A Pizza My Heart

by Hunter, Teagan

  She fluffs her foiled locks. “A pale green. I do hope it turns out okay with my complexion.”

  “Anything will be beautiful on you.” I wink, and her old heart gives out for just a moment.

  “Quit flirting, Foster. It’s unbecoming,” Wren tosses my way, spinning my chair toward the mirror and pumping the handle to raise me higher.

  “Unbecoming? Did I miss your eightieth birthday or something? Should I tip extra to cover my present?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You won’t be tipping me because you’re not paying. I’m not charging you for a haircut.”

  “You’re shitting me. My dog ran you over this morning. Of course you’re charging me.”

  “Foster, you’re sleeping on my brother’s couch for crying out loud. I can’t take the money of a broke man.”

  I don’t argue with her. It’s a fruitless endeavor.

  I’ll find a way to slip her some dough.

  “And don’t even think about trying to slip some cash my way. I’ll know and I will cut you.” She snips the air with her scissors for emphasis.

  “Please. I’ve taken down people your size like that.” I snap my fingers.

  “Oh, you’re really bragging now. What, with my five-foot-five frame? Real impressive, Foster.” She spritzes my hair with water. “Now shut up and let me fix this mess you have going on.”

  She shoves my head down with zero tact.

  “Are you this rough with all the boys?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Yes. Yes, I would.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back.

  Next to me, Blythe giggles, and I slide my eyes her way. She winks, like she knows my secret, and she probably does. Just like Molly did.

  Am I that obvious?

  Wren’s fingers slide into my hair like they did earlier, and everything I thought was dead inside me flares to life, revived by her touch.

  It’s such a simple thing, and I’m a fool to be so enlivened by it.

  Especially since I know it’s nothing but professional.

  But earlier…that was far from professional. That was personal, and I want to get personal with her again.

  “What time is your shift?”

  Her question startles me, and she tightens her grip on my head, anticipating my twitch in reaction.

  “Noon,” I mumble, not wanting to disturb her process. “Yours?”

  “I’ll be there at four, work until close.”

  “I close too.”

  “You’re pulling a twelve-hour shift on your first day? Are you insane?”

  “We’ve established that over the years.”

  “Fair point,” she agrees.

  “I could also use the cash. Plus, I’m bored.”

  “Bored? Here? But there’s so much to do.”

  “Have you not had your cappuccino today? Your tongue is sharp.”

  “My bad.” Only she doesn’t sound the least bit remorseful.

  She’s right, though. While the tourists love this place, it’s overplayed for us locals. We’ve done and seen it all.

  Which is why so many of us leave, looking for something…more.

  Not me. I wasn’t looking for more in the slightest. My “more” fell into my lap—literally.

  The summer I turned twenty-two was rough. We’d just lost Molly Daniels and all our hearts were broken. We didn’t know how to cope, how to move on together. So, we didn’t. We began to drift.

  Winston was off screwing his broken heart whole again, and Wren was in school for hair.

  I was alone.

  Sad. Bitter. Unsure.

  Layla “missed a serve” and tumbled into my lap on the beach. She offered to buy me a drink to apologize; I said yes.

  We drank, made stupid mistakes, and paid the consequences—me more so than her.

  To atone for my dumbassery, I packed my shit and moved with her to the other side of the country, giving no real warning to anyone.

  Then, I paid for it. Hand over fucking fist, I paid for it.

  I’m still paying for it, couch-surfing like I’m some free-loading shitbag.

  “You’re going to break my chair if you keep squeezing it so hard,” she says quietly.

  Working to relax, though it’s hard whenever Layla is involved, I loosen my grip on the armrests.

  I drive my focus toward Wren’s hands, which are still playing their way through my hair. They feel like fucking magic, and I want to stay in this chair forever.

  “That’s better,” she hums. “I’ll be done in a jiffy.”

  “Stop saying that shit. Jiffy.”

  I test the word out on my tongue and am rewarded when her attention is drawn to me in the mirror.

  I want to test something else out… I roll my tongue over my lips, and her body tightens with intrigue.

  I can work with intrigue.

  “It makes me want peanut butter and you’re out,” I continue like I’ve done nothing wrong.

  Her stare snaps to mine and now it’s her turn to pretend. “Only because you ate it all.”

  “It wasn’t me. It was Mike.”

  “You fed your dog my peanut butter?!”

  “What else was I supposed to feed him? It’s not like you have dog treats lying around.”

  At the magic word, Mike whimpers from his spot by the door then pads over to my chair, waiting patiently by my side for what was inadvertently offered.

  “I do so. You just didn’t ask.”

  She marches off, determined to prove me wrong. I miss the warmth of her fingers the moment she takes them away. I sag in defeat as the emptiness settles back in.

  Beside me, Blythe sniggers again, and I send her a look.

  In response, she raises her slender shoulder and pretends to zip her lips shut.

  Moments later, Wren returns with a white jar labeled with the image of a bone and screws off the lid, handing a brown treat to Mike, who’s wagging his tail like he’s never seen a treat before.

  She sets the jar down and returns to cutting my hair like this is an everyday occurrence.

