Page 104 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
I lick my suddenly dry lips, trying to slow my thoughts enough to locate a rational one. “But … our plans.”
She doesn’t need to answer. The tightness in her mouth says it all.
Stupid. I was so stupid to count on promises we’d made. I know we’re young. Too young to feel this way, too young to plan for a future. Not like it made much sense, anyway. Just some vague thoughts about her painting and me figuring out what I want to do, then doing it together.
Forever.
Here.
My heart clenches. No other guys my age are talking about a future with their girlfriends. When I mentioned things being serious with one of my football friends, he laughed and made a rude comment about takingsome thingsto the next level.
I punched him for the suggestive comment and the look on his face. But I should have known better than to tell him.
No. I should have known better than to think Merritt and I were something special.
“This place is too small,” she says. “Your life is too small, Hunter. And if you never leave Oakley, it always will be.”
I guess it’s too late now to take back all the times I talked about wanting to live on Oakley forever, how I saw this as the perfect place to build a life.
Because what really matters is Merritt, not Oakley, but I can see from her face, she’s already gone.
I shove away the memory, one that has haunted me ever since. More than normal this week.
“Your life is too small.”
No. I refuse to let my doubts and words she already apologized for rule me now. It was a long time ago. More than a decade.
But if Merritt still feels the same way …
I glance at the painting, trying to shove the past back where it belongs.
If Merritt makes the same choice again, so be it. I would have regretted not trying. The same way I regret not going after her years ago.
There’s still hope, and this painting gives me more reason. At least, Ithinkit does.
Unless itisa goodbye gift. Which I’m trying my hardest not to think about.
Stylistically, I can see Merritt in the bold colors. I can close my eyes and picture her standing in front of the easel, her arm sweeping the brush across with wild, controlled strokes. Merritt is the only woman I’ve met who seems to be both equally: wild and utterly controlled.
When she first arrived here this month, all I could see was tightly wound control. It was slipping, and she was panicking, but now … it seems like she’s given in, letting herself be more free. More of herself.
Aside from the recognizable style of the painting, the subject matter is completely different. She used to paint skies and the ocean or abstracts focused on color. But this painting is different. This painting is me.
Merritt paintedme.
I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s me. I’m gonna feel really stupid if it’s some other bearded guy staring off over my marsh.
Her style is … well, I don’t know how to talk about art in a formal way. But her style isn’t realistic. Not like a photo. Impressionist? But maybe that’s the one with dots.
Anyway, there are purples and pinks in his—my?—hair and beard, and other colors in the clouds that don’t make sense. Up close, it’s a riot of color in some vaguely recognizable shapes. But back up even a few feet, and it’s clear. All those colors somehow come together perfectly to look like … well,me.
I can’t help it. The painting looks like hope.
There’s a tug on my pant leg and I glance down to see Banjo on his hind legs, his dark paws waving as he reaches for me. I scoop him up, letting him settle against my chest. He wastes no time putting his nose and paws all over my face and neck.
“You’ve got no boundaries,” I tell him, and he makes a little chuffing sound.
I keep staring at the painting, which really needs to come inside off the porch. I’ve been covering it with a tarp when I’m not staring at it, but until I know what’s going on with Merritt, I don’t know if I can make room for it inside.
