Something crashes in the kitchen.
“Don’t you dare move,” she yells. “I’ve got this. Everything’s fine.”
“I ever tell you how much I like that you’re not the best in the kitchen?” I call back. “You’re unstoppable everywhere else. I like that you have a weakness.”
“I have many, many, many weaknesses.” Something clinks. Then something else. And then I hear a squeaky sound I haven’t heard in about a year and a half, and it has me going still.
The squeak gets louder until Tony’s old dinner cart with the fake gold handles and the one unpredictable wheel comes into view a split second before Maisey does.
And when I realize what’s on the tray, my gut clenches.
She’s not supposed to know.
“No frowny faces,” she informs me. “In town, you might get away withIt’s no big deal, but here, in this house, we celebrate what makes people fabulous. And you, Flint Jackson, arefabulous. So. We have ice cream cake. Cherry crisp—yes, Regina made it—and a package of Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies.”
I gape at her. “I don’t—”
She clears her throat and cuts me off. “We also have cards from basically everyone I’ve ever met in town, but don’t worry. They think I started a Ten Most Amazing Residents of Hell’s Bells project, so no one knows what this was so that you, and you alone, would feel appreciated and valued on a day that you happen to hate.”
I have to blink back some heat in my eyes and clear my throat a few times before I can talk. “Someone told you it’s my birthday.”
“Psh. Birthdays. They’re just days that sometimes come with a lot of bad memories.Thisis a Top Ten Best People in All of Hell’s Bells celebration. It’s officially a thing. And since I created it, I get to pick the winners.”
There’s an ache in my chest, but it’s not pain.
It’s not regrets.
It’s not old memories.
I think this is gratitude.
Belonging.
Respect.
Appreciation.
I think this is what falling in love feels like.
“You made up a whole award just so that you could give me a not-birthday birthday present,” I force out.
She smiles at me as she pulls a basket from the lower rack of the dinner cart and hands it to me. “You do so much for everyone else here in town. You deserve to feel appreciated too.”
“Do you sleep?” I should saythank you, but I’m terrified I’ll cry if I do.
She slips back onto the couch next to me, tucking her legs up and resting them on my thigh next to the basket, propping her elbow on the back of the couch and resting her head on her hand while she watches me. “Every once in a while. You?”
“Not enough.”
She reaches into the basket and plucks the top envelope off. Unlike the rest, which are all colorful greeting card–shaped envelopes, this one is plain white, the right size for a letter. “About this one,” she says slowly.
“Eviction notice?” I’m desperately trying for light.
Ineedto stay light.
Otherwise, I might tell this woman that I love her, and I’m not ready.
I’m not.
