My mouth drops open when Wren actually reaches into her apron to pull out her notepad. Guess my comment about notes earlier in the week stuck.
“At six fifteen, you—”
I bark out a laugh, interrupting her. “You notated the time?”
“What?” She blinks innocently. “I’m a very thorough notetaker.”
“Clearly.”
“At six fifteen,” she starts again, clearing her throat, “you mentioned your divorce.”
“So?” I shrug. “Lots of people are divorced.”
“True, but not all people then go on a five-minute spiel about how ready they are to date again after said failed marriage.”
“Being ready to date is a bad thing?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not at all. But you sounded…too eager.”
I frown, picking up on what she’s really trying to say. “You mean desperate.”
“Exactly.”
I toss her observation around in my head. The more I think about it, the more right I think she is. I did come across a little…enthusiastic. It probably didn’t seem genuine, probably came off more as if I was trying to convince myself and her that I’m ready to date again, which isn’t the case at all.
I’m happy to have my ex out of my life. I’m happy to have myself back. Do I need to be dating someone? No, but do I want to date someone? Sure. Nobody wants to be alone.
And after having such a horrible experience with Layla, I’m just trying to find the right somebody to spend my time with.
Someone who makes me laugh, who will laugh with me.
Somebody who makes me feel good and worthy and all the things I haven’t felt in a long damn time.
A person who will let me be me.
Like Wren.
“Your silence indicates you think I’m right—which I am—so let’s move on to the next strike.”
“Jeez. How many strikes do I have?”
“How much time do you have?”
I drop my head into my hands with a groan. Scrubbing at my eyes, I say, “Just lay it on me.”
“You didn’t flub up again until six forty, so there was a solid twenty minutes of you not being a moron. Good job there, Foster.”
Wren reaches into her apron then slides a Tootsie Pop my way.
I stare down at the candy, unable to help the smile that crosses my lips. “Really, Wren?”
“What? I think a reward system can help you remember to stay on track on your next first date.”
“Next first date? You don’t think I’ll go out with Brooke again?”
“Oh, not a chance in hell.” She laughs, exaggerating just how good my “joke” was. “Gosh, Foster, I forgot how funny you are.”
I glare at her, and she smashes her lips together, trying to hold in what is now real laughter.
“Right, right.” She clears her throat, shaking her head and pushing her shoulders back, trying to look serious and professional, like she’s a real dating coach or some crap. “So, at six forty you brought up your dog.” Wren lifts her hand when I open my mouth. “Hang on, I’m getting there, but first I just want to say that you even having a dog is something we’re going to need to discuss later because when in the hell did you get a dog, huh?”
“About two years ago. He’s my best friend.”
“Does Winston know?” she whispers conspiratorially, looking around to make sure we’re not overheard.
I lean into her, dropping my voice low. “Considering Mike is more than likely curled up on his couch right now, I think he knows.”
Her nose wrinkles and I already know I’m going to catch hell for something I just said, though I don’t know which thing it will be.
Instead, I watch with rapt attention as her azure eyes blaze to life with that familiar spark of spunk and she twists her pretty, plump lips together, pursing them in displeasure.
“I meant does he know this Mike—and we’ll come back to that name later—is your best friend and not him.”
I grin because I knew it was going to be something. “Oh, I’m certain he’s discerned it by now.”
“Who the hell says words like discerned? Is that all the fancy from Cali coming through?”
“It could be.” I lean a little closer, and I can’t help but notice the way she holds her breath as soon as I inch farther into her space. “Why are we still whispering?”
She chews on the edge of her lips, trying to hide the grin that’s threatening to overtake them, thinking this over for a moment before spouting off, “Because you’re a dumbass.”
I fall into a fit of laughter, leaning back in my chair before I do something a real dumbass would do—like kiss her.
This time she lets her grin through, proud of herself for her remark.
“Anyway,” she says at a normal volume, “you brought up your dog and—”
“She said she’d much rather have a cat, which is absolutely fucking absurd if you ask me. A cat over a dog? A cat? That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m best friends with your brother, so I’ve heard some asinine shit before. Can you belie—” I stop short. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
She’s sitting there, lips pulled back into a satisfied smirk, looking pleased as punch, as if she just won a thousand bucks on a one-dollar scratcher.
“What? What’d I say now? I was explaining why a dog is much better than a cat. It’s a simple statement, really. It’s—”
I pause.
Oh fuck.
Is this what I did on the date? Did I go on a rant about cats and dogs?
Oh god, I did.
How long did it last?
“It lasted fifteen minutes, by the way,” she tells me, answering my unspoken question like she’s in my head.
I grimace, sinking lower into my chair, defeat and embarrassment weighing heavily on me. “Goddammit.”
“Yep.” She’s trying to hold back that smile. “So, Foster, now that you know about four of your strikes, wanna take a stab at that scale again?”
“A two. A measly fucking two—and that’s if I’m lucky.”
