Page 43 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)
DINNER AND A SHOW
CREW
I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through another dinner with Merit and her father after I’ve not only broken into this man’s house without him knowing but have also been inside his daughter on two separate occasions.
It’s been a week since we cleared things up. Life has been surprisingly perfect. Like, to the point where something bad eventually has to happen.
In between classes, I get to share lunch with Merit (out of public sight, of course).
It’s not ideal, but it’s better than never getting to see her at all.
We’re together so often that I’ve memorized her lunch order.
She always gets the same thing—a bran muffin and a blueberry and banana smoothie with a drizzle of honey on top from this café near the science building.
We talk about dance and hockey and whatever else is on our minds, and I get to ogle her for as long as I want.
I fall for her more and more every time we’re together—which I didn’t think was remotely possibly seeing as I’m already head over heels for her.
Now I stand on the street where everything changed that fateful evening—where I pledged my allegiance to her for the foreseeable future, where I held her in my arms after believing that I’d never get to again, and where I vowed to crack open that hard shell of hers like a walnut.
Thick-bellied clouds pass over the crepuscular sky, the last of the saffron light slicing through the blockage to illuminate the all-too-familiar doorway.
Anticipation hangs heavy like a guillotine over my head, and I’ve been donning a permanent smile ever since I turned into the neighborhood.
I know I have to play it cool, but I’m so excited to see her.
When the door opens, Coach Lawson is the one to greet me, and I’m just waiting for him to bring down the hammer and strangle me on sight, but he doesn’t. In fact, he looks… happy …to see me. Maybe he took the news better than I thought?
He ushers me into the dining room where Merit is sitting across from my unofficial seat, dressed in a pink blouse and a brown, pleated skirt.
It feels like someone has shoved my heart into a party popper and pulled the damn string. Now there’s confetti in my lungs and it hurts to breathe.
I take my seat, the smell of pan-fried chicken wafting beneath my nose and making my stomach grumble. Mrs. Lawson is one of the best cooks in Maple Grove. She’s made enough Chicken Alfredo for an entire hockey team, paired with a massive bowl of salad and a side of buttered bread rolls.
“Crew, it’s nice to see you again,” Mrs. Lawson says, her rouged lips pulling into a sweet, Southern smile.
Nice to see me again? Me, the man who’s pursued your daughter despite not having your blessing. Yeah, something isn’t right here.
My throat is as dry as a riverbed in June. “Thank you for having me. This looks incredible, Mrs. Lawson.”
Was Merit too scared to tell her parents the truth? She promised she would. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding. I told her how much it meant to me that we stopped with the lies and the sneaking around. Surely she’s just trying to figure out what to say, right?
I’m honestly impressed I made it a full minute without looking at Merit, but when I do, she reciprocates my gaze guiltily. It’s a dead giveaway that she definitely hasn’t disclosed our relationship.
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Mrs. Lawson exclaims, standing up from her chair. “I forgot the cranberries for the salad. James, can you be a dear and help me in the kitchen please?”
Wordlessly, Coach follows Merit’s mother into the adjoining room, leaving me and Merit alone to clear the air.
“You didn’t tell them?” The words abrade my throat, and heartache lingers inside the crumbling colosseum of my chest.
Merit takes a fortifying breath, trying to exorcise the fear that’s been following her for weeks on end. A faceless predator tracking down its hobbled prey, waiting for it to collapse from exhaustion.
“I couldn’t find the right time.”
“Now is the right time! Now?—”
Before I can finish my sentence, her parents come strolling back in with a ceramic dish of cranberries, and Mrs. Lawson garnishes the salad after they both take their respective seats.
I start to hoover up my food so that I don’t have to address the disappointment tangling in my belly. Something different is in the air tonight, and whatever it is sizzles like a sky does right before a storm. An omen.
“Honey, how’s the campaign going?” Mr. Lawson asks his daughter, stuffing a helping of noodles into his cheek and chewing.
Merit has barely touched her pasta. “It’s great.
With the hockey team as the stars of the show, we decided that auctioning off the players for dates would be the main event.
