Junk Mail(51)

Normally my getting-ready routine takes thirty minutes, forty-five if I’m going to wash and blow-dry my hair, which today, I am. Gram has unleashed enough aerosol on this house today. I don’t need to contribute my dry shampoo to that health hazard.

Once I’m all toweled off and blow-dried, I pick out a ruby-red sweater that Gram bought for me last Christmas and shimmy on a pair of jeans. Nice jeans, not my favorite comfy ones that have well-placed holes in the knees. Just as I’m swiping on my favorite peachy lip gloss, the doorbell rings. Perfect timing.

“Can you get that?” Gram yells from somewhere downstairs. “I’m in the middle of something.”

First she makes me change, now I’m playing doorman? Duncan better be at the door with the Queen of England at this rate. I giggle to myself as I imagine myself trying to figure out how to curtsy.

“Coming!” I call out as I head down the stairs two at a time. Fall is coming to a close, and I don’t want to leave Duncan out in the cold.

“Hey, Dunc—”

I’ve got half a sentence out by the time I’ve swung the door all the way open, welcoming today’s surprise visitor. No, not the Queen of England. This guest is far more nerve-racking.

Josh Hanson is standing on my front porch, two bouquets of flowers in his arms.

Am I hallucinating from all the cleaning products I’ve been breathing in?

What the hell is he doing here? I’ve just barely started considering the idea of getting over him. And that’s already been hard enough.

I find myself sputtering like a car that won’t start, unable to form a sentence, not even a word. I must look ridiculous, standing here with my eyes wide as the color drains from my cheeks. Ninety percent of me wants to slam the door and sprint back upstairs to the safety of my bedroom.

But I don’t slam the door. Because there’s still ten percent of me that, for some twisted reason, is fucking rejoicing that he’s here.

We stand there for a moment, staring at each other until he finally breaks the silence.

“These are for you.” He nods toward one of the bouquets—half red roses, half sunflowers. They’re absolutely gorgeous.

“Is the other one for some other girl?” I snap, my throat closing up a little more with each syllable.

Josh snickers. “They’re for Gram. I don’t think she counts as some other girl.”

Damn it. Duh, Peyton. Get it together.

Right on cue, Gram walks up behind me and lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Spotting the flowers, she coos in delight. “So sweet of you, Josh. But you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Of course I did. You helped me coordinate this, after all.”

I plant my hands firmly on my hips. So that is what’s happening here. Gram got sick of my moping and took the situation into her own hands.

“So Gram got to you, huh?” There’s venom in my voice, and I don’t even bother trying to sweeten it up.

He shakes his head. “No, I reached out to her. I wanted to check on you. Do you mind if I come in?”

The question is directed entirely at me, but I don’t have a clue how to answer it.

Do I mind? Did I mind when he disappeared from my life for two weeks? Did I mind when he randomly showed up at my favorite bar and ruined my celebration with my friends? Of course I mind. A bouquet of flowers isn’t going to make all of that disappear.

But the man I had all but given my whole heart to is standing here, on my front porch, clearly after talking to Gram about it. And that ten percent within me that doesn’t hate him, the part that wants to absolutely leap into his arms and kiss him again and again, takes control.

“Come on in.”

“No, no,” Gram says, reaching out to take the flowers from Josh’s arms. “I’ll get these in water. You two go have fun.”

I swivel my head around, squinting at Gram. Go have fun? What are we, first graders on a playdate?

“I did have somewhere in mind, if you’re up to it,” Josh says. “Scoops? On me?”

I look back at Gram, who’s smiling, her eyes urging me forward. Clearly, she knows something I don’t. And whatever it is, I want to find out. Which is going to mean taking a leap of faith and listening what Josh has to say.

Sucking in a deep breath, I hold it, weighing my options carefully, and then sigh my response. “Let me get my coat.”

The drive to Scoops is silent and short, and it’s not until we arrive that it clicks that it’s a bit cold for ice cream. The totally empty tables are evidence of that. It’s also only eleven in the morning, but stepping into the location of one of our first dates / business meetings unleashes the butterflies in my stomach all over again.

As I snag the same table we had last time, Josh walks straight to the counter, where I expect him to place an order for two chocolate-dipped cones. To my surprise, he asks if it’s possible to make chocolate-dipped ice cream in a dish. The woman behind the counter laughs, but agrees that for a regular like Josh, anything is possible.

When he takes his seat, pushing one dish of ice cream across the table to me, I finally get the opportunity to take him in. Underneath his black jacket, the blue Henley stretched tight across his chest makes his eyes absolutely sparkle. He’s as handsome as ever, although maybe a bit more tired than usual. Maybe he hasn’t been sleeping well either since we split.