A Slice of Love Read online

  “Shit?” I say. “Because they’re the color of poop.”

  He laughs again. “You want to know my favorite thing about you, Frank?”

  I nod in response, because there’s no way I could talk in this moment even if I tried. Not when his lips are so, so close to mine.

  “Your mouth.”

  And he proves it to me.

  * * *

  I was right.

  My world did shift.

  A boy stayed the night.

  A boy stayed the night at my house. In my bed.

  Not just any boy.

  Jonas.

  I’m falling for him.

  I know it sounds silly and probably a little stupid, but I can’t help it. He makes me feel so…me.

  It’s not just his kisses—which are incredible, and I’m practically an expert in them now because all we did last night was kiss. Over and over again.

  No, it’s more than that.

  It’s the way he makes me laugh. The way he looks at me, not through me. The way he talks to me, not at me.

  It’s everything. He’s everything.

  “What kind of sprinkles do you want?” Jonas shouts from the bottom of the stairs. He’s been in the kitchen for the last five minutes making us sundaes.

  Junk food is a big no-no in our house, so every time my parents go out of town, I feast on whatever I want.

  With Jonas coming over this weekend, I might have gone a little overboard with it. I loaded up on chips, cookies, crackers…and enough supplies to make roughly six sundaes.

  “Yes!” I reply from my perch on my bed, sketchpad in hand, pencil flying over the page as I work on my latest creation.

  He laughs. “Roger that.” Another minute passes then I hear, “Incoming!”

  He bounds up the stairs and down the hall, appearing in my doorway with two massive bowls of ice cream. Both are piled high with the last of our supply of candies, sprinkles, and crumbled-up cookies.

  I have no idea why we’re eating this—again—but we have to.

  Jonas leaves tonight. My parents are coming home bright and early in the morning.

  Technically he could stay, and we’d just wake up super early, but we decided it’s best not to risk it.

  I’m trying not to think about it, trying hard just to focus on the now and not anything else.

  “Stop thinking about it or you’re not getting your ice cream.” He stands above me, bowl in hand, brows lifted high. “And you’d really be bummed because this is my best fucking sundae so far.”

  My cheeks color at the foul language, and he doesn’t miss it.

  Ever since I told him I like it when he says it, he keeps using it.

  I think it’s just so I’ll crawl into his lap and kiss him again. Joke’s on him, because I’d do it anyway just to feel him against me again.

  I set my sketchpad down and hold my hands out. “I’m not thinking about it. Give me the goods.”

  “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the floor. “Let’s eat over here, under the stars.”

  “They’re not real stars, Jonas.” I roll my eyes but scoot off the bed anyway, following him.

  During one of our many make-out sessions last night, Jonas realized I have some of those glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to my ceiling and quickly became entranced by them. Since then he’s been making us eat all our meals under them.

  “I know, but they’re as close to a romantic meal under the stars as we’re gonna get until college. Now sit.”

  I do. He hands me my bowl of ice cream as he takes a seat with his own.

  “I can’t wait until college.”

  “Me either.” He shoves a couple huge bites in. “The faster we get through college, the faster I can get to the NFL.”

  “Oh, planning for the big leagues, huh?”

  “Every damn day, baby.”

  Skip-skip goes my heart at the endearment.

  “But don’t think I’m wanting those four years to just pass me by. I’m going to be spending every free moment I have between classes and practices with you.”

  My movements halt when he discusses a future between us so freely. We’ve talked a lot about going to school together in our notebook. We didn’t plan it—because I’d much rather be going elsewhere for college—but as soon as we found out we’d be heading off to the same school come fall, it was all we could talk about.

  The possibilities.

  Shoveling another bite into my mouth, I try not to think about it and what his words imply, because what if I’m just twisting his words? What if Jonas doesn’t want to actually date me? Dating is a whole lot different than kissing.

  “Don’t think I didn’t see that little pause. What’d I say?”

  I peek over at him. “N-Nothing.”

  Jonas laughs at the ice cream that begins to dribble down my chin. He reaches over, using his thumb to wipe away the mess.

  That part doesn’t surprise me. He’s been touching me without hesitation all weekend.

  What shocks me is when he sticks his thumb in his mouth, licking the sweet sticky goodness clean like it’s no big deal.

  I gulp at the action, wishing I were his thumb right now.

  “First, you’re a mess. Second, it’s not nothing. Is it because I said I want to spend time with you?”

  I nod.

  “And that’s…a surprise to you?”

  “Yes,” I tell him honestly. “I know we’ve talked about going away to college together, but I don’t know exactly what that means.”

  Jonas sighs and sets his half-eaten bowl of ice cream to the side.

  I do the same with mine when he gestures for me to lie down.

  We both do, side by side, staring up at the stars. Our hands are resting next to each other, our pinkies rubbing together.

  We lie there for several quiet minutes…so long I start to count the stars on the ceiling to distract myself from the quiet.

  “What do you want it to mean?” Jonas finally says.

  I don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t know, but because I’m scared he won’t like the answer.

