Page 55 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“Comedy,” I say just as he says, “Action.”
We both laugh now. And honestly, I don’t care what kind of movie we choose. I’m way more interested in Hunter. He got taller this year. Filled out a bit. Most guys our age still have that scrawny, boyish look to them. Hunter looks older. His voice is deeper, and it makes my stomach feel all fluttery, especially when he teases me. Which he’s been doing a lot more this summer than before.
Could it be that he likes me too? Ugh—likes isn’t the right word. Somehow, over the years, my summers here with Hunter have become the best part of my life.
“Guess it’s time to invoke the penny,” Hunter says, pulling a coin from his pocket. “Heads or tails?”
“Like you even have to ask. Heads.”
Hunter nods seriously and flips the coin in the air. But I’m not watching the penny. I’m watching his face.
Reaching out, I take the penny. I can’t meet his eyes. “Is thisthepenny?”
His smile is soft. “No. I lost that one years ago. Probably left it in my pocket and threw it in the wash.”
“Oh.”
He must read my disappointment (which is so, so stupid) because he gently closes my fingers around the penny. He holds my hand in his for a few seconds before letting go.
“This is anewpenny, Mer.”
I can hear what he’s not saying. New penny, new us. New start. Hunter always had more to say to me than anyone else. But even with me, he’s always been a man who spoke volumes in silence. I love that about him.
When I look up, Hunter’s hands are jammed in his pockets. I can tell they’re in fists. I’m not the only one nervous about tonight.
“Thank you,” I tell him, wanting to say more but unsure exactly what. These pants don’t have pockets, so I tuck the penny into a zippered part of my purse where it won’t fall out or get lost.
Hunter holds out an arm. I hook mine through his, letting my hand rest on his elbow. Even this contact sends a thrill through me.
“How very gentlemanly of you—giving me your arm,” I say as we start down the porch steps.
“If it worked back in the old days, I figured it couldn’t hurt,” he says, and I get the sense he’s trying not to scare me off.
Not a chance.
Okay. Maybe a chance.
It’s fifty-fifty.
Because surely, I can’t get used to this. Can I? Walking down Oakley’s quaint streets on Hunter’s arm feels like a waking dream. We pass the brightly painted doors and shutters, palmettos waving and seagulls laughing overhead as a soft dusk falls around us.
The island was always a vacation for me, an escape—neverreallife with its day-to-day monotony. I try to picture this place being something more. Something permanent.
Could this be my real life? What would my day-to-day look like here? Where would I work? What would I do? The questions start to ping through my brain like a string of unanswered texts.
And Hunter—I may have apologized, and he may have asked me to dinner, but can we wade through all the baggage? Do the people we are now fit together as well as we used to?
Hunter stops, just in front of a darkened window. “What?”
I try to manage my expression, to keep the inner turmoilinner. “What?”
He studies me, and my face heats under his gaze. “You tensed up as we walked. And I could practically hear your thoughts banging away in there.”
He lifts his hand and uses the calloused pad of a fingertip to smooth away the line I imagine is between my brows.
“Don’t overthink it,” he says in a low voice. “Just dinner. Okay?”
“Yeah. I know.”
