Page 83 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“I wouldn’t!”
“Okayyyyy. Does this have anything to do with a man?” she asks.
“What man?” Now who’s the queen of denial?
Me. It’s me.
“Because Sadie told me about turd-face Simon. Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. Also, I’m sorry. But he’s the worst.”
“Yes. He is.”
“I’m trying to plan something I can mail him that’s not quite anthrax but might make his hair fall out.”
Wow. Heartache apparently gives Eloise an edge.
“You soundwaytoo much like Sadie.”
“We’re planning it together.”
I shouldn’t feel a stab of jealousy, some remnant of years past when I had to be the mature one, the sister who acted like a mother while our actual mother fell apart. Which often resulted in Lo and Sadie ganging up against me.
But right now isn’t the time to examine all of my sister issues. I have more pressing, current issues. Primarily an issue named Isabelle, who will arrive in a few hours.
“Back to how to do this kid thing.”
“I’m getting the sense this is about more than babysitting.”
Now, I’m the one who’s silent. Maybe confessing one weakness per decade is my limit. Not that liking Hunter is aweakness, per se, but weakness and vulnerability feel remarkably similar.
“Just tell me how to make a kid like me, Lo. Please? While also being a responsible authority figure.”
“You know what?” Eloise says, yawning again. “As much as I’mveryintrigued by this whole conversation, I’m going back to bed.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Google it.”
And then my baby sister hangs up on me.
* * *
Turns out,I didn’t need to worry about what to do with Isabelle, who is feeling much better and has more energy than my sisters and me put together. She came with a bag full of board games, three books, her bathing suit (“In case we have an unseasonably warm day,” she said), an array of snacks, and enough words to carry the conversation for the both of us. I swear, she’s more like eight going on eighteen or maybe even twenty-eight.
“I’ll be right over there,” Hunter said at the start of the day, pointing before giving Isabelle a kiss on the forehead and tromping across the path to the main house in his work boots. I did my best not to stare at his butt as he walked away.
Now, we’re on our third game, and I’ve been annihilated and humiliated by Isabelle in all of them. Which is not sitting well with me. Clearly, island living is making my brain dull.
“Are you letting me win?” she demands, after beating me for the second time in some game involving castle-building, dice rolling, and using disaster cards to wipe out the other person’s resources.
“I would never,” I say, even if it’s tempting to let her think I’m doing just that. It’s pretty embarrassing to lose a game when the suggested player age listed on the box is seven. “You just kept getting all the tornado cards.”
“I did,” she says, smiling sweetly. Then, as though remembering the existence of sportsmanship, she holds out her hand. “Good game. I’ll clean up. Do you have any sandwiches?”
“The one thing I do have is sandwiches. I’ve got ham or turkey and a few kinds of cheese. Also some really juicy tomatoes.”
I have a real weakness for tomatoes. And I swear, the very best ones I’ve had are grown on this island. Ms. Sylvia has a little produce stand I’d all but forgotten about until I passed it on the way back from Hunter’s yesterday. I grabbed maybe more than I can eat. Maybe. I’ve been known to eat tomatoes like apples, which Sadie likes to tell me is disgusting. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.
“Do you have mayonnaise?” Isabelle asks, then makes a face. “The real stuff, not the fake kind. Daddy bought some weird fake kind. It was gross.”
