A Pizza My Heart Read online

  “What is this?”

  “Exactly what it says it is.”

  “Private seating. We don’t have real private seating, so here’s this ugly stack of boxes. Yo, Simon, you should get some private seating,” she reads aloud, laughing. “I can’t believe my dad let you put this up.”

  “It didn’t take much convincing, to be honest.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That I was taking his daughter on a date and we’d like private seating so she can pretend she’s not at work for the night.”

  “You told my dad we were going on a date? What’d he say?”

  “Finally asked her out, huh? About damn time, son.”

  My mouth hit the floor when he said it. Has he known all this time too? How?

  But I can’t tell her that.

  Instead I go with, “Well, since he let me put this atrocity up, I’d say he was cool with it.”

  Her brows pinch together. “That’s it? He didn’t have anything to say about it?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing about how the kid who practically grew up in his house is taking his adult daughter on a date now?”

  “Nope,” I lie.

  “Huh.” She twists her lips together, regarding me with disbelief, as she should. “Interesting.”

  “The epitome of intrigue. How about we grab our table? There’s a couple over there eying it enviously.”

  “I can’t blame them. It’s a masterpiece.”

  “I take all the credit.”

  “But do you deserve it?”

  “Does staying up until four o’clock constructing it mean anything?”

  “Four o’clock? You’re kidding.”

  I raise my brows and her mouth drops open.

  “You’re not kidding. Holy heck, Foster. I can’t believe you.”

  “And you said I’m bad at dating.” I place my hand on her lower back once again and guide her toward the structure. “We keep this dating thing up for long enough and you’re gonna see just how amazing I am at romantic gestures.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever dated anyone who did romantic gestures for me.”

  “Well, not everyone can pull them off like me.”

  She snorts out a laugh. “I wonder if they’d stroke their own egos for ten minutes like you are if they did.”

  I lied when I said I was up until four.

  Truth is, I didn’t get out of here until eight this morning after pulling a double shift yesterday. Then I went on my run, house hunted, and crashed until I texted her about our date. I’m running on about three hours of sleep, but she’s worth all of it and more.

  I just wish she’d see that.

  “Welcome to our slice of Slice.”

  She breezes under the archway and slides into the booth. I take a seat opposite her.

  She looks around, eyes lit with amazement as she takes in the pizza boxes taped to the glass walls separating the booths and the ones angled up around the light. I even took the liberty of doodling a few poorly drawn stars onto the ceiling.

  “This is incredible, Foster,” she says breathlessly. “Way beyond first-date duties.”

  Not for you. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. It’s definitely something. I know firsthand this isn’t how you court all the girls.” She looks to me. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re not just any girl.”

  “But that’s what I’m supposed to be—just pretend, right?”

  “Right.” I lean into the table. “So let’s pretend you’re just a girl I met at…hmm…let’s go with the library.”

  “The library, huh?” She sets her chin in her hand. “Tell me more.”

  “We met in the stacks, probably the romance section.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Research.” I waggle my brows. “I bumped into you because I’m just a big oaf.”

  “This sounds completely believable now. Continue.”

  “You being in the library wasn’t believable?”

  “Of course not. I own a Kindle, for crying out loud.”

  “Fair.” I try not to laugh at how haughty she sounds. “Anyway, we hit it off instantly. Sparks were flying. It felt like we’d known each other our entire lives.”

  She grins. “Nice touch.”

  “I asked you out,” I continue, “but you said no, too worried I’d break your heart. I acquiesced, taking what I could get, and friends we were.”

  “Acquiesced?” She laughs this time. “I didn’t realize you were fancy in this fantasy of yours.”

  “Fantasy? I was shooting for semi-autobiographical.”

  She tilts her head, studying me, lips pinching together. She leans over the table, meeting me in the middle.

  “What happens next?” Her voice dips low with the question, like she’s afraid to ask it but compelled to all at once.

  “Next? Oh, that’s obvious.” I lean closer. “You give in to me. You realize what’s been right in front of you the whole time.”

  She watches me, eyes scanning mine, waiting for more. A punchline maybe.

  A twist.

  Anything other than the fucking truth I just let fall from my mouth so carelessly.

  I don’t know why I said it. Maybe because I’m sick of hiding things. Maybe because right now, having her feels so fucking close yet still so far away, and I can’t stand the tease anymore.

  Or maybe I’m just a moron and completely blew it.

  Her lips move as she mutters, “Semi-autobiographical…semi-autobiographical…”

  I see it in that moment, the meaning of my words dawning on her.

  “You…me…” She snaps her mouth shut, nodding a few times. “Ah, I see.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.”

  We fall quiet, letting everything sink in, our eyes never straying from the other’s.

  She looks confused, concerned.

  But—and this could just be wishful thinking on my part—there seems to be a glimmer of interest in her blue stare.

  “’Sup, losers? Whatcha want to drink?”

  The moment is broken, our waiter choosing that moment to grace us with his presence.

  “So professional, Winston.” Wren rolls her eyes. “Is that how you talk to all your customers?”

