Natasha’s mouth drops open, her face reddening a little more with every second she stares at the offending beverage.
“Fine. I get it—I’m a child to you.” She stands abruptly, her chair stuttering against the carpet just enough to topple over and bring the scrutiny of half the restaurant our way.
“She’s doing it again, Blythe,” an older man speaks up. “Let’s watch the show.”
“Oh, Randy,” the woman he’s with titters, busying herself with her slice of macaroni pizza and shaking her head at her husband—or Wren. I can’t tell which.
“Well, I have news for you, Foster—I know how to use my mouth in ways your sad, old dick couldn’t even dream about.”
She turns on her heel and marches out of the restaurant.
“Damn, boy.” The old man whistles. “She told you.”
“Randy!” the woman I assume is his wife chides. “Eat your pizza and leave them be.” She peeks around her husband and smiles sweetly at Wren. “So sorry, dear. It’s his first time in public all week. He’ll quiet down now.”
Randy grumbles something I can’t quite make out, but it must have struck a nerve with Blythe because she tosses a breadstick at him and shakes her head.
Wren rights Natasha’s abandoned chair and takes a seat across from me.
“That went well.” She reaches across the table and plucks a breadstick from the basket she brought over, taking a bite and chewing before adding, “You creepin’ on the locals, Foster?”
The teasing lilt in her voice wraps around my name and not only brings back old memories, but also stirs up a few feelings in areas I should not be feeling them.
I push away the inappropriate thoughts about my best friend’s sister that are trying to creep into my head again and try to explain the mess she just witnessed.
“She lied about her age.”
“Did you ask her age?”
“No, but—”
“So, she didn’t lie.”
“Well, technically no.” I frown at the realization. “But she wasn’t forthcoming about it either.”
“That’s because no one ever tells the truth about their age, especially not on hookup apps.”
“How’d you know I met her on an app?”
“Because that’s how people date these days—hookup apps. They don’t do the normal crap, like meet at a bookstore or something cute like that.”
I shake my head. “Those apps aren’t just about hooking up for some people.”
“Uh-huh. Which app did you find this date on?”
“LustStruck.”
She arches a brow my way and I groan, realizing now that I look like a complete moron.
Wren laughs, and the sound is like music to my ears. It’s been too long since I’ve heard her laugh. I’ve missed it.
“It’s literally called LustStruck,” she says. “You can’t possibly think people are on there for anything serious.”
The look on my face must be a dead giveaway that I do in fact think someone on the app is looking for more than just a hookup, because Wren laughs even harder.
“Oh hell, Foster. You had no idea.” More laughter. More me ignoring the way her saying my name makes me feel. “This is so you.”
“Wren…”
“So gullible. Like that time we convinced you people could read your thoughts and you started thinking up the most random crap and having nightmares from it.”
“You know there has to be someone out there who can read thoughts.” I tap my temple. “Which is why I always think up random words to throw them off.”
“Still?”
“Quit judging me.”
She laughs harder and louder.
“Knock it off,” I growl. “People are staring.”
“They’re staring because your teenaged date just told the entire restaurant she could suck your dick like a Dyson and you just let her walk on out. The men are envious. The women are disgusted.”
“My sad, old dick, thank you very much.”
She brings her hand to her chest dramatically. “So sorry. How could I forget?”
“What even is a sad, old dick?”
“You’re the one who has one—you tell me.” She reaches for the deserted chocolate milk and sucks a healthy amount through the straw before leveling me with those cerulean eyes of hers.
Huh. Her eyes are the same color as my shirt…
“…to tell me.”
I missed everything she just said.
“I missed that. Repeat it.”
She squints at me, wanting to question why I zoned out on her, but obliges my request. “I said, do you have anything else you need to tell me?”
“You changed your hair. Again.”
“Foster…” she warns, lightly teasing but mostly sincerity lacing her voice.
“Fine, fine,” I relent. “Layla and I…we, uh, we got divorced.”
“When?”
“It just became official last month.”
“Does Winston know?”
I reach for my beer, seeking comfort in it once again because I have a feeling Wren isn’t going to be too happy once she learns what I’m about to tell her.
If she doesn’t know about my split from Layla or the divorce that’s been going on for months now, she definitely doesn’t know I’m living with her brother.
“Well, since I’m sort of living on his couch right now, yes, he knows.”
“What?!” she explodes. “Are you kidding me? I am going to kill that turd!”
“I’m going to assume you’re talking about Winston.” A short, dark-haired waitress slides my basket of chicken tenders in front of me. “Well, you’ll have to get in line for that murder. He just called in, leaving me stuck here picking up half his shift.”
She sets Natasha’s salad and side down in front of Wren, and I take note that my childhood friend screwed up my date’s order. Natasha wanted French fries, not onion rings. I have no doubt Wren did this on purpose.
“Which really sucks,” the waitress continues. “Chadwick was coming over tonight and I was planning on wearing my red thong.”
