A Pizza My Heart Read online

“I know you did.” I wink. “I missed you too.”

  Her eyes roll skyward as she pushes to her feet, making sure to grab her chocolate milk. “Am I going to be seeing you more now that you’ve moved back?”

  God, I hope so.

  “You can count on it.”

  She peers down at me, her blue gaze steady and questioning.

  Orange juice. Superman. Chips and salsa.

  Her lips twitch. “Are you doing it again?”

  “Dammit, Wren,” I grumble, somehow missing her even more when she walks away.

  Slice Three

  Wren

  “My feet are killing me today.” Drew attaches herself to the wall next to the computer, resting her hands on her thighs and trying to stretch out her short legs. “This shift is draining.”

  “BOGO Wednesdays always are.”

  A few years ago, my father had this idea to start doing a buy one, get one day once a week to help drive sales during the off-season too. At first it was just the locals who ate it up, but by the end of that first summer, we were famous for it.

  That said, our BOGO day isn’t the only thing this pizza joint is known for, because we aren’t your ordinary pizzeria—not by a long shot. My dad creates the wackiest pizzas he can think of. Mac and cheese with actual noodles. Hot dogs and baked beans. Fried chicken fingers and waffles. French fries. Cheese stick pizza—a personal favorite of mine. Biscuits and gravy pizza. And there’s even a breakfast platter pie that comes complete with mini pancakes.

  It’s odd, but it works for us. Customers are always creating their own combinations too.

  Drew lets out another long groan, massaging her thighs. “Simon is the worst for doing this to us. He’s lucky he’s hot.”

  “Don’t start, Drew,” I warn. “I’m too tired to keep up with your horndog crap today.”

  She laughs and pushes off the wall as I finish up, sliding in front of the computer and ringing in her latest check.

  As grueling as this shift is and despite her complaining, I know on some level she’s happy we’re dead on our feet, especially since her car recently broke down for the third time this year. The last thing my independent best friend will do is ask her family or anyone else for help. She’ll shoulder the burden and take all the extra shifts she can get to make it on her own.

  I love her for it.

  “Are you pulling a double again?” I ask, nonchalant but ready to offer her a ride home no matter how late it gets.

  “Get this shit…your brother actually showed up to work today. Just came in five minutes ago. Of course he’s already taking a smoke break, but he’s here.”

  “Really?” My brows shoot up. “Huh. Guess Foster talked some sense into him.”

  “Speaking of that hottie…”

  “What did I just tell you about your horniness?”

  “Sorry, but I refuse to let this one go. That dude is majorly hot.”

  “Is he? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Bull,” she shoots back, calling me on my crap as usual.

  It is bull.

  To say I’ve noticed just how hot Foster has become over the years is an understatement. I noticed…and then took some time to notice some more during the two hours he spent here last night trolling around the place and “fixing” things. A loose screw here, a lightbulb there. He even stayed past close to help refill the shakers on the tables.

  I noticed him every time I had to walk by him, every time he laughed a little too loud in that typical Foster way.

  Which is weird because I never noticed Foster before.

  He was always there; I never had to notice him.

  I shouldn’t pay any attention to him now though. I wasn’t lying yesterday when I told him I was upset he left. I was royally pissed the fuck off, and though I’m happy he’s back, I’m still mad about him leaving…and worried he’ll do it again.

  “I swear,” Drew’s voice interrupts my thoughts, “if I wasn’t with Chadwick, I’d be all over that. Why didn’t you ever tell me you knew such a stud, Wren? I’m so disappointed in you.”

  I groan. “You sound exactly like every friend I ever had in high school. You know Foster Marlett and he practically lives with you—want to braid each other’s hair and be best friends? How about we have a sleepover at your house?” I roll my eyes. “It was always the same crap over and over again. He’s not that great.”

  “I don’t know, Birdie—have you met me? I am pretty awesome.”

  A startled squeak escapes my lips as I whirl around to find Foster standing directly behind me, a smirk lining his lips. His bulging arms are crossed over his chest, hip resting against the end of the counter.

  I gulp—loudly, I might add. “Oh, uh, hey Foster. How goes it?”

  “It goes, Wren.” He’s still smirking, and I want to reach over and wipe it off his face. “How goes it with you?”

  “It goes.”

  “Can we discuss the fact that you call her Birdie?” Drew pipes up.

  “We cannot.”

  “Can.”

  “Not!” I shout over Foster’s interruptions. “We are not going there.”

  “I think we should. You just rambled on and on about how horrible I am. I think we can spare a minute or two to tell Drew”—he sends a stupid, charming smile my best friend’s way—“it is Drew, isn’t it?”

  She nods, captivated by him.

  I roll my eyes again, and I can see in his eyes how much my irritation pleases him.

  Jerk.

  “We have a moment to tell Drew about that time you thought you could fly because you were named after a bird. About how you fashioned together these crude-looking wings from cardboard and feathers—god, your mom was pissed you tore up her pillows—and then proceeded to jump from our tree house. You know, the one that was eight feet off the ground…when you were thirteen.” He looks over at Drew again. “Old enough to know it would never work.”

