Me: Pete’s Flat Top Shop, 203 University Blvd. 7:00 p.m., Friday
Max: Holly?
Me: Yes.
Me: Who else would it be?
Max: You don’t want to know.
Hmm.
Suddenly, I remember all the calls and texts he got that Saturday when I went to his house. I don’t love the idea that he has so many women texting him that he can’t keep us straight.
I set my phone down as I let the dogs out of their crates.
By the time I get back to my phone, there’s another text from Max.
Max: I’ll be there.
I type out a reply and hit send.
Then I slap my palm to my face. I scrub my hand down and stare at the phone in horror.
Me: It’s a date
It’s a date? Why did I type that? It’s not a date.
I stomp into the living room and practically throw myself onto the sofa. What was wrong with me?
I don’t want to go on a date with Max Ramsey.
A date with Max Ramsey would be a disaster.
Even if we weren’t working together, a date would be a disaster.
Besides, I’d given up dating.
I mean, he probably didn’t even read it that way.
I’m sure he didn’t.
Why would he? “It’s a date” was a common enough phrase.
Somehow, I push the train of thought out of my head long enough to grade some essays and rewatch an old favorite show on Netflix. The next morning, when I stumble out of bed, pull myself together, and head into work, I stop cold on my front porch.
There are three brown paper sacks sitting right in front of my door. Bags that were not there the night before when I arrived home.
I set my bag down and investigate.
The bags have the logo of the local grocery store printed on them. The first bag contains ten jars of peanut butter and ten jars of jelly. The second, several loaves of sliced bread. The third, six large boxes of Clif Bars.
I carry them to the kitchen, unload all three of the bags until the contents cover the surface of my kitchen table, then slowly sink to the kitchen chair as I take in the bounty.
This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.
Max did this for me.
I can hardly reconcile it in my mind.