  Her fingers massage my scalp again, and I lift my brow. She catches the movement in the mirror, shrugging.

  “What? Customers bring their dogs sometimes. I like to be prepared.”

  As if he wants to prove me wrong too, Mike then makes his way over by the door where the treats came from, and I hear him slurping away at the water bowl Wren must have stashed over there.

  “Traitor,” I shout at him, and Wren laughs.

  I love watching her laugh.

  She’s never been one to do the cutesy laugh thing. It’s an honest sound, not girly or dainty or any of that crap.

  A real, honest laugh.

  Loud. Unattractive. Borderline obnoxious. All Wren.

  I shift in my chair, trying to will away the half-hard dick I have, which is absurd because all she did was fucking laugh.

  “I’m almost done,” she tells me, likely thinking the shifting is due to discomfort from being in the chair.

  She’s so far from the truth.

  I want to build a fortress around this chair and never let either of us leave.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  She glances to Blythe, who is “reading” a trashy magazine and “ignoring us”, and twists her lips around, trying to decide if she should make her inquiry or not.

  “A question doesn’t guarantee an answer,” I assure her.

  She nods once. “Going back to Slice…does it feel like you’re moving backward, not forward? I mean, you got out of here like you’d wanted to for so long. You did it. You were free. Now you’re back. What does that feel like? Failure?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” I admit. “It’s hard to tuck your tail and run, which is basically what I did.”

  “What happened out there?”

  “Ugly. A whole lot of fucking ugly.”

  “But—”

  “Not now,” I sn
ap, and she jerks at my reaction, sending the buzz cutter deep into my hair.

  Too deep.

  “Shit!” She slaps her hand over her mouth, something she’s always done when she curses. “I didn’t mean to go that deep.”

  I chuckle at the double entendre and she slaps the backside of my head at the childishness of it.

  “Stop it, you jerk,” she pouts. “I’m being serious here. I feel like a newbie stylist right now, not to mention I didn’t want to go so short on your new do. I wanted to see your curls grown in again eventually.”

  “It’s just hair, Wren. It’ll grow back.”

  “Just hair. Just hair, Foster!” She throws her hands into the air, annoyed. “You can’t say things like that to a stylist!”

  I reach for her wrist, lifting her limp hand to my scalp.

  “Shut up and even this mess out.”

  “Mess?!” she cries again.

  “Good god, woman. Just cut my damn hair so I can get back to Winston’s. Some of us have to work today, you know.”

  She slaps me again, and I can’t help but laugh.

  Her lips lift in a grin and the buzzing returns.

  “I’m sorry,” I say after several moments of silence.

  She shakes her head. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pried and I knew that. You’ll talk when you’re ready. You always do.”

  “I do?”

  The buzzing stops. “Oh, I know! We should make one of our dates the beach. You’ve always been apt to spill your guts to me there. Maybe that’ll coax something out of you,” she teases, brushing off my neck.

  “Is that how you want me to court you?”

  Her fingers swim through my hair again, and it takes all my energy not to lean into the touch. “It wouldn’t count as a date date. It would just be a Wren-and-Foster date.” She fusses with my locks. “We could use one of those.”

  “Oh, could we?” I fire back.

  “Yes, and you know it as well as I do. Admit it, you’ve missed that spot.”

  I have, but mostly, I missed her.

  “We can load your truck up with blankets and pack my cooler with snacks and drinks, make a night of it just like we used to. We could even take our workout clothes and hit the beach for a run as soon as the sun rises. It’ll be fun. Just say yes.”

  “I don’t know… I feel way too old to pull an all-nighter.”

  Blythe snorts from beside me. “Boy, you are far from old. If I can stay up until sunrise, you can too.”

  “You and Randy hit that club I told you about again?” Wren asks her.

  Blythe drops her magazine and snaps her fingers, swinging her arms up and down, wiggling in her chair to music only she can hear. “We sure did, just last week.”

  “I have so many questions right now. First, how? Second, what kind of club? Third”—I look to Wren in the mirror again—“you go to clubs now?”

  “Not clubs. Just a club. It’s… Well, I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t, but I can show you.”

  “Is this going to be one of our dates?”

  “Yes!” She bobs her head excitedly, fingers still running through my hair though I know she’s just stalling for time at this point. My cut was done at least two minutes ago. “A million times yes. Besides, sometimes the girl is the one who needs to make up her mind and make the plans. I call dibs on date two!”

  “Date two? What happened to date one?”

  “Your pick.”

  “Mine? And what exactly am I supposed to pick?”

  “Oh”—she waves her hand—“that’s easy.”

  “It is?”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe want to explain this to me?”

  “Nah. You’ll figure it out.”

  Her hands drop from my head and I want to beg her to put them back. I miss the magic already.

  She tugs at the neck of my cape and slides it off me, the finality of it all settling in.

  With reluctance, I push myself up out of the chair and reach for my wallet.

  “No!” Her slender fingers wrap around my wrist. “Your money isn’t good here.”

  “It is too. Just take it.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “You need the money, Wren.”

  “I’m not taking it.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose with annoyance. “Why are you like this?”

