“Sure. Just like that.”
Drew blows out a breath beside me like she was holding hers too then she shakes her head, mumbling something indecipherable.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I eventually tell him.
“Me too.” He laughs contemptuously. “This dating shit is for the birds. I think I might have to take a break. I mean, four failed dates in one week? That’s gotta be a sign.”
“You could try changing your shirt,” I tease.
“And ruin all the good luck oozing off it? Nah.”
“Or, you could, I dunno, try some practice dates?” Drew tosses out casually.
“Practice dates?” Foster’s brows inch together. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, I’ve been fortunate enough to be on the sidelines all week long and witness the atrocity that is your dating skills. You can definitely tell you haven’t been single in ages. You have zero game.”
“You know, I might have only just met you this week, but I can already tell you’re my kind of people, Drew.”
My best friend lifts a shoulder. “I keep it real. It’s my motto in life.”
“So, you’re saying I need to go on some practice dates? Can’t we call this entire week practice then?”
She shakes her head, her dark brown locks bouncing. “No. You need to do it with someone who won’t be afraid to tell you when you’re being an idiot, someone who could give you notes. Someone”—she snaps her fingers together—“I got it! Since Wren here hasn’t dated in ages either and she’s dying to get back in the game, you two can practice date each other!”
Drew claps her hands together, excited about this “revelation” of hers, which I feel like she’s been plotting since earlier this afternoon when she somehow got it stuck in her head that I have feelings for Foster.
I raise a brow, giving her a frosty stare. “Gee, crazy of you to come up with this right on the spot like that, Drew.”
“I know, right?” She flips a hand through her hair. “And while I’ve been observing your dates from afar this week, Wrennie here has had front-row seats to every hot mess show. That means she can give you thorough notes.” The corners of her lips turn down. “You’ll probably have to spend a few long nights together, but since you’ve been gone so long, Foster, I’m sure it’ll be great for you two to catch up.”
“I don’t know…I feel like he can keep doing what he’s doing, use all these LustStruck dates as practice.”
Foster rubs a hand over his chin, his fingers scraping over the hair there. “I don’t know, Birdie. I think she might actually have a point.”
“A p-point?” I sputter. “You cannot be serious. It’s a horrible idea!”
“Why?”
“What?”
“What what? I said why,” he repeats. “Why is it such a horrible idea? I think it’s genius. It would take the pressure off me, plus it can take the pressure off you.”
“What pressure?”
“For you to start dating again, like Drew said. You said you used to be good at it, but it’s been a while. Maybe this can be a practice run for us both, get us ready for the real thing.”
I can’t believe he’s actually considering this. “I can’t believe you’re actually considering this.”
“Why not?” He rolls another set of silverware. “It makes complete sense to me.”
“I don’t know, Foster, maybe the fact that we don’t even like each other like that. It would be hard to date someone—fake or not—when you don’t have romantic feelings for them.”
He gives me an easy grin and winks. “Nah, just makes it so I don’t have to worry about you falling in love with me.”
“Ha!” I snort. “As if. You’d probably love that.”
His hands pause for just a millisecond then he’s back to rolling.
“Sure, Birdie. The thing I want most is for my best friend’s little sister to fall in love with me.”
“He’s five minutes older than me! That doesn’t make me little.”
“Little Birdie,” he teases.
“Shut up,” I growl with false annoyance. I want so badly for it to be real, but I actually kind of missed the nickname.
There’s a commotion in the back room, and I’m almost certain it’s our busboy Brad dropping yet another bucket of dishes.
“Dammit, Brad. I’ll—”
“I got it!” Drew interjects, dropping the utensils she’s working on and hustling off to the back room.
I glower at her retreating form, wanting to shout that she’s a traitor for leaving me here alone with Foster after dropping that bomb, but I’m beginning to think she planned this whole thing, even Brad’s fall. She probably greased the floor.
We continue to roll silverware in silence, the scraping of metal against metal grating on my nerves more and more as the seconds tick by.
After what feels like hours, though I know it’s only been a minute or two, Foster speaks.
“Do you really think Drew’s idea is that bad?”
“No,” I confess quietly.
“So I’m just that repulsive to you?”
“Yes.”
He drops the knife he’s holding and reaches into his pocket, pulling his phone out. He scrolls around for a second before he starts typing.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Just noting this new revelation.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Such a smartass.”
“I learned it from you. I was an angel before you damn Daniels kids came into my life.”
“Angel my ass. You corrupted us, made us sneak into PG-13 movies all the time.”
“We were thirteen!” he argues.
“Age-wise, sure. Maturity-wise? I’m pretty sure we were all still nine, and we’re barely thirteen now.”
He laughs. “Fair point.”
Scrape, scrape, fold, roll, stick.
Scrape, scrape, fold, roll, stick.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
“Will you, Birdie?” he asks quietly. He seems…vulnerable.
Earnest.
“It’s been hard getting back out there. I’d like to try with someone I’m familiar with, someone who won’t judge me…too harshly,” he adds with a light chuckle. “Besides, Drew’s right—it will give us some time to catch up with each other. Maybe we could pretend we’re strangers even, start over.”