I nearly choke on the beer I just took a sip of.
“What the…”
“I’m just sayin’. I was going to look damn good for my man and now Winston’s completely ruined my night. I can’t wear a red thong when I haven’t shaved my…uh, my legs in a week.”
“Your legs, huh?” Wren says.
“What?” The girl points at me. “I don’t want to traumatize the poor guy and tell him what I’m really shaving.”
“He’s picking it up loud and clear,” I say to her then stick my hand out her way. “I’m Foster Marlett, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”
She doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed by the words spewing from her mouth. Instead, she grasps my hand in the firmest handshake I’ve ever received from a woman and stands straighter. “Drew Woods. You’re way hotter up close.”
“Thank you…I think,” I reply, only a little surprised by her candor.
“Where the hell has Wren been hiding you?”
“Stop scaring him, Drew.”
“But why? Scaring men is my favorite pastime.”
“Drew…”
“Fine,” she surrenders. “You just enjoy your impromptu lunch date and I’ll pick up the slack around here, because apparently you Daniels kids are lazy little shits.” Drew turns to me and gives me a sweet smile. “Look, Foster, if it doesn’t work out with Chadwick, I’ll hit you up. I don’t care if you do have a sad, old dick.”
“Goddammit, Drew.” Wren shakes with laughter. “Get out of here. And bring me some ranch for these onion rings.”
“No way. That order specifically said no dressing no matter what. You’re already getting a bonus break—no special requests from you.”
She rushes away before anyone can fight her on it.
“What kind of monster orders a salad with no dressing?” Wren frowns at her dry salad then reaches across the table
and plucks the cup of ketchup my basket of chicken fingers came with from my plate, claiming it as her own.
“I should have taken that as a sign the date wasn’t going to work out.”
“You really should have. Or, you know, maybe the fact that you picked her up on LustStruck.”
“Are you finished with the teasing?”
“No. And quit acting like you hate it.”
I grin and pop a few fries into my mouth as she picks all the toppings off her salad, mainly the cheese, ignoring the leafy greens entirely.
When I first met the Daniels twins, I was intrigued—not just because they were complete and total opposites but got along like they had everything in common, but because they were so uniquely them.
Winston didn’t give a shit about labels. He was a jock, a stoner, a nerd, and homecoming king.
And Wren was…well, Wren. She refused to touch door handles, wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that matched, and told everyone who would listen that she didn’t believe in vegetables or their “fake-ass powers”.
As much as I loved Winston as a brother, I couldn’t ever help but feel a special attraction toward Wren. I don’t know if it was her infectious I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude or what, but she always made me feel so…well, me when I was around her.
That was something I didn’t feel with anyone else.
“What?”
I blink at the sudden interruption.
“What?” I parrot stupidly.
Wren’s brows slash together. “You’re staring, Foster.”
Shit. I was.
I lift a shoulder, trying to play it cool. “Well, you are scarfing down those onion rings like a competitive food eater. It’s fascinating, especially for someone who is staunchly against vegetables.”
“They’re fried vegetables.” She dips the greasy ring into the ketchup and takes a bite, not caring at all when she speaks with a full mouth. “They don’t count.”
“I see your manners haven’t improved.”
“You were practically family. I don’t have to use manners around you.”
Her words sting for more than one reason: her use of past tense and the dreaded F word—family.
Family.
Sure, I’ve known the Daniels since I was thirteen, but I don’t feel anything familial when it comes to Wren, and I haven’t for years.
Family isn’t anywhere near the kind of feelings she stirs inside me.
But she’ll never know that. I already tried telling her once, only to have it completely backfire on me.
Friends we shall remain.
“So, Foster, are you back back?” she asks after a few minutes of silence, still picking at the toppings on her plate.
“I’m back back, Wren.”
“You’re not just bumming on Winston’s disgusting couch while you lick your wounds?”
“His couch is disgusting,” I agree. “And his roommate Sullivan is…weird.”
“So weird.” She nods, shoving a bite into her mouth.
“But no,” I continue, “I’m not just bumming around. I’m back.”
“No more running off with beach bunnies?”
Considering I’m homeless, my credit is fucked, and I’m divorced before turning thirty, that’s the last thing she needs to ask about.
“Not in this fucking lifetime.”
I try to keep the sharpness out of my voice, but she catches it, wincing.
“That bad, huh?”
“You don’t even want to know.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
With her? Hell no.
I don’t want to see the pity in her gaze, that same look everyone gives me when I bring up my shitshow sham of a marriage. It’s as embarrassing as it is sad. I’ll pass on that.
“I’d rather not.”
“Noted.”
She gives me a tightlipped smile, not loving my answer—which, to be fair, is an unusual reaction for me when it comes to Wren. We’ve always been good about talking. It was kind of our thing.
When Winston would blaze or munch himself into a weed coma, we’d stay up talking until the wee hours of the morning. I can’t even begin to count the number of times I’ve watched the sun rise with Wren by my side.
