Page 51 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
Merritt grasps the other side of the box, but I don’t let go. I don’t step back. She’s near enough that I can smell the floral scent of her hair. She frowns as she looks at everything. “Hunter, this is hundreds of dollars of supplies.”
“It’s—” I can’t finish my sentence. Because itishundreds of dollars of supplies. I won’t lie to her. “They gave me a discount.”
“You didn’t need to do this. I can buy my own supplies.”
I do my level best not to read into that, not to see this as a remark about my financial situation. I do just fine for a life on Oakley. But I wouldn’t be able to afford a month in New York. Not even in some terrible apartment.
But Merritt never played that kind of game, the one where every sentence can be heard two ways, where each word is a pointed barb. When Merritt meant to wound me, her words were clear and direct. No need for subtext.
“Yeah, well. Maybe you can. But I bought these for you. Whether you keep them or not or use them or not—that’s up to you.”
“Let me pay you. Do you use Venmo? The cash app?”
“No.” I don’t clarify that I have both apps on my phone but won’t accept either from her. Even if she never uses them. “Take it or don’t. But don’t try to pay me.”
Merritt hesitates, and the air between us feels thin and stretched. Finally, she smiles, and I can breathe again.
“Thank you.”
She goes back to pawing through the box, taking in the tubes of paint, the packs of brushes, the turpentine and linseed oil the guy said she’d need if she wanted to do oils.
“Areyou still painting?” I ask.
Her hand stills, and it takes her a long moment to respond. “Not much since I left the island. I … I’m not sure I remember how.”
I don’t even attempt to stop myself from brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, and I don’t miss the small sound she makes when I do. Once again, the atmosphere around us shifts. Now a different kind of tension hangs heavy in the air.
“I think you’ll remember,” I say, unsure what, specifically, I mean or what I hope shethinksI mean. Could be anything or everything.
Definitely notnothing.
“I think it’ll come right back to you.”As though you never stopped. As though you never left.
I want so badly to touch her again. To brush my knuckles over her cheek. To take her hand or, better yet, take her in my arms. But I remind myself that she just got out of a relationship—one where she was badly hurt.
“Muscle memory,” she whispers.
All I can think about is how the heart is a muscle too.
“Merritt, have dinner with me.”
Again, I’m failing with Dante’s suggestions to start small, to start as friends.But suddenly, I don’t want to wait anymore. And Dante also said to let Merritt choose when she’s ready.
“Okay,” she says easily. But then her expression shifts, taking on a teasing glint. “But I thought we agreed to be friends.”
“Friends have dinner.”
“This is afriendlydinner, then.”
“If that’s what you want it to be.” I’m standing on the edge of some great height, trying to decide if I’ll die if I jump or just breakmostof my bones. “Or it could be something else. Amore thanfriendly dinner.”
My heart is thudding in my ears and practically beating out of my chest. But Merritt smiles, a teasing smile. Playful. The kind of smile that tells me exactly how much trouble I’m in.
“When do I have to decide what kind of dinner it is—friendly or more than friendly?”
“I’m not looking for an official RSVP, Mer. Just come and see. No need to make any declarations. Yet.”
Making sure she’s got a firm hold on the box, I finally let go and step back. “I’ve got canvases in my truck. And an easel.”
