Junk Mail(44)

“No, of course not.” Frowning, I take another bite. “What would I even say to him right now? The only men I want to talk to are Ben and Jerry.”

Both my friends roll their eyes. I guess I deserve that.

“You don’t want to talk to him, but you’re mad that he wouldn’t talk to you? That doesn’t add up,” Sabrina says, giving me a pointed look.

Defensively, I take an enormous bite of ice cream so I don’t have to respond to that.

“She’s still mourning, Sabrina. Cut her some slack.” Libby throws a pillow at Sabrina, who swiftly ducks it. “Here’s what I think. I think he’s either calling to apologize to you or to explain himself. But it’s up to you to decide if you want to hear it or not. Because it could be legit, or it could be total bullshit.”

“Right now, this all feels like bullshit.” I whine, passing my ice cream to Libby so I can bury my face in a pillow.

Maybe if I hide from this whole mess it’ll just go away. When I take my head out of this pillow, maybe we’ll be back at Speakeasy, just me and my girls, celebrating the success of my company without the added trouble of trying to piece my broken heart back together.

I peer out cautiously. Nope. No luck. Still in my bedroom, still brokenhearted. Damn. It was worth a shot.

“Okay, look,” Sabrina says bluntly, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re allowed to be mopey for the rest of the night. Eat your ice cream and pout, and watch all the sad romantic movies you want. But come tomorrow, you have to give this some actual thought and decide if you want to give this guy a chance or not.” Before I have a chance to respond, she adds, “And if you decide not to give him a shot, you have to promise to move on. Like, for real. Which includes dating someone new. Deal?”

I suck in a deep breath. The idea of moving on and dating another man sounds like the worst kind of torture, but I know she’s right. “Deal.”

? ? ?

I wake up to the smell of chocolate-chip pancakes wafting in through my door.

Sabrina and Libby stayed pretty late last night, but they must have given Gram the rundown on what happened before they left, because there’s no other reason Gram would be cooking my all-time favorite comfort food.

I can barely hear the sound of some pop song I’ve never heard before playing on the kitchen speaker. Gram is shamelessly singing along, but she’s not the only one. A low, gravelly voice joins in. It’s Duncan, I realize. I guess she needed a cooking buddy.

A quick glance in my mirror tells me that a good night’s sleep did me some good. The puffiness around my eyes has subsided, and thanks to Libby coming to the rescue with her makeup wipes, my mascara trails are long gone. I might even pass as someone who’s doing okay.

Despite all that, there’s no fooling Gram. If I so much as step into the kitchen, I’m going to have to talk about it. But I can’t resist chocolate-chip pancakes.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Gram is steadying herself on her walker with one hand while flipping a pancake on the griddle with the other. She’s recovered enough that she doesn’t need the walker much anymore, but I appreciate her being smart. “Duncan, darling, could you pour this girl a cup of coffee? I think she needs it.”

Duncan stands up from his seat at the table, following Gram’s request. I watch as his shaky hand grabs a mug, pouring it to the brim. He’s wearing some gray plaid pajama pants that perfectly match his silver hair. When I look back at Gram, I see she has on a similar pair.

Matching PJs. These two couldn’t get cuter if they tried.

“Here you go, sweetie,” Duncan says, passing me a hot mug of coffee. “I’ll let you fix it up the way you like.”

As I add my cream and sugar, he piles up a stack of chocolate-chip pancakes for me and sets it at the empty setting at the table.

“You guys are spoiling me,” I mutter under my breath after taking my first sip of coffee and sitting down in front of my pancakes. They smell like heaven.

“Sabrina and Libby told me you might need a little spoiling,” Gram says, turning down the volume on her pop music.

I can hardly suppress my eye roll. I knew those girls wouldn’t keep their mouths shut. Not that I wouldn’t have filled Gram in myself eventually.

She scoots her walker over to the table and snags the seat between Duncan and me as I busy myself with cutting my pancakes with the side of my fork, hoping to avoid this conversation as long as possible.

“Pass the syrup, please?”

Gram reaches across the table to grab the sticky brown bottle, then holds it up in the air above her head. “No syrup unless you agree to talk about it.”

I scowl at her, but she doesn’t budge. The woman knows me too freaking well. “Fine, I’ll talk.” I reach out and she passes the bottle over, then folds her hands on the table expectantly, ready to listen.

Between bites of pancake, I give Gram and Duncan the abbreviated version of the tragic tale of Josh and Peyton, skipping over the part where he and I slept together the night before he made his grand exit from my life. I’ll let them assume what they want, but no way am I saying that, especially not in front of Duncan. I also leave out the fact that we technically met before ever being introduced at the office. No reason to let them know about the dick pic either, I decide.

“In summary,” I say with a sigh, “the guy disappeared just as I was starting to fall for him. And now he’s suddenly showing up again, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to think.”