Kiss and Don’t Tell

“You know I love you,” Max says as he walks into the living room from the kitchen, holding up his peanut butter jar. Well, empty peanut butter jar. “But I’ll murder you if you do this again—finish off my peanut butter and then put the container back.”

“Sorry,” I say from where I lie on the couch. “I was too sad to clean it out and recycle it.”

Max points at me. “You get that excuse once.”

“Understood.”

My phone buzzes on the coffee table and Max’s eyes go to it. “Is that Pacey?”

“Why would you ask that? Of course it’s not. Why would we be talking?”

“I don’t know. A part of me thinks that maybe he’d come chasing.”

I shake my head and grab my phone. “Trust me when I say that’s not going to happen.” He didn’t chase after me when I left his apartment and it’s been days since I left. I peek at the screen and see Pacey’s name.

My mouth falls open, and Max must be watching my every move, because he hops over the couch with the empty peanut butter jar in hand and asks, “What did he say?”

I sit up now and unlock my phone. I pull up his text message and read it out loud. “‘Hey, Winnie, I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from, but I wanted to make sure you got back home safely. And I also wanted to apologize for what happened the other night. There’s no excuse for my actions. All I can do is apologize, and I plan on doing that, over and over, until you feel comfortable enough to accept that apology.’”

Max grips my shoulder tightly and whispers, “Christ. Look at him coming in hot with the text message.”

My pulse picks up as I read the text a few more times to myself. “I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” he asks. “He’s clearly trying to make up with you.”

“But after everything we said to each other . . .”

“You know, people can say shit to each other and be apologetic about it. I know Josh fucked you in the head, but that’s not how relationships usually go.” He nudges me. “You should write him back.”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure I should be thinking about him, pursuing this.”

“Why the hell not? He makes you happy.”

“He does.”

“Then that’s all the reason you need to text him back.”

“But I’m not . . . ready for a relationship. I should really focus on myself,” I say.

“You don’t have to marry the guy, but a response won’t kill you.”

“I have no idea what to say.”

“I have an idea.” Max takes my phone and starts typing. “Hey, Pacey, I forgive you with everything in my heart. Now please bring that cock over here.”

I snatch the phone from him quicker than I can blink. “Oh my God, Max, no. What is wrong with you?”

“Trust me, any guy would appreciate that text.”

Groaning, I turn away from him and study Pacey’s text a few more times before beginning to formulate my own response. Something that doesn’t involve the word cock.

PACEY

“HERE IT COMES—HE’S going to hit a homerun. I can feel it in my bones,” Posey says.

“No way. Maddox Paige is going to strike him out,” Taters says. “That fucker has a wicked changeup.”

“You’re talking about Knox Gentry. The dude is a goddamn legend. No way is he going to strike out under pressure.”

My leg bounces up and down, and not because of the game on the TV between the Bobbies and Rebels, probably the biggest sports rivals in history. I sent my text an hour ago, and there’s been no response, which means one thing—I’m going to have to reference the text message drafts we sat down and worked out for every situation.

“Look at the stare in Paige’s eyes. Dude is fucking intimidating,” Posey says as Paige winds up. He throws the ball, zipping it toward the catcher, only for Knox Gentry to make contact and knock it right over the shortstop’s head.

“Ha, told you.” Posey claps.

“Hey, idiot, you said he was going to get a homerun.”

“Homerun, single, same thing.”

My phone beeps and Taters mutes the TV as all the guys turn toward me. “Is that her?” Taters asks.

I flip my phone over and look at the screen. Seeing Winnie’s name makes my heart trip in my chest.

“It’s her,” I say.

“Jesus Christ,” Taters yells while motioning with his hands to calm everyone down. “Quiet. QUIET! It’s her, everyone fucking keep it together.”

“Idiot, you’re the one who’s being loud,” Hornsby points out and then says to me, “Read it out loud.”