I sigh, throwing my hands up in the air. I was really hoping things with Brooke had gone well enough to try a second date, was hoping maybe—just maybe—I wouldn’t have to go on a fourth first date this week.
But I should have known better. I’ve been out of the dating game for way too long. There was no way I was going to be able to jump into this headfirst like I did and succeed.
Wren’s right—I am a dumbass.
“Date four?” she asks.
“Date four.”
“Give me your phone.”
I narrow my eyes at her but slide it from my pocket at her request, though I don’t hand it over.
“Why?” I question, holding my phone captive because I don’t quite trust her motives yet.
She stares at me, blinking a few times.
Hotdogs. Jazzercize. Need some fries.
She snatches my phone from my hand so quick I don’t have time to react, and I know she’s fooled me again.
Motherfucking shit.
Her eyes fall to the screen, navigating my device like it’s her own. “Because I’m picking your date for tomorrow.” She taps on the LustStruck app and begins swiping through profile after profile. “And for fuck’s sake, wear a different shirt tomorrow, Foster.”
Slice Five
Wren
“Did you really forget to do your laundry again?”
He smirks. “Nope.”
“You’re telling me you washed all your clothes and still wore the same shirt you’ve been wearing all week?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s just hilarious at this point.” He closes the menu I know he didn’t even bother to look at and hands it my way. “I’ll have the chicken fingers and fries, please.”
“But this is a pizza place,” his fourth date this week chimes in.
My mouth drops open. “Thank y
ou! That’s what I said!” I can already tell I picked a good one.
“I’m also a little concerned she knows what you’ve been wearing all week long…” she observes.
“Oooh. Have fun explaining that one,” I whisper as Foster’s face pales.
“I-I—inside joke. I come here a lot,” he lies, probably not wanting to reveal the fact that he’s currently on his fourth date for the week.
At the same restaurant.
Wearing the same clothes.
And with the exact same waitress.
He changes the subject effortlessly. “Did you want to split some breadsticks to start?”
“Sure. I’ll also have a slice of the Grilled Cheese Cheeser Pizza, please.” She hands me the menu. “And can you bring me some ranch on the side?”
I point to his date. “I like this one.”
“This one? Uh oh, that implies you’ve brought more than one here,” she says to him.
Foster scowls at me. “That’ll be all.”
“I’ll be right back with your drinks,” I tell them, barely holding back my laugh.
I make my way to the computer, punching their order in then heading over to get their drinks together.
“Christ on a cracker. Isn’t this like the fourth one this week?”
Drew stares out at the floor, eyes focused on Foster and his date, whose name I can’t remember for the life of me.
I spent nearly an hour last night scrolling through the app, trying to find a suitable date, and I probably swiped on at least two hundred different profiles.
This one stuck out to me because of her bio.
Dogs > Cats. Pineapple DOES belong on pizza. My favorite color is glitter.
And that was it. It said nothing and everything all at once.
She knows what she likes, she isn’t afraid of judgment, and she’s all about fun. She sounded exactly like what Foster needs.
I watch as they throw their heads back in laughter, and something heavy settles in the pit of my stomach.
I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, but seeing them together…laughing, bonding…it makes me feel icky.
I turn my attention back to what I’m doing, watching the amber liquid of the soda fill the white plastic cup.
“Wow. They have mega chemistry,” Drew comments.
My eyes snap to them again, curiosity and dread filling me all at once.
What the hell is wrong with me? I was just patting myself on the back for setting them up and now I can’t even stand to look at them?
I push the icky aside. It’s nothing, I’m sure. I’m just cranky and utterly exhausted. I promised my father at the beginning of summer I’d cover all these crazy shifts, some of them doubles, and I’d work my hair appointments in around everything. That meant me getting up at six this morning to go do a cut and color after closing last night.
I’m wiped.
“They’re totally going to end up banging. I can tell. He just told a joke, and she thinks he’s funny,” Drew commentates. “Oh my gosh, yeah, totally gonna bang. Look at the way she slides her hair behind her ear, all slow and sexy.”
“She should just put her hair up. Why keep pushing it away if you can just put it up? That’s so stupid.”
“Because she’s trying to flirt, duh.”
“She needs to find a better way then. Ugh. Look at the way she’s leaning across the table into him. Like give the man some space, gosh.”
I hear it.
Drew hears it.
She turns toward me, and I refuse to look at her.
“Wren?”
“Nope.”
“Wren Amanda Daniels.”
I keep my eyes on the cup I’m holding, willing the soda machine to dispense faster. “I said no, Drew Amanda Woods.”
“You can’t just use your middle name as my middle name.”
“I can if you refuse to tell me yours.”
“If I promise to tell you my middle name, will you look at me and discuss this?”
I chew on this proposition for a moment. I’ve been trying to get a peek at Drew’s middle name for years now, but she keeps it locked up tight. It must be something really embarrassing to warrant the lengths she’s gone to keeping it from me. Her offer is tempting.
But it’s not enough.
