Kiss and Don't Tell(106)

“Then I suggest you channel your energy there.”

I stand from my chair. “You’ll call me the minute you hear anything?”

“Yes.” He offers me his hand and I give it a shake.

“Thank you.”

I head out of his office and pull my phone from my pocket as I make my way to the car. I send a quick text to the boys.

Lawes: All done with Doc. Waiting for scan results and to see the neurologist. Will keep you updated. He has no answers. I’ll keep you updated.

And then I send a text to Winnie.

Pacey: Have to make a stop and then I’ll be back home. I need to see your face.

I pocket my phone and make my way through the building, taking a deep breath.

It’ll be okay.

Everything will be okay.





Chapter Twenty-Two





WINNIE





I’m so behind. I should’ve been cooking already, but here I am, at the grocery store, wandering around as if I’ve never shopped before.

After Pacey left for his appointment, I cleaned up around the apartment, aka, picked up my discarded clothing, and then I spent way too much time looking up recipes. When I looked at the clock, it was an hour later and I still hadn’t shopped for anything.

Giving up on making anything fancy, I decided to make tacos . . . well, because . . . I love tacos. But I decided on shrimp tacos with a lime sauce, homemade guacamole, and some microwave rice because I don’t have much time. I hope he doesn’t judge me.

“Where are the godforsaken tortillas?” I mutter to myself, rounding a corner and crashing right into another cart. I bounce back, bumping into a display of chips. I knock down a few bags, but thankfully don’t take out the entire thing.

As I bend to pick up the chips, I hear, “Shit, sorry about that.”

My back stiffens and my head whips to the side at the sound of that familiar voice.

I slowly stand, my eyes boring into, trained on, the man in front of me.

I swallow hard. “Josh?” I ask.

He also rises, and his eyes focus on me. “Winnie,” he says breathlessly. “Wow, you’re the last person I expected to run into.”

Oh God, what are the chances of running into Josh, in Vancouver, at Pacey’s neighborhood market?

Pretty slim.

But here I am, playing the statistics of the universe.

“Josh, wow, I, uh . . . I didn’t know you live around here.”

“Yeah, moved up here a few months ago for a job. Did you move up here too?” His voice has hope in it. Too much hope.

“No,” I say. “I’m, uh, staying with my boy—I mean, my friend.”

Josh’s brows draw together. “Your boyfriend?”

Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck and, I don’t know why I’m so nervous or why I’m hiding anything. Josh is the one who broke up with me. He’s the one who left me when I needed him the most. He’s the one who treated me like crap toward the end of our relationship. If anything, he should be the one squirming, not me.

Chest puffed out, I set one of the bags of chips back on the display and say, “Yes, my boyfriend.”

“Oh, I wasn’t sure you were—”

“Why would you? It’s not as if we’ve kept in touch since you broke up with me,” I say, bitterness rolling off my tongue.

“I deserve that.” His shoulders slump as he says, “I’m guessing you never responded to my texts because of your boyfriend.” I don’t appreciate the tone of his voice when he says boyfriend. It’s . . . snide. What’s up with that?

“No, that’s not it. I just didn’t think it was appropriate. Nothing you could say would change my mind about how you treated me.”

He nods. “I can understand that.” His eyes lift to mine and the expression on his face nearly startles the breath right out of me. I’ve seen that expression before, but not on Josh . . . on someone else. “At least can I apologize?”

I’m so stunned, so taken aback by the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the shape of his nose. He almost—God, I must be losing it, because he almost looks like Pacey.

When I don’t say anything, he takes that as an invitation to continue, right here in the middle of the grocery store. “I should’ve treated you better, Winnie. I was going through some things, and instead of talking to you about them, I pushed you away because I was scared it would be too much for you to handle. The only way I knew how to push you away was to be an asshole. So that’s what I did.”

I snap out of it for a brief second and ask, “What do you mean, I couldn’t handle it? Handle what? As far as I knew, you were stressed because of your new job.”

He shakes his head and quietly says, “I was stressed because they found a nodule on my prostate.”

“What?” I nearly shout.

He pulls on the back of his neck. “I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I found out just as your mom had to step away from the store. I thought it would be too much for you to handle and I didn’t know what my status was when it came to survival. I thought it would be easier on you if I just . . . stepped aside.”

“Easier?” I ask, my mind swirling. Josh had cancer. CANCER. And he didn’t think he could tell me? “Josh, you made me feel like I was less of a woman than I am with the things you said. You emotionally battered me, telling me I gained weight, that you didn’t think I was pretty anymore. You truly, from the depths of your soul, think that was better than telling me you had cancer?”