  “Because for me, Frank, it means us. And not just hanging out.”

  Even I hear my sharp inhalation.

  He rolls to face me, and I mirror his position.

  He watches me, waiting for an answer.

  “Would…would that be okay?”

  I’ve seen Jonas nearly every day for the last four years, which means I’ve seen many versions of him.

  Tired Jonas who stayed up too late partying the night before.

  Exhausted Jonas who spent a crazy number of hours on the football field.

  Sad Jonas when his grandma passed two Novembers ago.

  Happy Jonas who just won yet another championship.

  I’ve even encountered Flirty Jonas a time or two.

  But never have I ever seen Jonas like he is now.

  Nervous.

  I like that he’s nervous. It means he’s serious about what he just said, what he’s asking.

  Jonas wants more than this too.

  “Yes.”

  He breathes a sigh of relief, rolling to his back, clutching his chest. “Fuck, Frank. Don’t tease me like that.”

  I swat at him. “Shush.”

  He rolls back my way with a grin. “I’m kidding. I knew you’d say yes.”

  “Oh, you did?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And how’d you know that?”

  “Because I can feel it in your kisses.”

  “Can you?”

  He nods. “Yep. You want me.”

  I do. “You’re dreaming.”

  “Only of you, baby.”

  I laugh. “How cliché.”

  He moves quickly and before I know it, I’m trapped under him. This position of ours has become familiar over the last twenty-something hours, and every time I find myself under his weight, those same butterflies start up in my stomach again.

  “Cliché, but true.”

/>   “I can’t believe I let you kiss me,” I tease.

  He stares at me for just a moment, and something in his eyes makes my breath catch. He looks like he wants to say something but thinks better of it.

  Instead, he lowers his lips to mine and says, “Yes you can.”

  Then he’s kissing me like he’s trying to prove his point.

  It’s made when I slide my hands into his hair, holding him to me.

  It’s proven yet again when a soft moan escapes me the second his fingertips crawl across my skin.

  It’s upheld when he peels my shirt off, and then his own. When he lays me back down wearing nothing but nerves and yearning.

  And when I never tell him to stop, it’s verified that not only do my kisses tell him I want a future with him, they say something else.

  I’ve completely fallen for Jonas Schwartz.

  Slice Three

  Jonas

  Now

  “If I have to listen to you say ‘go deeper’ one more time, I will murder you.”

  “Well, then go deeper!”

  “I can’t just go deeper. That’s not how it works.”

  “That is exactly how it works.”

  My hand is raised, prepared to knock as I stand at the customer’s door, unabashedly listening to the very loud conversation the couple is having, brows raised with so many questions running through my mind.

  The first one being, Did I really have to make a spectacle and almost blow my chance in the NFL so I can deliver pizzas for a living?

  Answer: no. No, I did not.

  But here I am. Standing at the door, pie in my hand, listening to some chick and her boyfriend go on about how he needs to go deeper.

  I don’t know who I feel worse for in this situation, the chick or the dude.

  Poor dude has a small dick, and she’s not being taken care of.

  What a predickament to be in.

  With reluctance—because I really don’t want to have to see my third naked couple today—I rap my knuckles against the door.

  There’s the now all-too-familiar shuffle.

  The hushed, “They’re here! Grab the money!”

  I brace myself for the swinging dick I’m about to encounter as I hear the knob turning.

  The door is flung open and, to my surprise, the person standing in front of me is fully clothed.

  And hot.

  I will not check out the customers. I will not check out the customers.

  I focus on the task at hand, pulling open the insulated pizza bag.

  “Good even—”

  “Holy moly.” The words drop from her plump lips on a whisper, her big, brown eyes widening. “Jonas.”

  My brows shoot up when she addresses me by name, and I give her my full attention.

  Something about her seems familiar, but I can’t recall where I’ve seen her. Maybe a party or two? There’s only one person I’ve ever met with hair her color, but there’s no way that’s who is standing before me now.

  I trail my eyes down the woman’s body. I know I didn’t hook up with her—I’d remember a body like hers. I let my eyes linger a moment, enjoying the way her jade tank top clings to her curves and stands out against her pale skin before getting my shit together and bringing my gaze back to her face. Her mouth is still ajar, the shock of me standing at her door not yet having worn off.

  Even if I don’t know who she is, she definitely knows who I am.

  I guess that’s what happens when you have an amazing college football career, so great that you’re headed for the NFL when you graduate, and then when you’re high on winning a bowl game, you jump onto the railing of the bleachers and…fall straight on your ass. Or, in my case, directly on your knee in just the right way to put you out of commission, shattering and tearing not only it but all your NFL dreams, leaving you to deliver pizzas in your hometown while you work on physical therapy.

  It’s been a long six months.

  Clearing my throat, I push my shoulders back. “Good evening. I have a large pepperoni and extra cheese on hand-tossed crust with two ranch dipping sauces.” I slide the pizza out with ease and shove it her way. “That’ll be $10.47.”

  She doesn’t take the pie.