  “Because I can be. Now leave so I can get some actual work done, please. I’ll see you later.”

  “Birdie—”

  “Don’t ‘Birdie’ me, Foster.” Her tone is steady, strong. I know she means business. “I’m serious. I don’t want your money.”

  “Fine.” She drops my hands, and I wish I’d fought harder just so she’d keep touching me. “I’ll find some other way to repay you.”

  “Sexual favors go a long way,” Blythe squeaks from behind us.

  My mouth drops open at the brazen old bat, and Wren’s lips twitch as she leads me toward the door, Mike following at my feet.

  “I wasn’t expecting that,” I admit.

  “Oh, I was. She’s quiet but fiery. I like her.”

  I nod. “I think I do too. I’ll see you in a bit?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Why don’t you take the night off? I’m sure I can handle it myself.”

  “It’s your first night. No way.”

  “I worked at Slice for years. I can handle it. Waiting tables is like riding a bike.”

  “My dad would never go for it.”

  “Please.” I grin, poking at my cheeks. “Have you seen how cute I am?”

  “Are you?” She squints. “I can’t tell.”

  “Can’t tell my ass.”

  “Speaking of your ass…” She holds the door open for me. “Scram, Squid.”

  “One, we are not doing that nickname. Two, how exactly is that speaking of my ass?”

  “As in, your ass needs to scram.” She points to herself. “Me—business owner. You—distraction. Me stay, you leave. Got it?”

  “So you’re saying I’m distracting because I’m so sexy?”

  For a brief second, she looks like she’s going to say yes, her eyes traveling up and down my body approvingly.

  Then, like it never happened, she rolls her eyes and shoves me out the door.

  “It’s because you’re so annoying.”

  “That wasn’t a no!” I yell through the door.

  She shakes her head, and I take the win where I can get it.

  Slice Nine

  Wren

  “Out!”

  I stop dead in my tracks, the door to Slice clanging closed behind me, the sound echoing off the walls of the shop.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Out!”

  I stand here, sputtering for words as my father glides toward me.

  “What’s going on?”

  Stopping in front of me, he points toward the door. “Out. You’re banned for the night. You’ve been working too hard, my little bird. You need a night off.”

  “But you need the help. Foster can’t handle this himself.”

  “He’s doing just fine on his own.”

  “His own? He’s on his own?”

  My eyes seek out Foster, who seems to be taking care of everything with ease, whipping around the store, slinging slices like he never left. As if he senses us talking about him, Foster lifts his head and looks our way. He sends me a wink and my knees try to buckle, though I can’t tell if it’s from the gesture or the fact that he scored me a night off work, my first in weeks…or perhaps months.

  My father gently grabs my arm, steering me outside.

  “See? We have everything taken care of. Go rest. I’m sorry I’ve been working you so hard. You’re just the only one I can rely on. Winston is…”

  “Winston?” I provide, because we both know that covers everything.

  “Exactly.” He laughs. “We have it covered here until Monday, but you can come back tomorr
ow if you want…”

  Meaning he wants me there for the extra set of hands because Saturdays are always packed, but he doesn’t want to ask me.

  At least I have tonight.

  “Are you sure?” I ask again, afraid to leave.

  “Positive.”

  “Call if things get dicey?”

  “I promise.”

  I nod. “Okay. Only if you’re sure.”

  He shakes his head. “I am. Now leave—and don’t try to sneak in the back. I’m watching you.”

  I laugh, because it really is something I’d do. It’s not that I love working at Slice or anything, but I love my family. I love helping them. I want to be there when they need me. It’s hard for me to turn away from them, even when they say everything is under control.

  “You have my word.”

  He kisses the top of my head. “Good night, kiddo.”

  “Later.”

  I spin on my heel and head toward my car, a newfound pep in my step because this chick has an entire night off.

  And the shop doesn’t open until noon tomorrow.

  I have nearly twenty hours to do whatever the heck I want.

  Take a bath. Bake some cupcakes. Order takeout. Cozy up in my jammies and binge-watch something juicy.

  Or sleep.

  Sleep is sounding really good right about now.

  “Yo, Birdie.”

  I swing toward Foster, who’s striding my way sporting a triumphant grin.

  “Well, well, well. Don’t you look smug.”

  “Damn straight I do.” He points to his face again. “Told ya this face you think is so cute would work.”

  “I never said it was cute.”

  “You never said it wasn’t either.” He stops in front of me, cupping his hand around his ear. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, no, not that.”

  “Thank you…a lot?”

  “Try again.”

  “Um…” I reach out and pat him on the head. “Good job?”

  “Nope.”

  I pat at my pockets. “I don’t have any suckers on me right now, so I hope you’re not waiting for a treat.”

  “I wanna hear it.”

  He’s still standing there, hand up to his ear, looking stupid as can be.

  “Want to hear what exactly?”

  “That I’m cute.”

  I shove him away. “Not happening.”

  He grabs my hand, pulling me toward him. I crash into his hard chest, my body molding to his in ways it hasn’t for years. We’ve never shied away from touching one another. My family has always been very hands-on, huggy types, so it comes natural to me, and it’s been that way with Foster since the beginning too.