Page 37 of Crushes to WHAT

With a sigh, I spill, starting where I left off after the last time I saw her at book club, and ending with a recital of the texts between Emerson and me today. When I’m done, I’m out of breath and verbally wondering what the symptoms of a heart attack are.

“You’re not having a heart attack,” she laughs. At me.

Rude.

“And you’re definitely not ‘fake’ anything. What fake boyfriend has requests for what you taste like when he gets to kiss you?”

My lashes flutter. “Every book man in a fake dating trope ever?”

“Right,” she says slowly, not even trying to hide that she thinks I’m being obtuse. “And what happens at the end of those books?”

My brows furrow. “But he said that we were fake dating,” I protest.

“I believe what he said was that you’re his girlfriend,” Poem disagrees. “Then you said it was fake, and he saw an opportunity. He even said he didn’t need a fake girlfriend, he just wanted you. I fear you’ve been blinded by your crush plus your inability to believe that the crush could be reciprocated in equal measure.”

“I have a hard time believing that because it’s not true,” I say. “It can’t be true. That’s bonkers.”

“And why can’t it be true?”

“Because,” I offer.

She waits, but I’ve got nothing else to give. That’s it. Just because.

She sighs. “Right. Well. Why don’t you take your ‘because’, dig a hole, and bury it. Then, without it blocking your sight, ask Emerson how he feels.”

Absolutely not. Nope. No, ma’am, I will not be doing that. How terrifying.

“And don’t discount it just because it’s scary,” she continues, stopping my freaking no before it can exit my mouth. “Even if all he has to offer you is friendship, which I don’t believe for a second, you’ll still need to learn how to communicate with him. Might as well start now, when you’re in the early stages and having clarification for where you stand will help you manage your expectations going forward. Either he lets you down easy, or he fulfills your wildest dreams. Both options seem worth it to me.”

“They seem worth it to you because you’re not the one who has to have the conversation,” I grumble.

“I’ve had plenty of my own difficult conversations,” she reminds me. “I’ve never been one to shy away from them. Take a little bit of confidence from me. I’ll chip a chunk off and send it your way.”

Freaking freak. “This conversation has not been calming,” I pout. “Now I’m anxious to see him for more than just the him of it all.”

Poem hums, unrepentant. “It’ll be good for you.”

“You know what else is good for you? Fire cider. But you don’t see me drinking it, do you? No! Because it’s unpleasant and gross!”

“Emerson isn’t unpleasant or gross,” she counters. “By your own accounts, he’s unerringly kind, compassionate, and thoughtful. Do you honestly think he’d handle a discussion about feelings, expectations, and boundaries with anything less than total care?”

I scrunch my nose and stick my tongue out at her, even if she can’t see it.

She laughs. “I know you’re making a sour face, and I’m taking it as a win.”

My doorbell rings, and her laughter becomes more like a cackle. “Go,” she orders. “Talk to Emerson. Call me after. If you could time it for the evening rush, I’d really appreciate it. Fox could use the invigoration of serving a bar full of customers without me.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I huff. “But if it’s up to me, I’ll be calling after the rush.” It would serve her right. If I have to suffer, so does she.

Another cackle. “Have fun! Love you!”

“Love you,” I reply as I drag myself off the couch and to my doom—sorry, I mean door. To my door. And definitely not to a conversation I’m reasonably sure will send both my heart and dreams crashing to the center of the earth.

Chapter Nineteen

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A girl just wants to feel a little special.