  “Eh, depends, but you’re not real customers, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “We are too.”

  He gives her a disbelieving look.

  “We are!” she argues. “We’re here on a date. Foster’s gonna put money in your hand later. Money is being exchanged for goods and services. We count.”

  “You don’t. Nice try, bud.”

  “I’m not your bud, pal,” Wren smarts off.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not your pal, butt sniffer.”

  “I’m not a butt sniffer, penis wrinkle.”

  Winston bursts into laughter. “Did you just call me a penis wrinkle?”

  “Yes, but only because you’re acting like one.”

  “Whatever. I’m bringing you waters. Your date is too poor to afford anything else.”

  He stalks away, shaking his head at his sister.

  “I missed you two together,” I say once he’s out of earshot, because the fucker would totally hold that shit against me. “I can’t believe you called him a penis wrinkle.”

  “I can’t believe he didn’t react when I told him we were on a date.”

  “I’m not sure he believes it’s real.”

  “Or”—Winston interrupts, setting our waters down—“he’s just not surprised by it.”

  “Two things here: where the heck did you come from?”

  “Our mother, Wren. You were there too.”

  “Winston…”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Fine. I stole these from Drew. She should really watch her tray more closely.”

  “You just stole other customers’ waters?”

  “If it’s any consolation, they looked very hydrated.”
/>   “You are a horrible server!”

  “I agree. Dad should fire me. What’s your number two?”

  “What? Did you just ask me about my poops?”

  “What?”

  “What?” I echo, lost in their fast-flowing banter but completely thrown for a loop by poop being brought up.

  “Why are you asking about my number twos?”

  “Singular, you goddamn freak. Number two. You said you had two things.”

  “Oh.” Wren’s face reddens. “Right. That.” She clears her throat, shifting on her bench. “Number two is…what do you mean you’re not surprised by it?”

  I point to Wren. “That. I also want to know that answer.”

  Winston looks to me, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. “Do you though, bro?”

  I meet his curious gaze and decide no, no I do not want to know the answer.

  At least not in front of Wren.

  “It’s because Drew has a big mouth,” he says, looking to his sister. “She wouldn’t shut up about her genius plan, so I already knew this whole fake dating thing was happening.” He shoots a thumb my way. “I didn’t think this idiot would bring you to your place of employment for a date, though. I hope she’s docking points for that, ass-wipe.”

  I grin. “She is.”

  “Freakin’ Drew. I’m gonna murder her,” Wren grumbles. “Whatever. We’re ready to order.”

  “We are?”

  Wren sighs. “Yes. I’m starving and you only have about ten minutes before hungry turns into hangry.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll have the chicken fingers, please.”

  My best friend shakes his head. “I’m so ashamed to call you my friend. And for you, dear sister of mine?”

  “Don’t be weird, Winston. I’ll have a slice of the cheese stick pie.”

  “Got it.”

  His eyes find mine again. I see the questions forming, and I know we’re going to be having a conversation about this later tonight when I get home.

  “I’ll put that order in now.”

  He spins on his heel.

  “Bring breadsticks! Extra!” Wren hollers to his back. He waves his hand, acknowledging her request, but she says, “He’s not bringing extra. I know him too well.”

  “If anything, we’ll probably get less now.”

  “Probably,” she pouts, then takes a drink of water.

  We go quiet again, the silence stilted after how we last left things when it was only the two of us.

  “I—”

  “What—”

  She laughs nervously, pink stealing up her cheeks. “Sorry, you first.”

  “No, no. What were you going to say?” I insist.

  Her hand curls around her water glass as she brings it closer, clutching it like it’s a lifeline of some sort. Her knuckles begin to whiten with her grip before they slowly turn flesh colored again.

  White.

  Normal.

  White.

  Normal.

  “Wren?” I press, the wait killing me.

  “Sorry.” She licks her lips. “It’s just, I know if I ask this question, you’re going to answer it honestly, and your honesty might scare me.”

  “Then don’t ask.”

  “I have to.”

  “Then ask.”

  She nods. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks and she inhales a steadying breath. “Your story…the semi-autobiographical one? That girl…she really is me?”

  “Yes.”

  “The boy really is you?”

  “Yes.” Now it’s my turn to shift in my seat, the strong teeth of nervousness biting at every inch of me.

  “And the feelings…” Another flash of her tongue on her lips. Her teeth scrape against the rosy, kissable lines. “The, uh, the waiting…the feelings…are those real?”

  I stop breathing.

  This is it.

  The moment I’ve been waiting for.

  She’s holding her breath, clinging to the hope that I’ll speak up soon.

  But I can’t.

  I’m frozen.

  My moment is here, and I can’t fucking speak.

  She’s staring at me with those wide eyes, her gaze intense.

  Tootsie rolls. Candy corn. Trash pandas.

  I close my eyes.

  “Yes.”

  It’s a simple word, so easy to say—though sitting here in front of Wren, it feels like I’ve just spilled my fucking guts to her.