  I cross my arms, throwing daggers his way. “You and Winston swore it would work.”

  “You believed us.”

  He pushes off the counter, sauntering over to me with that same confident swagger that made all the girls swoon in high school. He leans down toward me, bringing us closer in height, a difficult feat since he’s well over six foot and I’m barely pushing five-five. His eyes meet mine, and I never realized before how green they are, how much they remind me of that grassy knoll we used to race up and down every day in spring.

  Why do I smell sunshine and pine?

  “And you say I’m the gullible one,” he adds, so quietly only I can hear him.

  “Wait a damn minute—you thought you could fly? Like actually fly?” Drew lifts her hand to her throat. “Oh my gosh, my friend is a dumbass. What have I gotten myself into?”

  I smack at her, but she dodges my flailing hand, backing away before I can make any sort of contact.

  Lucky brat.

  “Hey, watch it!” Rounding the corner at just the right time, Winston catches Drew, steadying her before she can trip over his feet. “Some of us are trying to work here.”

  “Says the dude who just got here and then promptly took a ten-minute cigarette break.” Drew slides away from him. “I thought you were quitting.”

  “I thought you were minding your own business,” he replies.

  “Shots fired,” Foster whispers to me.

  “Know what my business is about to be? Kicking your ass!” Drew swings on Winston.

  “That makes absolutely zero sense,” my brother argues back, scurrying away from her as she chases him through the restaurant.

  Foster and I stand here staring after them, shaking our heads.

  “Thanks for getting him to work,” I say eventually.

  “It wasn’t too hard. I just threatened to invite your dad over and casually show him his son’s pot stash.”

  I chuckle. “You know my dad is well aware his son is a stoner, right?”

  “Yep, but Winston doesn’t know that.”

  We exchang
e a quick glance and burst into laughter.

  “I almost forgot what an evil genius you are,” I tell him.

  “Yeah? Is it because I’m…what was it…not that great?”

  “Shut up,” I gripe. “You know I love you.”

  “Best second big brother ever, right?”

  His shoulders go rigid and there’s a bit of a bite to his tone.

  The first thing that comes to mind is the last night we spent together before he moved. It had felt like just any other night. We were sprawled out in the back of his truck, parked illegally on the beach, stars blazing bright over us. It was our go-to place, our spot, Foster and Wren only.

  We were talking about my mom, about life. About the risks we wanted to take—Foster wanting to explore the world, me wanting to do hair. About not letting anything hold us back because time is limited.

  We were very much in a “grab life by the horns” kind of mood.

  We felt destructible yet made of stone all at once.

  There was no fear, no barriers.

  We were raw.

  “I love you, you know.”

  “I love you too.”

  He stiffens next to me. It’s not a big change in his demeanor, but I’ve known Foster long enough to know when something’s up.

  He faces me.

  “No, Wren, I love you.”

  There’s something in his eyes, something that’s not quite the Foster I know.

  He’s being weird.

  Or maybe I’m imagining things because I’m so damn tired. I mean, it is four in the morning and we have been discussing some serious-as-hell topics for far too many hours.

  Yeah. That’s all it is. I’m just caught up in the moment.

  I bump his shoulder with mine. “And I love you, Foster. You’re the best second big brother who sometimes goes home and isn’t always around to annoy me I’ve ever had.”

  He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  I tell myself it does.

  “Quick—tell me what you’d do if you won a million dollars.”

  Things go back to normal.

  Is it just me or is Foster acting weird again? Like that night?

  “Why isn’t anyone working? It’s Wednesday, so I know there is plenty to do.”

  “Anyone? What are you going on about, you senile old fart? Everyone’s out on the floor. Everyone is—”

  I pause.

  Dammit.

  “Ha! Very funny, Dad. By anyone you mean me.”

  “Very astute, my little bird.” He tugs on my ponytail. “Now get out there. Foster, do I need to hand you an apron?”

  “No, sir. I’m here for a date.”

  I snap my head his way. “Another one?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where’d you find this one?”

  His eyes narrow. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  A burst of laughter rushes out of me. He totally picked up another girl on LustStruck. “I can’t wait to see how this turns out.”

  “At least he has a date.”

  “Wow, Dad. Just throw me right under the bus on that one.”

  He lifts a shoulder. “I’m just sayin’, kid. Been a long time since you went out.”

  Yeah, because all I do is work for you when I’m not doing hair.

  “We can’t all be Casanovas like you and Foster.”

  My dad’s eyes widen, and his cheeks turn red. My guess about Beth is confirmed.

  I waggle my brows at him. “I see the looks you give Beth.”

  He clamps his lips together, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re going on about. Get back to work,” he mutters as he virtually sprints away from me, clearly not wanting to discuss this any further.

  “Who’s Beth?” Foster asks, staring after him.

  “Our crew manager. I’ve had this feeling for a few months now that they’ve been secretly seeing each other, and he just all but confirmed it.”

  “Your dad is dating? How does that make you feel?”

  I snort a laugh because he sounds exactly like the grief counselor I saw after Mom died. “Well, Dr. Marlett,” I tease, “it’s kind of weird considering I’ve only ever seen him with my mother, but I want him to be happy, so I’m okay with it.”