“Pass.”
“Your eyes are green, same color as your man’s out there.”
I grab the drinks and swing her way. “He is not my man.”
“Ha! I knew getting you on the defense would work!”
She grabs my shoulders, knowing I can’t try to wiggle my way out of her grasp unless I want to spill soda all over the place and draw attention to us.
“Now,” she says, “let’s talk about that jealous tone in your voice.”
Jealous—me? Over Foster? Puh-lease.
“It’s not jealousy, Drew. It’s me being exhausted and crabby and not wanting to close again tonight. I need a nap and a stiff drink, in that order.”
“You want a breakfast beer?”
“A breakfast beer would be amazing. Or an anytime beer. I just need a break.”
She stares at me, struggling to get a good read.
I sigh, my aggravation level rising. “I promise, Drew, I am not jealous of Foster’s date. Maybe of Foster because he’s actually dating, but not his date. I’m not interested in him at all.”
She lifts her brows. “Why not? He’s hot as hell and he clearly likes you.”
“Likes me? What are you going on about?”
“He’s always talking to you, leaning toward you. He has a thing for sure.”
“Are you on crack cocaine? Because I thought we talked about how drugs are bad.”
Her turn to roll her eyes. “Oh come on. You have to see it.”
“All I see is a dude who has known a girl since they were both in middle school. We’ve been friends for thirteen years now, Drew—half our lives. There is absolutely nothing romantic about our relationship, not on either side.”
She shakes her head and purses her lips, not believing a word I’m saying. “Right. Sure. Whatever you say.”
“Dude, I’m serious,” I insist. “There is nothing there. I don’t have those kinds of feelings for him. He’s like a freakin’ brother to me.”
“A hot brother who is not even kind of remotely blood-related, which makes him completely bangable,” she pushes. “But okay.”
Drew walks away, not believing a word I’m saying, which is absurd.
Sure, Foster is easy on the eyes, but do I have feelings for him?
That’s ridiculous. Impossible. Nonsensical.
Foster has never been anything but a friend to me. We grew up together. He’s practically family. I can’t have feelings for him, and because I can’t, that means there is no way I can be jealous of his date.
It makes no sense.
I shake off Drew’s unwarranted skepticism and deliver their drinks to the table. They’re so wrapped up in their conversation they don’t even notice me.
Cool. Good. Fantastic.
I smile, pleased as punch they’re hitting it off as I make my way to my next table.
I take a step and feel it again, that pinch.
Grabbing at my stomach, I look down and frown.
If I’m so happy, why is that stupid heavy feeling back?
* * *
I’m on hour eighteen of my workday, and after draining three cups of coffee, I’m finally starting to feel like myself again, that weird yucky feeling long gone.
It’s been the day that never ends, but thirty minutes until close has me feeling giddy, all things considered.
I push together the butter knife and fork, rolling them tight inside the napkin, folding the little paper around the middle and securing it tightly.
Repeat action. Repeat again. And again.
Drew’s yammering on beside me, but I honestly have no clue what she’s talking about, having lost track of the conversation long ago.
I interject a “Yeah
” or “Uh-huh” or “No way” every few minutes so she thinks I’m still paying attention. So far, it’s worked.
I’m lost in my work, but not enough to miss the bell chiming as someone pushes open the front door.
“Ugh. Seriously?” I gripe. “We close in thirty freakin’ minutes and there’s not a single customer in the place. Can’t we just have this last thirty minutes to ourselves? There always has to be one…”
“Uh, Wren, you’re going to want to see this one.”
The way she says it causes me to look up from what I’m doing, and the sounds of silverware clattering to the floor bounces off the otherwise quiet walls as I see who’s just walked in.
“Aren’t you supposed to be balls deep inside your hot date right now?”
Foster chuckles, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. “Thank you for that vivid description, Drew.” He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t work out with Carly.”
Ah, that’s her name.
“What? How?” I ask.
He shrugs again then stuffs his hands into his pockets, making his way to the bar and taking a seat directly across from me. He grabs a stack of napkins, paper holders, and a few pieces of silverware then begins rolling them like he’s done it a thousand times before. Considering Foster used to work here all throughout high school and college, it’s safe to say he has.
“I don’t know. She just wasn’t my type, I think.”
“That’s silly. She was smart, funny, and beautiful to boot. Plus she laughed at your stupid jokes.”
He nods. “All true, but she just felt more like…a sister or something. Not someone I want to get involved with.”
“So like me then,” I say.
Foster’s hands halt all movements and his green eyes clash with my own. My breathing stops. Everything just…stops.
He sits there, just staring at me, eyes serious and unblinking. It’s like one of the stares I tend to give him, only I don’t think he’s trying to read my mind. It’s like he’s trying to do something else, say something else…but his mouth never opens. It’s all in his gaze.
He blinks once, twice.
I exhale.
Then he’s back to wrapping the silverware in napkins like he never stopped to begin with.
A Pizza My Heart Page 6