Our talks were unfiltered and direct. We didn’t beat around the bush about anything. We talked about everything from life to politics to the future to religion to aliens. You name it, we’ve probably discussed it.
But my divorce isn’t on the table.
Sure, I didn’t marry Layla for the right reasons, and I kind of used her as an excuse to run from my feelings for Wren, but the shit I endured during our marriage…that was real, and I’m still bitter about how things ended. All talking about it will do is piss me off, and I’m sick of being pissed.
I want happy. I want to just start fresh and not be known as the guy with the failed marriage.
“Sorry, Wren. I’m just…not ready. It’s still kind of raw.”
“But not too raw for you to start dating?”
“Damn. Shots fired,” I snark back, though her question is fair.
I don’t honestly know if I’m ready to start dating, but I also don’t want to not put myself out there. I’ve seen what it does to people. My best friend from California, Porter, is nothing but a bucket of anger after his divorce. He’s so bitter and sullen, and I don’t want that for myself.
So, jumping back in the saddle it is. Maybe nothing will come from it, but maybe someone will.
“Sorry,” she says, sounding anything but. “But we just sorta used to have this thing where we talked and didn’t avoid. I guess since you didn’t really keep in contact while you were gone, I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t want to talk to me now.”
“I tried calling.”
“Yeah, like twice.”
“You didn’t answer either time.”
She stabs another onion ring into the ketchup, her irritation becoming more evident by the moment. “I was busy.”
“You were mad.”
She sighs and shoves a bite into her mouth, chewing then swallowing and looking at me pointedly.
“Fine. I was pissed.”
“I said mad, not pissed.”
“But I was pissed, Foster. You left me.”
I had to, I want to say.
But I don’t.
“Things were…complicated.”
Wren doesn’t take her gaze off me, and it feels like she’s staring straight into my soul, searching for answers I’m not ready to give her.
Her stare is so intense I begin to shift around because I have to move. It’s too much and I’m starting to think she’s actually trying to read my thoughts right now.
Pickle juice. Donkey Kong. Camel toe.
“Are you doing it right now?”
I don’t have to ask what she’s referring to, because the smartass was doing it on purpose.
“This confirms it. I definitely didn’t miss you.”
She beams. “Liar.”
“Are you still mad?”
“Yes. But also no.”
“Right.” I nod. “Makes total sense.”
“It’s just… Well, I think maybe I just missed you.”
“You did?”
I dodge the onion ring she chucks at me.
“Hey!”
“Sorry, Randy!” she hollers.
“Wren Daniels!”
Simon comes rushing out from behind the counter, making his way to Randy’s table and apologizing profusely to the old man.
“I am so sorry about my child, Randy. I swear she gets it from her mother.”
Randy grabs the onion ring off the floor. “Mind if I chuck it back?”
“Be my guest,” Simon says, holding his hand out.
I’ve never seen a grown-ass man throw an onion ring so hard in my life, and Wren’s too stunned to duck, the fried vegetable smacking her right in the chest.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!” Randy stands and pumps his fists in the air.
<
br /> The rest of the customers in Slice cheer as he takes a bow.
“Damn, I missed this place,” I say with a smirk.
Simon and Randy exchange high fives, and then the man who was practically a second father to me makes his way over to our table.
He looks down at his daughter, half annoyed and half amused. “You’re wearing me out, kid,” he says to her. “Foster, son, you still coming by tomorrow to help with the gutters?”
I nod. “Sure am, sir.”
“Quit it with the sir shit. You know I hate that. Makes me feel old…er.”
Wren looks between the two of us, her annoyance obvious.
“You knew he was back too?” she accuses her father.
“Of course I did. Your adopted kid doesn’t move back from California without you knowing about it.”
She swings her accusatory heated glower my way.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“As excited as we all are Foster’s back, we need you on the floor, Wren. The dinner rush starts in an hour and we have some prep work to do, especially since your brother called in…again.”
Simon frowns, and I remind myself to have a chat with Winston about leaving his dad and sister hanging when I get back to his place tonight.
“Can I finish off my onion rings real quick?”
She gives him that look of hers that always works, and I watch as his stern dad mode wears thin.
“Sure thing, kiddo. See you in five.”
Simon claps me on the shoulder and heads back behind the counter, already barking orders at the other staff.
“I can’t believe everyone knew but me.”
“It was a surprise?”
“Why is that a question?”
“Because it’s one hundred percent bullshit.”
She laughs at my frankness. “Fair enough.”
“You really should be getting back to work. I know the boss, and he’s a bit of a hard-ass…”
“Except where Winston is concerned, apparently.”
“I’ll talk to him tonight.”
“That would be amazing. The jerk never listens to me, but you always had a way of getting him to do what he’s supposed to.”
“I’m just good like that.”
She smiles at me, and for the first time since she sat down, it’s a genuinely warm smile.
“I really did miss you, Foster.”
A Pizza My Heart Page 3