  He nods, running a hand along his stubble-lined chin but not saying anything.

  I guess he can somehow relate to the situation my dad is in—dating again after sharing a life with someone for so many years.

  “How does it make you feel, the whole moving-on thing? I mean, you were married and now you’re not.”

  He scoffs. “Layla and I weren’t together for nearly as long as Simon and Molly. That’s not a fair comparison.”

  “True, but you built and shared a life together. No matter how short-lived it was, it still counts for something.”

  He laughs sardonically. “Trust me, I am well aware of how much it counts. Ask my wallet if it counts, or my fucking credit score.”

  I wince at the harshness in his tone. “It was that bad?”

  “You don’t even want to know.”

  “I was surprised when you got married, you know. Not because it was so sudden, but because you were never Mr. Settle Down, always playing the field. And…what did you used to call it? ‘Keeping your options open.’”

  “Trust me, if I could go back and change things, I would.”

  There’s an overwhelming sadness in his voice and I want to ask him so many questions, but I know now isn’t the time.

  Besides, when Foster’s ready to talk about it, he will. He never hides anything from me for too long.

  Stealing a peek at him, I notice how tensely his shoulders are set, how tightly his jaw is locked together, a tic forming from the pressure.

  He looks so angry, so heartbroken—but also so determined to not make the same mistakes again, which suddenly makes him dating so soon after his divorce admirable.

  My eyes land on his hand, the one he’s still running over his stubble. I wonder if it’s a nervous twitch or something. Or maybe he’s just fascinated by his ability to grow facial hair. I know I am, because this is definitely a new look for him.

  It suits him, makes him look older. Wiser.

  Or maybe that’s just the crushing reality of life.

  Either way, he looks good.

  He looks… Holy crap. No way.

  “Foster?”

  “Birdie?”

  “Is, uh…is today laundry day or something?”

  He glances down at his shirt, red stealing up his cheeks. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “I wore this yesterday, didn’t I?”

  I laugh. “You really didn’t notice?”

  “No. I haven’t been sleeping so hot. Turns out your brother’s couch is as uncomfortable as it is gross.”

  I shudder at the thought of having to sleep on it.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure no one will notice. Besides, it’s not like you were just here yesterday or anything,” I say sarcastically.

  “There’s that snark I missed.” He rolls his eyes. “I better get going. My date should be here any minute.”

  Instead of heading toward the exit, he treks his way through the dining room, and my brows crease together, trying to piece together where he’s headed.

  What is he…

  “Wait!” I follow behind him, struggling to catch up to his long strides. “Is your date here? Again?”

  “No!” he says quickly. Too quickly. “Maybe,” he adds.

  “Foster! You’re bringing your new date to the same place you brought your date last night? What the hell? You can’t do that!”

  He shrugs, taking a seat at a table already set for two, another Beer Wars—this time The Hop Awakens—sitting in front of him. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s tacky!”

  “How? Neither of them will ever know.”

  “I’ll know.”

  “So?”

  “So! You can’t do that.”

  “Can too. Besides, I missed the pizza he
re.”

  “You didn’t even order pizza,” I argue. “Thank god this isn’t my section. You’re wearing me out.”

  “Actually,” Drew draws out, appearing next to me. “It is now. Your brother decided he liked the lighting on that side of the room more and switched it on the kiosk.”

  “He liked the lighting more? This isn’t amateur photographer hour.” Though Winston is far from an amateur photographer—my brother has mad skills—I’m annoyed. “I hate him, and you for letting it happen.”

  “What? Don’t want to be my waitress again? Did I not tip well enough?”

  I stare down at a grinning Foster. He knows he tipped me well. Too well.

  I could use that again…

  I give him a phony sweet smile. “You know, you’re right. I don’t hate Winston or you, Drew. Because now I have a front-row seat to what I’m sure is going to be another LustStruck disaster.”

  “You’re getting your dates off LustStruck? Why are you even bothering with dinner then? What a sucker. Don’t you know that’s a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am app?”

  Foster groans at Drew’s very accurate description.

  “See? I told you so,” I say.

  “Go away. Both of you. My date will be here any moment.”

  “No can do. I’m your waitress, and I am very attentive to my customers.” We all know I’m full of crap. I’m the worst waitress ever. I pull my notepad from the front of my apron. “I see one of my colleagues has already taken care of your drink order. Can I start you off with some appetizers, or would you like to wait for your guest to arrive?”

  “Wren…” he grits out, but his twitching lips betray him. I know he wants to laugh at my antics.

  “Wait it is.” I close my book and tuck it back into my pocket. “Noted.”

  His lips spasm again.

  “Did you note that? I didn’t see you write it down.”

  Like the smartass I am, I pull the pad back out, put pen to paper, and then flip it his way.

  “See?” I show him the page. “Lonely man, table 9. Wait.”

  “Lonely, huh?”

  “I mean, you are on LustStruck. That’s a sure cry of loneliness.”

  I turn on my heel, satisfied I’ve won our spar.

  “Bring back some breadsticks!” he calls out.

  I shake my head and lift my notebook. “Can’t.”