without giving them a chance to defend themselves. I’ve done this with Crew on multiple occasions, and this might’ve been my last strike. He was just trying to be considerate—he didn’t mean to offend me. Crew would never do anything to upset me on purpose.
“I’m a fucking idiot,” I mutter, kicking the toe of my sneaker against a miniature, plant-riddled delta in the ground.
Irelyn lifts her hands in surrender. “Hey, you said it, not me.”
Ever since my unspoken fight with Crew, it feels like myheart has been encased in amber, freezing all executive functions in my body and stagnating the blood I need to live. I need to apologize. I need him to know that I’m sorry for not even hearing him out. How is that fair? That’s exactly what my goddamn parents do—they dominate any conversation without allowing me the chance to rebut. I’m so certain that I’m always right. I’m so focused on myself and my own problems that I never even consider anyone else’s feelings.
Frustration purged and courage nearing the horizon, I grab my best friend by the arms. “I need to find Crew. I need to make things right. I?—”
Irelyn’s eyes comb over something behind me, and a swallow glugs down her throat.
I unhand the poor girl and whip around to atomize anyone who might’ve witnessed my meltdown, but the only witness standing before me is the six-foot-three embodiment of all my deepest desires.
Crew, breathing rapidly like he’d just sprinted across the entire campus to find me, braces himself on his knees. His backpack is still swinging against his spine from the leftover momentum. “I’ve”—wheeze—“been looking for you.”
He’s been looking for me?
Those five words chip away at my heart’s thick, resin casing like a chisel and hammer.
“I thought hockey players were supposed to have decent stamina,” I quip, a small smile dangling from the corner of my lips.
His lashes flutter against the swell of his eyelids like chitin wings, his thickset chest ballooning with air. “Not when it comes to long-distance sprinting.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Pavilion.”
“Jesus,” Irelyn chimes in. She then realizes that she’s notsupposed to be a part of the conversation and pretends to look around unconvincingly.
The pavilion is a thirty-minute walk from here. Crew is out of his goddamn mind. Hell, a text would’ve sufficed.
Even though a part of me knows the answer, I ask the question anyway, anxiety tumbleweeding through my belly. “What are you doing here?”
Crew straightens and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “I shouldn’t have said what I did at the rink. It was stupid of me to assume that you weren’t capable. I was trying to go about it in a respectful way, and it just completely backfired. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I shrink the invisible ravine between us, my heart a bleating mess. “It wasn’t stupid.I’msorry. I know you were just worried, and I shouldn’t have taken it so personally. You had every right to be concerned, especially after I kept my diagnosis from you.”
He gently rubs his hands down the length of my arms—a show of affection that’s shamelessly public. His touch lights up my brainstem and scrawlsLOVEacross the firmament of my mind like an aircraft expelling smoke in the sky. My lease on life has brought a carry-on full of hope, and I’m kicking myself for all the time I’ve wasted being apart from him. I’m addicted to Crew Calloway, and I’ll shout it from the rooftops.
When he tilts his head, his blond hair falls in tandem, and his boyish countenance is further accentuated by his contagious half smile. “You were hurt. You shouldn’t have to apologize for feeling.”