“You feel like a stranger sometimes.”
“I do to myself sometimes too.”
I steal a glance his way. His lips are turned downward, and I’m dying to ask him what makes him feel that way.
But it’s Foster—when he wants to talk, he’ll talk.
“You also said you were good at dating, and clearly I’m horrible at it. I need a coach, someone I know and feel comfortable with.”
Teach him how to date? It’s outrageous. Completely stupid.
Especially with Foster.
I roll yet another bundle of silverware. “Aren’t you worried it’s going to be weird?” I voice my concern. “That it’ll be hard for us to pretend it’s a date with a stranger when we’ve known each other so long? When we have such history? Or, what if we have zero chemistry and it just feels like two friends hanging out?”
He meets my curious eyes. “Isn’t that kind of the point? Being friends with the person you’re dating? Liking them as more than just someone to beat cheeks with?”
I sputter out a laugh. “Beat cheeks? Is that, like, a thing? A euphemism for sex?”
“It’s something I picked up from Porter.” He blushes. “Dude says some weird shit.”
“It’s horrendous…but funny. I think I like this Porter guy.”
“Trust me, you do.”
More rolling.
More silence.
More worry and turmoil rolling around in my head.
Can I do this? Can I fake date Foster Marlett?
It’s not like we’d actually have to date. It’d just be a dinner or two. We’d work on hitting a f
ew talking points, and I could maybe give him a haircut, because the boy definitely needs it.
Besides, he and Drew are kind of right. I do need to get back out there myself and start dating again. Lord knows it’s been way too long since I’ve had any sort of action, let alone gone on a date with a guy, and in that time, the dating world has changed drastically. I could use a good date or two to brush up on my skills.
No handholding. No kissing. No awkward will they, won’t they moments. Just two people who have known each other half their lives pretending they’re virtual strangers. Totally easy, right?
Right.
Foster is like a brother to me. It won’t be weird at all. We won’t make it weird. I know us. We’re not weird.
We’re Foster and Wren.
We can do this.
What if you get attached and he leaves again?
I’ll survive, just like I did last time.
“Yes.”
He snaps up straight. “Are you serious? You’re not shitting me right now?”
“Nope. All seriousness. I’ll do it.”
“Awesome.”
“Awesome? That’s your big exclamation after I just agreed to fake date your ass? When we’re doing this, you better be a whole lot more excited than awesome.”
“Excellent?”
I point at him. “Don’t you dare try to throw out something better now. I know I’m only worth your awesomes, not excellents. It has been noted, Foster.”
“See? You’re already teaching me so much. This was an awesome decision.”
“I regret this already.”
“You always were a terrible liar, Birdie.” He pushes off the stool and hitches his thumb toward the door, backing away. “Okay, I’m out of here. Tell your dad I’ll report for duty tomorrow at noon.”
“Duty? Tomorrow? What’s happening?”
“Didn’t you hear?” His lips curl into a grin. “I’m your new waiter. See you tomorrow, boss.”
I gulp as he pushes through the door, disappearing into the dark night.
We’re Foster and Wren.
We can do this.
I hope.
Slice Six
Foster
Is that a board poking my ass or is this couch just happy to see me? is the first thought to run through my head as I stir awake, the smell of pot pulling me from my slumber.
Winston must be home.
I lie here a moment longer, trying to will myself back to sleep, but now that it’s awake, my brain won’t shut down.
Did last night really happen? Did Wren agree to date me?
Albeit fake date me, but still.
“You up?”
I roll over as best I can on the tiny couch to see Winston kicked back in the recliner, a fat-ass joint resting between his lips at six in the morning.
I scrub a hand over my face and push myself into a sitting position. “It’s official: this is the worst couch I’ve ever slept on.”
Another groan escapes as I clasp my hands together and reach skyward, trying to get my back to pop and my body to align itself again.
The one thing I miss about Cali—other than my friends, of course—is the king-sized bed I had to leave behind.
Okay, maybe not that specific king-sized bed considering my ex had several other men in it while I was working all kinds of crazy hours, but a king-sized bed in general would be nice right about now.
Mike must hear my voice because he comes bounding into the living room, tail twitching and excitement running through him. The two-year-old yellow Lab pushes at my hands, wanting me to pet him. Pfft. Like he has to beg.
“Seriously, man,” I say, scratching at Mike, wrapping him between my arms and giving him the attention he’s begging for. “I think I can feel a board poking through.”
“You can,” Winston confirms. “But you’re lucky I’m letting you sleep on it at all. Do you know how many happy endings you’ve ruined by staying out here?”
I cringe. “Please tell me you don’t bang chicks on this, dude…”
“What? You expect me to take them to my bedroom?” He huffs. “Not likely.”
“I hate you so much right now.”
“Relax,” he says, hitting the joint between his fingers again. He holds in the smoke for a minute then blows it out. “I use air freshener on it all the time.”
“An air freshener is not going to clean out the jizz.”