Everyone’s been on top of their game. Advertisements are coming along nicely, and we even got some local businesses to donate their products for a giveaway. ”
I choke, and not that I’m keeping track or anything, but this is the second time I’ve nearly asphyxiated during a family dinner.
I forgot all about the auction with everything going on. I was vehemently against the prospect of entertaining anyone who wasn’t Merit, and I still stand my ground. Even if it is for a forty-minute date at some overpriced restaurant.
Coach, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to be on my side tonight. “I think that’s a fantastic idea. As long as these ‘dates’ don’t distract my players too much.”
Since I’m within arm’s reach, he leans over to his right and smacks me on the back as an act of good show. I wince.
A smile flourishes over Merit’s mouth. “If the fundraiser is a success, Mrs. Burke might consider bringing me on as an official student teacher to help out with future projects.”
I can’t believe she didn’t tell her parents about us. Is she ashamed of me? Did I do something wrong? God, I can’t get this girl out of my head. She’s crawled underneath my skin, dug into viscera with the intent to scar, and it’s my fault for being far too ready to welcome her.
My brain just constantly chants: Merit, Merit, Merit . When I don’t see her, I have a bad day. When she doesn’t text me, I have a bad day. I’m no better than a dog with separation anxiety, whimpering at the door for its owner to return.
“The marketing class would be so lucky to have you,” Mrs. Lawson commends, opening up a bread roll as steam rises from the two fresh, crater-pocked halves.
“They would,” I agree, practically waving a giant neon sign above my head that says LIAR, LIAR, SKATES ON FIRE .
Merit glances at me out of reflex, and then she hides her face with a heaping forkful of fettuccine.
While I’m allotted the time to observe her—watching her intently underneath the gaudy chandelier—I note a hollowness behind her eyes that betrays that picture-perfect smile on her face.
Her parents can’t see through it, but I can.
Maybe it’s because they’re not looking; maybe it’s because they don’t care.
Whatever the reason, I’m the only one who seems to be impervious to her unconvincing mask.
She’s a warped mirage rippling up from hot asphalt, and when I try to wrap my arms around what I thought was tangible, I’m met with a blast of wind, as if she was only ever a figment of my imagination.
For the remainder of dinner, I don’t touch the rest of the food on my plate, even though my stomach aches with hunger.
Since my car chose the perfect moment to run out of gas, Merit is now my chauffeur for the rest of the night. She offered to return my car to me in the morning after she runs to the store and gets a gas can.
I’m so hurt that she didn’t even try to tell her parents. I had to sit across from them the whole evening and pretend like nothing’s changed.
Merit drums her fingers against the steering wheel, the profile of her face washed in astigmatic shafts of red from the stoplight in front of us.
The rain—now playing percussion on her windshield—blurs any movement and bright colors from beyond the laminated glass.
If it wasn’t for the miniature storm outside, we would be sitting in complete silence.
I didn’t realize a death knell could be so quiet.
I’m fuming like the soot-rimmed mouth of a volcano. “What the hell, Merit?” I finally say, frustration spuming in my belly.
“What?” The same hostility lines her tone.
“You didn’t think to come clean while we were all there? I would have said something, but I didn’t want to do anything without talking to you first.”
A stint of regret fastens to her features. “I didn’t want to blindside them. I just don’t know how to go about this whole thing without making a huge mess.”
Instead of putting myself in her shoes, or, you know, taking a fucking chill pill, I do the unwise thing and mark our graves before the dirt is even freshly overturned.
Every hurt feeling rushes to the surface, dogpiling onto the rest of my repressed emotions that should’ve never seen the light of day, much less the light of her car.
“It’s going to be messy! This whole situation is messy. All you have to say is ‘Crew and I are dating!’”
“It’s not that easy.”
“You’re the one who’s making it hard.”
My nasal cavities sting from hidden tears, and my untouchable aura dissolves quicker than sugar in water.
I didn’t realize it before, but here, irradiated in the sickly glow of the shuttling streetlights, her calloused edges have been worn down.
It dawns on me that the girl whom I thought was invincible is just a scared soul housed in an encasement of flesh, blood, and bone, as mortal and susceptible as I am.