  “I…”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” I interrupt, panic spreading through me. I want her to answer more than anything in the world, yet…I don’t, because I’m not sure I can handle the rejection. “You don’t have to try to let me down easy. You can just ignore it. Pretend I never said a word. Actually”—I spread my arms wide and sit back in the booth—“just pretend it was all pretend.”

  She snaps her mouth shut, lips falling into a thin line, then nods once.

  “Here.” Winston tosses a basket in front of us. “Extra breadsticks. Need anything else?”

  “Worst server ever,” Wren mutters, grabbing a breadstick and shoving it in her mouth. She moans. “God, this is so good.”

  “Can you not slobber on the phallic-shaped object with your brother present?”

  “I’m not slobbering on it.” She swallows the bite of food in her mouth. “Why do you have to make everything weird, Winston?”

  “Right. I’m the one making things weird when you’re the one making sex noises while eating a breadstick.”

  “I was not making sex noises!”

  I speak up. “Eh, you kind of were.”

  She glares at me. “You want to lose more points?”

  “Do I even have any more to lose?”

  “No, so you might wanna rethink that answer.”

  Winston grabs her purse off the bench, snapping it open and peering inside. Wren reaches for the bag, but he holds it just out of reach.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demands.

  “Looking for Foster’s balls. Clearly you have them hidden in here somewhere.”

  I snatch the purse from his hands. “Hardy fucking har, you dick.” I tuck the purse beside me. “Go work or something.”

  “Uh-huh. You know I’m right though.” He walks away with a smug grin, muttering something to himself I can’t quite make out, but I know him well enough to know it’s sarcastic as shit.

  “What are you doing with my purse?” Wren fires my way, arms crossed over her chest.

  The movement causes her shirt to rise another two inches, and I can’t help but shift my attention to the skin now on display.

  My dick stirs to life and I casually throw an arm across the back of the booth, shifting around to keep my growing erection from becoming obvious.

  “Keeping it so I can get my balls back later.”

  She huffs a laugh and takes another bite of her breadstick.

  We sit like that for some time, quietly eating our appetizer, enjoying the silence and not feeling like we have to fill it with bullshit.

  It was never like this with Layla. Every moment had to be filled with chatter, mostly coming from her. She’d gossip about all her friends and their lives and I’d pretend to listen. Sounds like a dick move, but you can only hear about how Janice’s new yoga instructor won’t do anal—her preferred way to get her rocks off to avoid an unwanted pregnancy that’ll “ruin her hot bod”—so many times before it becomes old news.

  For Wren and me, it’s easy, and I miss easy.

  “Foster?”

  She’s leaned across the table, watching me.

  I shift toward her. “Hm?”

  “Your, uh, your story…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I—”

  “Outta my way, you starry-eyed sons of bitches.”

  Fucking Winston. Worst timing ever, bro.

  “I am blown away you’re still employed.”

  “You and me both, sis. Okay, we have one slice of cheese stick and one basket o
f chicken fingers.” He slides our meals in front of us. “I brought southwest ranch, BBQ, and honey mustard because I know you two way too well.” He points toward the back of the restaurant. “I’m going on a smoke break and I don’t want to be bothered. I’ll be back…” He checks the nonexistent watch on his wrist. “Whenever the fuck I feel like it. Bon appétit, nerds.”

  Without another word, he takes off.

  “Your best friend is horrible.”

  “Your brother is even worse.”

  “True.” She sighs and begins unrolling her silverware while I begin to slowly die from curiosity.

  What about my story! I want to shout, but I don’t. I bite my tongue and pick up a chicken tender, dunking it in the honey mustard first, then tangy BBQ sauce.

  “Foster?”

  I pause mid dunk and drag my eyes her way.

  She’s not looking at me, attention focused on placing her napkin across her lap. She picks up her fork and knife, cutting a bite of pizza from the oversized slice.

  “Yes, Wren?”

  She doesn’t answer right away, focused on her food.

  I take a bite.

  “I…I like the sound of your story…of me being that girl.”

  All the air leaves my lungs.

  Wait, nope—that’s just my chicken tender getting lodged in my throat and my airway closing as a result.

  She’s not opposed to the idea of us, and now I’m going to die by choking on a chicken tender.

  Just my luck.

  Slice Thirteen

  Wren

  I climb across the table when I realize he’s not stunned into silence by my admission.

  He’s choking on his dinner.

  Great. I admit out loud that I might possibly have feelings for Foster and now he’s choking. Just my freakin’ luck.

  Kneeled on the table, I beat my tiny fists on his back as hard as I can, hoping to help him breathe and trying to ignore the water spilling all over the place.

  The cold water splashing over his lap must help shock his system, because he makes these awful half-wheeze, half-coughing noises before gasping sharply, whatever was lodged in his throat suddenly clearing out.

  He huffs air in and out of his lungs, each inhalation falling harshly on my ears.

  “You trying to fucking kill me, Birdie?” he accuses, falling against the bench seat, rubbing at his chest. “You can’t just say shit like that.”