What you said about me being someone’s type was generous.
With that in mind, here’s a serious Tell Me Something: I’m afraid I’ll never feel desirable again. Afraid I’ll never kiss someone without them flinching. And then I’ll flinch and back away. Action. Reaction. I can predict it perfectly. My life seems like a constant backpedal.
Your turn. (It doesn’t have to be serious.) Sadie
From: [email protected] To: [email protected]
Date: November 13
Subject: Lies
Max,
That can’t be your Tell Me Something.
Tell Me Somethings have to be true.
Plus, you sound like my mom. That inner-beauty thing is the first cousin of “You’re pretty on the inside.” I’m not saying that’s what you meant, I’m only saying no girl wants to be in the pretty on the inside camp.
My new Tell Me Something: I need to tell Gina and Gray something, but I don’t know how. They’ve made some wrong assumptions, and I feel trapped between defending myself and telling the truth. Do you think there’s such a thing as a good lie?
Yours?
Sadie
From: [email protected] To: [email protected]
Date: November 20
Subject: RE: US?
Max,
Whoa, your Tell Me Something caught me off guard. Do you mean us as a couple?
If so, Max, you’re so sweet to try making me feel desirable, but you don’t have to do that. (Guess you do believe in good lies. ?) You live there, and I live here. Us is a horrible idea. Your emails are more than enough. More than I ever expected.
However, my Tell Me Something is: If you weren’t there, and I weren’t here . . . If I weren’t me . . . but you were still you, I would be interested in letting you like-like me.
Next?
Sadie
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The first half of the week dripped by like an old faucet. Gina reached out by email. Gray texted. Both wanted us all to attend Pirates and Paintball.
I ignored the communications, which only made them send more.
They weren’t the only ones who brought it up. Thursday morning, Max was on the back deck waiting for me. He walked me to the mailbox.
“Pretty sure the mail runs later in the day,” he said. “Like after the sun comes up.”
What did that mean? I didn’t take the bait, if that’s what it was.
“I forgot to check it yesterday.”
“Expecting love letters?” he asked playfully.
If this was an open door, I played it halfway in, halfway out. “Are you writing me one?”
“Maybe.”
Then he elbowed me and winked. I tasted the orange juice I’d just downed in the kitchen, and swallowed hard.
“We’re past our letter-writing days,” I said suggestively.
“I’ll keep that in mind for the future. So, besides the mailbox, where is it you run off to in the mornings?” Max asked.
I shied away from telling him about Metal Pete’s. It was something I hadn’t exactly disclosed in my emails, and I worried he wouldn’t understand my obsession.
“Uh . . .”
His eyes rolled up and away. His jaw set and he asked, “Do you go sit with Gray?”
“No!” I said quickly. “I’ll show you, but no commentary. Okay?”
“I’d rather know than wonder.”
I retrieved two helmets from the garage, and we climbed on the Spree.
“Did you choose this instead of a car because of riding motorcycles with Trent?” he asked as we pulled into Jenni’s parking lot at the Donut Barista.
“No. Maybe. I never thought of that.”
“Any luck driving?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“You’ll get it,” he said as we walked up to the barista shack.
“Ooh, I’ve been waiting for an introduction,” Jenni said, leaning out the window.
“Jenni, this is Max.”
“As in Maximilian,” she cooed, making Max blush.
“As in Maxwell, ma’am,” he said.
“Well, what does Maxwell love to drink?”
He let me choose for him. I ordered the usual plus a Pacho Nuevo black coffee blend and two crullers.