  “I’m not imagining this. You are Jonas Schwartz, right?”

  I sigh, slightly annoyed the ball cap I’m wearing and the beard I grew aren’t enough to hide behind. “I am. Have we met before?”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Nice to see ya, Schwartzy.”

  The guy steps into view, and I recognize him instantly. Despite having attended the same college, I haven’t had a proper conversation with the guy since my freshman year when I got wasted and told him about what happened with Frankie.

  I’ve seen him around campus a few times since, but he mostly hung out with the theater kids, which definitely wasn’t the crowd I was running with.

  “Well fucking well,” I drawl. “Julian Schenn. How the hell are you, man?”

  “Not bad, not bad. Helping my girl here put together her bookshelf. She can’t seem to understand you have to put the screws all the way in and not just leave them sticking out.”

  Ah, so that’s what go deeper meant.

  The girl stares daggers at him, crossing her arms over her chest, pushing her tits up. Stop noticing, you dick.

  “First, I am not your girl. Second, I was going as deep as I could.”

  “Sure you were. You just gotta put a little more muscle behind it, that’s all.”

  She holds her arm up, flexing her bicep. “You see these guns? I was putting all the muscle into it.”

  He squeezes her nonexistent guns. “You’re still using that two-pound weight, huh? Need a spotter next time you hit the gym?”

  She socks him in the gut, and I can’t help but laugh as he grunts.

  She might not have muscles, but she can apparently pack a punch.

  “I yield,” he wheezes. “Schwartz, you remember Callahan, right?”

  Callahan? There’s only one Callahan I’ve ever known, and there is no way this chick standing in front of me is her.

  It’s impossible…right?

  But my eyes see the undeniable truth.

  Right there, just below her left eye, is the scar I remember so fondly.

  It is her.

  “Frank.”

  Her cheeks redden at the nickname I gave her in high school, and my palms begin to sweat in response to the reality of being face to face with her.

  For four long years, I looked for her, scouring social media. Checking every face at every party, hoping she’d appear. We were set to attend the same college, but not once did we run into each other.

  Turns out, I wasn’t looking for the girl I knew at all.

  In high school, she was all frizz with big, bulky glasses covering her pale face. She always reminded me of Anne Hathaway from that damn movie my sister Thea used to make me watch over and over.

  I guess Frankie had her own The Princess Diaries moment, because right now she looks a hell of a lot more like Mia Thermopolis after the makeover.

  I’ll never admit this out loud, but even though Mia was hot as fuck after that transformation, I always kind of preferred her with the frizz.

  Which is exactly why I could barely stand having Frankie as my lab partner our senior year.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like being around her. It was the exact opposite.

  Every morning she’d walk in smelling like oranges, probably from that boxed orange juice she’d toss into the trash when she stepped through the door. She’d shuffle her way to our table, slide onto her stool next to me—the one I’d drag just a few centimeters closer each day—then reach into her bag for a piece of orange-flavored gum, offering me one too. It didn’t matter that I turned down her every offer; she was still the politest lab partner ever, and she’d still try.

  Without fail, this was our routine.

  I made sure to take my vitamin C every fucking day so I wouldn’t get sick and miss a second of t
he seventy-five minutes I had with her. It was the first time in my high school career I didn’t have any absences.

  It’s not like I showed up for the conversation. Hell, we probably only spoke a handful of sentences to one another out loud the entire time we were in school together.

  But that didn’t mean we didn’t talk.

  Every day I had to sit next to her while she sat in silence, chewing on that damn bottom lip of hers and hiding behind the ball of frizz she called hair.

  It was annoying…yet I couldn’t stop stealing glances at her.

  I loved the way she’d let her glasses fall to the end of her nose before pushing the center piece until they were tucked back into place. I adored the way she’d line up her notebook and pencils in the same order, ensuring everything was straightened out before she flipped open her notebook, always adding the date in the top right corner in the most precise handwriting I’d ever seen. And when her mind would wander, she’d chew on the ends of her pencils until they were all marked up and unusable.

  I’d never wanted to be an inanimate object so badly in my life.

  By that first Friday, the silence and miles spanning between us were killing me.

  I needed to talk to her.

  On a whim, I scribbled a frivolous note and slid the paper her way.

  I’m 75% sure Ms. Day just farted.

  I watched as the corner of her lips ticked up and she reached for the third pencil in her lineup, chewing on the end of it for a moment or two before finally bringing the utensil to paper.

  Only 75%?

  Just two words, and I knew I had her.

  We managed to fill five notebooks during those 180 days. She’d take it home one evening, and I would the next. Sometimes our entries were lengthy, packed with our deepest, darkest confessions. Sometimes it was nothing but a doodle—well, a masterpiece in her case, and in mine, a crude drawing a kindergartener could have out-scribbled.

  Nothing was off limits.

  Our aspirations, fears, strongest desires, and embarrassing confessions…it was all there between the pages.

  Inside those cheap notebooks, there were no rules, no social ladders, no lines.

  It was just us.