“Please, Jesus, read it out loud,” Taters says, far too invested in this.

I unlock my phone and with a shaky finger, open her text. “‘Hey, Pacey. I made it back to my place safely. Thank you for asking. And no need to apologize. We said what we said.’”

“Ooh, not the response we were looking for.” Hornsby winces.

“I feel like throwing up,” Posey says as he stands and starts pacing. “How do we respond to that?”

Once again, we all look to Holmes who rolls his eyes and extends his hand. I place the phone in his palm, and we all rock back and forth as he types a response.

Maybe I should be doing the typing, but Jesus Christ, I’m right there with Posey—I feel as if I could puke, because I want her that bad. I want my girl back.

WINNIE

“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” Katherine says, walking into the living room as Max and I use our fingers to clean out any scraps from the peanut butter jar. “Fingers aren’t spoons. Don’t be a disgust.” She moves past us and we just exchange glances, about to dip our fingers in again, when we’re each slapped on the back of the neck with a wet paper towel. “Clean yourselves.” She snatches the peanut butter from Max’s hand as she walks away.

“Why does she hate us?” I whisper to Max.

“I think she just hates life in general, and that hate is directed toward us.”

Ding.

Our eyes fall to my phone.

And then . . .

“He texted you back,” Max whispers while wiping his fingers. “Oh my GOD.” His voice rises. “He texted you back!” Max shakes my shoulder and then taps my phone. “Open it. Open it.”

I wipe my fingers and then, with a hesitant heart, open my messages and read the text out loud. “‘You didn’t deserve what I said, or how I acted. I acted and spoke out of jealousy, out of fear that I was going to lose you. At the time, I didn’t know I was going to lose you anyway. I want you to know just how sorry I am.’”

Max leans back and lets out a deep sigh. “You know it’s not common for a man to admit when he’s wrong. He’s setting his pride aside and he’s making it known that he was in the wrong. You need to acknowledge how important that is.”

“I know it is,” I say, while staring at his text. “Josh never would’ve done that. Even when he apologized to me, I’m not sure if he fully understood what he was apologizing for.”

“Not Pacey.” Max shakes his head. “The man is totally in tune with his fuck-up.”

He is. Because even in Josh’s apology, he was clear that his greatest regret was that I wasn’t there when he needed to use me.

Max nudges me. “Text him back.”

“Yeah, I should, right?”

“You really should.”

PACEY

“DID you see Jason Orson’s Tik Tok the other day?” Posey asks. “He did the cake check and his ass was like a brick blockade. He then proceeded to hump the floor in celebration. I almost peed myself from laughter.”

“What’s a cake check?” Holmes asks.

“When you lie on your stomach and someone rolls a barbell with twenty-fives on each side up over your legs to see if your butt stops it. If it does, that means you have cake in the trunk, if you don’t . . . more leg days for you,” Posey explains.

“That’s idiotic,” Holmes says.

“You only say that because you know you don’t have any cake,” Posey says.

“No one has cake like Orson,” Taters says. “I’ve never seen an ass like his.”

“And he’s so proud of it,” Hornsby adds. “I’ve seen many interviews where he thanks his backside for his superior skills.”

“I don’t blame him,” I say just as my phone beeps.

“Quiet in the house,” Taters yells while muting the TV again.

I unlock my phone, see Winnie’s name, and say, “It’s from her.”

“Fuck yes,” Hornsby says while kicking his leg in the air. “What does it say?”

Not sure how she’ll respond, I tentatively open the text and then read it out loud. “‘I really appreciate your apology, Pacey. It means a lot.’” I look up at the boys. “That’s it. That’s all she wrote. What the hell do I do now?”

With a satisfied smile, Hornsby places his feet on my coffee table and crosses his arms behind his head. “The line of communication has been opened. Now . . . we woo. Message the best friend on Instagram, get her address. Tomorrow, we go into a full-court press.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You will . . . you will.”