Page 64 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“Mother!”
Cackling, she gives me a wink before climbing into the car.
Obviously, she knows I plan to stop by Merritt’s. But I also actually need to get groceries.
The literal kind. I have zero plans tonight to consider the figurative kind.
Unfortunately for me—and, apparently, my mom—all the lights in the carriage house are off. Merritt used to be one of those ridiculous people who went to bed by nine o’clock every night. Guess she still is.
On the quick drive to Gator’s Groceries, I consider the ramifications of my new short-term reality. Adam is very hands-on with Isabelle, but he’s a surgeon. He’s barely around. Which means I’ll be a full-time single dad until Cassidy gives birth. Maybe a little longer, depending on recovery and all that.
Normally, I would hardly blink at this. But given the fact that I just convinced myself to take tiny steps with Merritt—tiny other than the kiss, which was more like an Olympic broad jump—the timing here is tricky.
How does Merritt feel about kids—her ownandones belonging to someone else? I know when we were younger, we talked about it, but we were fifteen. Dreamily optimistic and naive. Now Merritt is a career woman, even if she is between jobs. She could want a totally different future now.
Part of the reason I haven’t dated since Cass is because I haven’t met anyone worth pursuing. Or maybe it’s just that no one else was Merritt.
Whatever my reasons, this means I’ve given little thought to how to navigate dating as a dad.
The challenges are obvious, though. Dating when you have a kid is weightier. Less casual. I’m only twenty-six years old. Most women my age are just starting to think about kids, if they’re even thinking about them at all. Expecting someone to become an instant mom is a lot.
I can’t know how Merritt feels about Isabelle. But I’m going to have to ask. Talk about being thrown straight into the fire. We’ve barely had one date, and now I’ll have Isabelle with me at all times.
I ease into a parking space at the grocery store, my thoughts still swirling. Gator’s is closing in half an hour, but I should be able to get in and out quickly.
“Well, if it isn’t Hunter Williams! I heard Oakley’s most eligible bachelor list just got a little shorter.”
Maybe NOT so quickly.
“Hello, Mrs. Hopkins.”
I try to politely steer my cart right past the older woman with pale skin and bright purple hair. But she turns her cart full of bagged and purchased groceries right around and matches my brisk pace to the produce section.
“How was your date tonight? I’m surprised to see you here. Thought you and Merritt might be—”
Do NOT want to hear the end of that sentence.
“Cassidy went to the hospital. She’s fine,” I add quickly when Mrs. Hopkins gasps. “She and the baby are both fine. But she’ll be on bed rest for a while.”
“Oh, my!”
This is way more information than I’d normally give a woman I know to be as notorious a gossip as Frank. Unlike Frank though, Virginia Hopkins gossips the old-fashioned way, right over the landline, something I know after replacing her backsplash last year.
She spent most of the time I was working sitting at the kitchen table in a short nightdress and heels, fanning herself with a copy of AARP magazine. I’ve never done a quicker tile install.
Cassidy may kill me for telling Mrs. Hopkins, though right now, I’m more concerned with not having to talk about Merritt. I’m practically throwing produce into bags, grabbing bananas, apples, and oranges, knowing full well most of it will rot while Isabelle begs me for Frosted Flakes and peanut butter sandwiches.
“How many babies do you and Merritt think you’ll have? She’s certainly got a big house to fill.”
The entire bag of oranges slips out of my hand. And wouldn’t you know it—one of the contrary fruits rolls right under Mrs. Hopkins’s foot.
“Oh!” Her arms flail like propellers and I barely manage to catch her—realizing as I see her sly smile that her fall was entirely orchestrated.
Still. I make sure she’s set back on her feet before I let go of her shoulders. I’m not going to the hospital a second time tonight, especially not for a broken hip.
“Aren’t you a gentleman,” she purrs. “That Merritt Markham sure is lucky. I thought she was a city girl, though.”
Woman, I correct silently. I don’t know what kind of woman Merritt is now, not yet, but I don’t plan to discuss this with a woman who might broadcast her version of whatever I say to half the island.
