Kiss and Don't Tell(121)

“What are you doing?” Max asks as he takes a seat next to me at the dining room table.

“Taking a quiz.”

“What kind of quiz?”

I lean back in my chair and say, “A career quiz.”

Max sighs heavily. “Why are you taking one of those stupid things? You know it’s not going to tell you what you want to hear.”

“And what is it exactly that I want to hear?”

He drums his fingers on the table. “You want a definitive answer about what you should do. That’s going to give you a broad variety of things to try. You already know that.”

The doorbell rings. “I got it,” Katherine says as she hurries down the stairs, phone in hand, most likely checking the Ring camera.

“And what exactly is that?”

“Kids. You love working with them, reading to them, spending time with them. It’s as simple as that.”

“Who sent you?” Katherine shouts.

Max and I both crane our necks to see a poor deliveryman trying to drop off a box. “Uh, I’m not sure. I was just told to deliver this at this address.”

Katherine pushes the package away. “You think I’m an idiot? I know that’s a bomb. Get away with that ticking murder box.”

“Jesus Christ,” Max mutters as he gets up from the table and goes to the door. He moves Katherine to the side and takes the package. “Sorry, my friend is wasted. Excuse her insanity.”

“I’m not—”

Max shuts the door and, instead of addressing Katherine, brings the package to the table and hands it to me.

“That guy was completely unmarked,” Katherine says, barreling down the hallway. “Delivery people always wear some sort of logo, advertising who they belong to. He was unmarked. That package is death.”

“I honestly can’t handle you right now.” Max holds his hand up to Katherine. “Please, go chew on a weed gummy or something. I need you to bring your insanity level down at least ten notches.” Max pushes the box toward me and says, “This is for you.”

“Me?” I ask, confused. “I didn’t order anything.”

“No, but I’m pretty sure I know who it’s from.” Max smiles.

“What did you do?” I ask.

He drags his finger over the box. “I just happened to get a message from a certain hockey player, looking for your address in exchange for a certain hockey player’s phone number.”

“He didn’t,” I say.

“Oh, he did, but I told him I would give him the address without the phone number. I don’t want to look desperate. I’d rather shine in a one-on-one meeting, which Pacey promised would happen if you two get back together. So, you know I was already rooting for you two, but now I’m gung-ho about making it happen.”

“You sold out.”

He shakes his head and grows serious. “I would’ve given him the address even if he just asked, because I believe you two belong together.”

“When did you become a hopeless romantic?” I ask him as I peel off the tape.

“Not a hopeless romantic. But I’ve known you ever since high school. I saw your relationship with Josh, and I’ve seen your brief time with Pacey. Trust me when I say there’s a huge difference between the two. Pacey made you light up. Josh never did that.”

Because Pacey was different. He cared. He was interested. He was protective. He was helpful. He thought I mattered. From the way he held my hand, to carrying my bags for me, to the way he intently listened to my stories with his eyes focused on mine—it was different.

I mattered to him, and that’s the difference. In fact, I mattered so much that seeing me with Josh upset him instantly. Yes, I’m still angry that he didn’t tell me they were related once he realized, but he was truly fearful that I’d planned to see Josh. He was so worried that I’d leave him for Josh. I mattered to Pacey. He’d stopped to buy me flowers, even though he was the one who’d had the doctor’s appointment, something that would determine his future. Something I haven’t even asked him about. And yet, he bought me flowers. Oh God . . .

I reach into the box and pull out a six-pack of blueberry lavender cider.

“Ooh, what’s this?” Max asks, looking at the cans.

I smile to myself. “Cider we had in Banff. It was my favorite.”

“Okay. I have no idea how he made that happen, but I do believe that deserves a text message.”

I tip the box over to look inside. “Is there a note?”

“Does it need a note?” Max asks. “This is thoughtful. No note needed.”

He’s right. It is thoughtful. And I agree—I have no idea how Pacey pulled this off in such a short amount of time; I only messaged him yesterday. But I’m grateful.

“Can you put these in the fridge for me? We’ll have one a little later.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Max says.

As he walks away, I pick up my phone and move to the couch, granting myself some privacy. I pull up the text thread with Pacey and start typing.

Winnie: Just got some cider delivered to the house. Max confessed to giving away our address. Thank you, it was very thoughtful of you.

There. Short, sweet, to the point.