Page 16 of Crushes to WHAT

“Torture? Threaten?” she asks, aghast. “That doesn’t sound like me at all.”

“Remember that time you made my years-long crush a hair appointment with me even though I don’t do men’s cuts? For, as far as I can tell, the sole purpose of forcing me into a small, enclosed space with him where I would have to not only touch him, but maintain professionalism while I did so?”

“Professionalism?” she asks incredulously. “Al, you nearly took his eye out with your clippers during that appointment.”

I wave that bit of nonsense away. Emerson was perfectly safe. Could I have cut Emerson with my clippers? Yeah, in theory. Sure. When I was a newbie still learning how to use the things, my dad, brothers, and Sterne all experienced a buzzing slice or two from my cheap starter clippers encountering a few ill-placed moles. That was a long time ago, though, and I was a lot less skilled back then. These days, I could cut men’s hair with my eyes closed.

Some men’s hair, anyway.

Some men being the ones who share blood with me or basically share blood with me. Some men not being Emerson Wright, whose hair felt like pure silk under my fingers. Emerson has gorgeous hair, and since he’s been growing it out, it’s become something of a main character in my daydreams. Actually getting to touch it? In real life? Hands down my best memory, ever. I went to my room after that encounter and filled an entire page in my gratitude journal detailing the precise texture, color, and weight of his hair. Then, I grabbed my complainer’s journal and wrote down an account of Poem’s great treachery in forcing such an experience upon me, knowing full well that I’d be at risk of a nervous system collapse in the wake of it.

I nearly cried when, not long after I gave him the haircut Poem arranged, he showed up at my door with the back all hacked up. At first, I couldn’t tell how much was gone, and my heart broke at the thought of him losing all of his beautiful, beautiful length. He could rock a short cut, of course, but the long on him is so… sa-woon. That I was able to save most of his hair was a blessing and a miracle, and the undercut honestly ended up being way hotter than I was expecting.

“Emerson was perfectly safe during his hair appointment,” I say. “Both of them, because I just know you were somehow involved in the atrocities that led him to a second one.”

She lifts her hands defensively, and amusement sparkles in her eyes. “That one was all him,” she insists. “Must’ve liked what he got at his first appointment, near slice-and-dice and all.”

I harrumph.

She hands me my drink. It’s pink, and it’s fizzy, and it doesn’t have an umbrella, but it does have a fancily twisted piece of lemon peel and three maraschino cherries, so I forgive her.

I take a dainty sip.

She taps her fingers impatiently on the bar.

I reach through her arms to grab a toothpick from the barback, stab one of my cherries, and merrily nibble at it.

She loses her patience. “Almond,” she huffs. “Spill.”

“Oh, alright.” I drop my cool facade, and a carefree grin stretches across my face. I squeal unintelligibly. Then, I squeal intelligibly. “I’m freaking out!” I declare. “Freaking right out. Emerson left my house hours ago, and I’ve spent all of those hours as goo on the floor. I only pulled myself together half an hour ago. It was transcendent, Po. Like a dream. He’s so big. So big, and so sweet, and so capable, and so kind, and he told me he’d keep a secret from my mom, and I believe him. I fell asleep with candles burning, and my house didn’t burn down, because he was there, taking care of me. And he liked my lasagna. Like… He ate three-fourths of a nine-by-thirteen inch dish of lasagna all on his own, and seemed disappointed I hadn’t made two, but he wouldn’t eat any more even though I told him he could because he’d seen the inside of my fridge and worried I wouldn’t have lunch for tomorrow if he didn’t leave me leftovers, and he’s totally right. I wouldn’t have lunch for tomorrow. But? Who? Cares? Because it would mean that Emerson had eaten whatever three-fourths plus one-eighth of my lasagna amounts to, and liked it. Loved it! He asked if I’ll make it again for him soon, and I will, but I’ll make more next time. I hope he likes the other meals I have planned for this week. I’d accounted for him eating a lot, because, you know, he’s massive? But I hadn’t accounted for him eating that much. I might have to go to the store and buy myself some lunches. I have a feeling I won’t be able to survive on leftovers this week. Or any week in the near future, because he’s going to be there every weeknight, being sweet and capable and safe and keeping my secrets and–” Aaand, I run out of air.

Poem takes the opportunity to engage her side of the conversation over my gasping breaths. “Of course he likes your lasagna,” she declares. “And of course he’ll like all of the other meals you make him. You’re an amazing cook. I’d be concerned about his taste buds if he didn’t like your food. Like, take-the-man-to-a-hospital-immediately levels of concerned.”

“He doesn’t need a hospital,” I reply happily. “He’s perfect. He told me that he has plans for me, but he didn’t tell me what they were, because he wants to watch me figure it out on my own. Oh, no, don’t make that face, I told him it was okay. He’s asking me for one thing, and it’s not a thing that’s hard to give. It’s not like I can think straight enough when he’s around to grasp half of the things he says, anyway. I get too distracted by his hair, and his eyes, and his scruff, and his biceps, and his fingers, and his-”

“Everything?” Poem interrupts wryly.

I sigh, dreamily. “Yeah. Everything.”

“So, that means you don’t actually know what he wants from you?”

I take a sip of my drink before answering. “Not really, no. He seems to want some sort of friendship, and he keeps calling me ‘baby,’ but I can’t entirely tell if that’s like you’re my baby or if it’s like I think it’s adorable and funny how you get close to fainting every time I call you baby so I’m going to keep on doing it. He’s always seemed pretty amused by my very clear and massive crush on him, and he’s never been shy about showing it, but I don’t know if that’s because he thinks it’s a friendly type of whatever thing, or if it’s because he wants to do something about it.” I deflate, just a little. “I think if he wanted to do something about it, that maybe he would have already done something, though… I mean, we’ve known each other a long time. It’s not like he hasn’t had opportunity.” And just like that, my Emerson high has become an Emerson low.

I sigh, morose. It was nice while it lasted, I guess.

“How much opportunity could he have had when you spend most of your time avoiding him, and when you do interact with him, you’re not really…” She hesitates, then rephrases “It’s not always clear if you’re paying attention or if you’re lost to Emerson’s aura.”

Ah. I understand. “Because I get distracted by his everything.” I nod. “Even distracted, though, no way would I miss him inviting me to be more than friends.”

She observes me, unconvinced.

“I wouldn’t!” I press. “I’m lovesick, not love-deaf-and-blind-and-stupid. If he made a move, I would be able to tell. I’m perfectly attuned to such a thing.”

Poem’s lips press together so hard they turn white, then they burst apart with a single, loud, guffaw. She folds in half and begins to cackle.

Suddenly Fox is there, behind the counter next to his laughing fianceé, dark hair framing glaring blue eyes. “What did you do?” he asks, hovering over a hysterical Poem. “And why are you here? It’s the middle of the night.” His lips tip down into a ferocious frown. “You didn’t drive yourself here, did you?”

I stab a cherry with my pilfered toothpick, pop it in my mouth, and shrug. “I didn’t do anything,” I assure him. “And, no, I didn’t drive here. I got a ride from taxi à la Sterne. You won’t catch me running around in the dead of night all by myself. That’s how a girl gets murdered, and you’d look horrible in one of those late night documentaries. The lighting always washes out the loved ones.” I glance at a delirious Poem. “I have no idea what she finds funny. All I said was that I’d know if Emerson was into me.”