“Please—I make sure she can swallow before bringing her home.”
“You’re such a pig, Winston.”
“An honest pig, thank you very much.” He takes another hit. Hold. Blow. “You start at Slice today?”
“Yep. Shift kicks off at noon.” I scrub a hand over my messy head of hair. “I should probably go get a haircut or some shit though. Don’t want your dad to think I’m a bum, especially not when he was cool enough to hire me back in the first place.”
“One, my dad loves you more than me, though not more than he loves Wren. Of course he’d hire your ass. Two, speaking of Wren, you should hit her up. She’ll cut your mop for free.”
“I’m not using your sister for a free haircut.”
“Why not? I do it all the time.”
“See, that’s the difference between the two of us. You’re an ass, I’m not.”
“Watch it.” He points his joint at me. “I’ll revoke your couch privileges.”
I roll my eyes, knowing he’s all talk and no show. Winston would never kick me to the curb. He’s too good of a friend, always has been. Hell, that’s how we became friends in the first place.
I’d just moved to the area and like most other thirteen-year-old kids, I wasn’t having the best of luck in the whole friend-making department. It was especially hard since nearly everyone here had grown up together. They were all tight-knit, not very welcoming to outsiders. They were awful, knocking my books out of my hands in the hallway, throwing rocks…typical bully shit.
Then one day came the Daniels twins. They moved here roughly two months after me, and boy oh fucking boy did they make an entrance. They got into a fist fight right in the middle of the courtyard on their way to their first class on their first day. Some boy had said something rather inappropriate to Wren, so Winston jumped in. Then the boy’s girlfriend jumped in. It was insane, something right out of a TV show. Everyone just stood around and watched, including me.
And bullies being bullies, someone pushed my scrawny ass right into the middle of the mix.
“Kick the new kid’s ass too!”
When Winston glanced over and saw the blood running from my chin, which had hit the concrete when I was shoved, he let go of the guy he had a hold on and dove for the one who’d pushed me.
Let’s just say the twins didn’t start school for another two weeks and we’ve been tight ever since.
“Did you even go to bed last night?” I ask through a yawn.
“Nah. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
“You still having insomnia issues?”
He waves the weed my way, grinning. “I won’t be soon enough.”
“You really need to get that checked out and not just smoke it away.”
“I can smoke anything away. Test me.”
“I believe you,” I say as I pull myself off the couch and Mike begins twisting in circles, knowing the time to go outside and play has come.
He’s probably been sitting at the back door staring out at the beach and waiting for me to wake up and take him to play for hours now.
“I still can’t believe you named your dog Mike. It’s so…basic.”
I cover Mike’s ears. “Don’t you dare call my dog basic. He’s majestic as fuck.”
“His name is Mike. Mike. What kind of majestic name is that?”
I glance down at my pup, who’s staring up at me with his big brown eyes, excited and ready for me to get my shit together so we can hit the beach for a run, not caring about his basic name one bit.
“I don’t know, man. He just looked like a Mike t
o me.”
Winston shakes his head. “Some days I wonder if it’s you who smokes all the pot and not me.”
I wave my hand through the air, pushing the cloud of smoke away. “It’s definitely you, dude.”
“Yeah, it totally is.” He laughs. “But seriously, go to Wren. She won’t charge you, and lord knows you could use not only the sweet discount but the haircut too. You look like an Abercrombie model.”
I don’t comment on the discount thing. For some reason, Winston thinks I’m deadass broke, which isn’t exactly the case.
I have savings; I just don’t want to touch them…yet.
Layla’s parents wanted to keep the divorce and the fact that their daughter couldn’t keep just one man in her bed—information I wouldn’t have divulged anyway—under wraps. To keep me quiet—though again, they didn’t need to worry about that—they gave me a pretty good “separation stipend”, as they liked to call it. After all the bullshit I put up with over the years, I wasn’t going to turn it down.
It’s a good chunk of change, and I’ve tucked it away for when I finally get my life together and start house hunting.
I’m only living on Winston’s couch because it’s convenient and because I need time to repair my credit score from the divorce before I try putting in applications anywhere. I know I’ll get denied if I don’t give my financials time to settle, seeing as my credit is in less than ideal condition because Layla decided to continue to live off my name after we split. Me, being the dumbass I am, believed her when she said she’d pay things off.
Turns out she wasn’t paying for anything, not the credit card or the car that was in my name after her daddy refused to buy her a new one when she got into yet another texting-and-driving accident.
I didn’t have the money or the gumption to hire a lawyer after she screwed me over, so I went to her parents. Hence the hush money when they found out everything their precious daughter was doing.
They fronted the bill for the divorce, paid me off, and then told me to take my shitty-ass credit and get fucked.
Eager to get away from the toxicity, I left while I had the chance—ruined credit and all.
“Dick. I do not look like an Abercrombie model.” I pull at my hair, which is much longer than I normally keep it. Layla would be having a fit right now if she saw it at this length. Prim and fucking proper—that’s how I always had to be.
A Pizza My Heart Page 7