Page 22 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
Yeah—this is NOT going to work. I’m about to admit as much when Merritt continues.
“How did you and Lo do things? Did you have spreadsheets or a shared folder or what?” She pulls out her phone. “Lo sent a document, but I don’t know how the two ofyoucommunicated.”
Everything was different with Lo, who buzzed around this place like a happy honeybee. It annoyed me at first, but I got used to the way she made everything brighter.
“Well,” I say, then trail off. I am a man of many thoughts and stupid words this morning.
“I know she had a strong hand in picking things out, but is it your job to make recommendations as well?”
“Um.” I scratch my beard, thinking.
Lo had vision and strong opinions but somehow managed to express them without being overbearing. I can already tell Merritt will be much more like a boss.
Shouldn’t I mind that more than I do? With anyone else, I probably would. Somehow, with Merritt, it works.
“No—make it lower,” she says, tilting her head to look.
“This is the fourth time I’ve adjusted it, Mer,” I tell her. But there’s no irritation in my tone. I don’t mind adjusting the easel I made her. Anything to have an excuse to be near.
“I'm sorry,” she says. “I'm a total diva.”
I frown. “You are not a diva.”
Divas are the island girls who go to Savannah to get eyelash extensions. They wear complicated sandals with heels instead of flip-flops. They never say what they mean and say more than they need to.
Merritt isn’t that. She is … particular. She knows what she wants, and what she wants is usually very precise. Orderly. Exact.
Yet I see a tiny swipe of blue paint on her neck. Her hair’s coming out of her ponytail even though she just tightened it. And she’s wearing the ugliest shorts I’ve ever seen. They look like plaid pants belonging to her dad that she cut off with a kitchen knife and are held on her hips by a woven belt.
Not a diva.
“It’s just … I think I'm going to start on the giant canvas,” she says.
“Are you going to do the self-portrait your gran keeps asking for?”
She makes a face. A really cute one. “I don’t paint people. Just sky and sea,” she says, her voice going all dreamy.
I lower the wooden canvas support, tightening the screw and testing it out before I place the largest canvas in the room on it. “All set.”
Merritt walks around the easel, grinning. Pride hits with a rush. I spent all spring working on this easel in wood shop, then gave it to her the first day she arrived.
When she circles back to me, her smile makes my cheeks hot. Then she throws her arms around me, pressing close, and all of me is hot.
“I still can’t believe you made this for me. And it’s beautiful. You’re so talented.”
She didn’t see my first failed attempts. Or when I got so mad I snapped a board in half and spent a day in detention.
“Thanks.”
She squeezes me once more, then steps back. I can’t tell if being so close has the same effect on her as it has on me. But she immediately busies herself with her paintbrushes, so… guess not.
“Want to stay? It won’t be fun,” she says, smirking. “I’ll just boss you around and make you hand me tubes of paint.”
“Do I get to fan you with palm fronds?” I ask.
She laughs, tossing her head back. Her ponytail shakes loose, the rubber band dropping to the floor of the sunroom where her grandma sets up Merritt’s studio every summer. I watch her dark waves shake as she laughs.
“Will you also feed me grapes, one by one?”
