Page 95 of Special Delivery

“She did?” Emma interjects, but Jordan continues talking, “You’re right. Bradley was a dick for pretty much their entire relationship. He was controlling and borderline abusive, but he did it in such a sneaky way that it was impossible to convince her he’s doing it. He was in charge of what she’d write, where they’d travel, and that’s just the tip of it. What she went through with him…” She shakes her head. “Paige would kill me if I told you everything, but I need you to know she was devastated after it ended. He broke her trust not only in him but in the world around her. For months, she was barely functioning. Then, it was like a clicker went off. She started acting like her old self, but it was an act. She missed a key part of herself. Suddenly, she didn’t want to travel anymore, practically locked herself in her house, and promised never to date again.”

I run a hand through my hair, slowly processing the new information. It’s exactly what I noticed the first time I saw her. Like she was hiding parts of herself underneath thick layers of something. Now I know that something is hurt.

Emma’s soft voice breaks through the fog of my thoughts. “The lie you told the real-estate agent and seeing you that day triggered that feeling. It made her realize she put herself at risk again and broke the promise to shield her heart from the world.”

“How do I fix it?”

Jordan scoffs. “I don’t know. I tried everything I could to help her but made no progress. The only time she did make progress was with you.”

“I think you need to take it slow. Not push her too hard, but not let her off the hook either,” Emma tells me.

“Right,” I mutter, leaning back into the chair. There’s more to uncover about the story, but no wonder she’s scared. Still, I don’t plan to let her go.

“For what it’s worth, we like you for her,” Jordan says.

“We love you for her,” Emma adds.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. I guess I have some work to do.”

The wedding is in a week, which gives me seven days to come up with a plan. This is my chance to show her what she means to me, or risk losing her forever.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Paige

Crying stops the next day. At least that’s what I command my body to do, but my eyes have a hard time listening. Still, even when moisture forms in the corners of my eyes, I don’t let it fall. I blink it away, swallowing back the lump in my throat.

Instead, I focus on churning out two more columns. Then I delete both of them because they’re far too depressing and decide to try again on a day I feel better. Getting elbow deep in dirt and soil in my garden is my next attempt—anything to give me a sense of normalcy.

After a while of exhausting physical work, my mind finally relaxes. I’m replanting my dead flowers when my phone pings with a text.

My heart squeezes in my chest seeing Ryan’s name on it. It’s a photo. There’s three men in the photo, each one more handsome than the other. Ryan’s the hottest one of them, of course, but that doesn’t explain why he sent this to me. A text follows.

Ryan

These are my best friends. Parker is the one with the mustache, and Wes is the one in glasses. I’m the hot one.

I roll my eyes, even though I was just thinking the same thing. Why is he sending this to me?

Another photo arrives next, followed by a text. The photo shows him and a girl who can’t be over eight years old. They’re hugging each other, with bright smiles on their faces. She’s missing a few teeth, and she’s absolutely adorable.

She’s the kid I saw him drop off.

Ryan

This is Chrissy. She’s Parker’s daughter. Her mom left her a few days after birth, and Parker has been taking care of her on his own ever since. With a little help from his family and friends, of course.

A pang of sorrow pierces my chest. I know what it’s like to be abandoned by your mom. My phone pings again.

This time, it’s a photo of him and Chrissy on the couch, playing video games.

Ryan

We do monthly sleepovers. Once at my place, once at Wes’. We tend to compete on who she likes best, but it’s obvious it’s me.

A smile breaks through my teary expression. I’m aware responding could only cause more trouble, but my fingers type out a text of their own accord.

Me