How many times have I dreamt about him sitting right here, in that specific spot, talking to me while I bake? Too many times to admit.
“James talks a lot about how successful your business is. I’m really proud of you.” He smiles, and the dimple makes an appearance. It’s so warm and genuine, my cheeks flush. Hearing him say he’s proud of me . . . it feels good, but also bittersweet.
Before GiGi died, I worked under the name Lexi’s Pies. After all, that was all I made. It wasn’t until a few years ago that Firefly Kitchen became a business concept. I went to Charleston to visit Meg and Shelby, my friends from culinary school, and I stopped in at their new restaurant, OBA, short for Orange Blossom Avenue. To celebrate, I brought a few pies for them to serve free of charge, and one particular guest asked how they could purchase a pie to take home. I hadn’t brought any extra pies, so on a whim, I offered to mail her the pie filling. She was delighted and became my first non-local customer.
Since then, the business has become known for its five unique pie fillings, along with seasonal flavors, jams, jellies, salsas, and honey, too. Marie keeps the website up to date with what we have in stock in the gift shop, and she maintains inventory in eclectic boutiques and kitchen stores all around the south. We also ship online orders all over the world weekly.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” I ask.
“Over the summer, up at Zach’s winery.” He picks up his glass, and I watch as he takes a sip.
“Yeah, I was sorry to miss everyone there. I had planned on going, but the water pipe that connects the well pump to the house got a crack in it. Apparently, it had been that way for a little while because the ground was flooded and the pump had been running constantly and overworking itself. It was a mess.”
He frowns. “I bet. I see you have roofers here, too.”
“Yep, loose nails, which in turn caused a ceiling leak in my old bedroom. I rarely go in there, so not sure how long it’s been leaking. Tomorrow, I have someone coming out to repair the ceiling.”
“That sucks.” He shifts on the chair, and the muscles under his shirt noticeably ripple.
“It does. Do you live in a house?” I seal the top layer of dough by rippling the edge, and then I cut patterned slits across the top.
“I do. Some of my teammates live in a condo building downtown, but I opted for a house on the river instead.”
A house on the river . . . I don’t know why, but this surprises me. I always pictured him somewhere urban, living in something modern, sleek. Maybe that’s just what I wanted to believe because it made it seem like he and I have even less in common, which would explain why he never bothered coming back.
“Does it cause you constant headaches like mine?” I grin.
He smiles. “No, but it’s a new construction, so I’m hoping nothing happens for a while.”
Well, there you go. He prefers new homes, whereas I live in an old one.
“Do you like living in Tampa?”
“I do. I honestly couldn’t ask for a better city or a better team to play for. You know if you ever want to come to a game, I’ll get you tickets.”
“Oh, thanks, but I’ve been to one of your games.” Internally I cringe. Why, just why did I say that?
“Really? Which one?” Surprise lights up his face.
“Umm, your first game. Marie and I drove down for it.”
He pauses as the delight slips off his face and he frowns again. “I wish I had known that.”
I shrug my shoulders and watch as his expression gets distant and sad. At that point he had already been gone for four and a half years, and I hadn’t heard from him once, so there was no reason for me to ever let him know I was going to the game, even though I was still so proud of him. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from seeing him play in his first professional game.
His look drudges up feelings in me that I do my best not to remember. Why the thought of this makes him sad, I don’t know, but all of it just reminds me that he didn’t care enough to stay in touch. He and James moved on, and really neither one of them looked back.
Walking away from him, I move to the sink to grab a washcloth and look out the window. Rolling green fields, oak trees, pine trees, orange trees—all of it stares back, and though it might not look like much to him anymore, it does to me. I know I’m just a small-town girl. I mean, I still live in the house I grew up in, but I’m not ashamed of this. He’s worked hard for what he has, and so have I. I’m proud of who I am and what I’ve accomplished, but it does sting to feel left behind.
Oh well. After ten years, it is what it is, and at this point, the only one dwelling on this and hurting me is me. I know I can be overly sensitive and take things personally, but I’d like to think his radio silence isn’t about me at all; it’s about him. Squaring off my shoulders, I decide it’s time to finally let it go.
“Lexi.” His voice is low, rough, and unfortunately, it still imprints on my heart. “Look at me.”
I wipe my hands across the small apron tied around my waist, turn to face him, and lean back against the sink. There’s remorse etched into the fine lines around his face, which are appearing from hours spent in the sun. It’s a face I once knew so well.
“I’m sorry,” he says with the weight of a thousand missed moments.
I want to tell him not to worry about it, want to say he doesn’t owe me any explanations and it’s not a big deal . . . but it is to me, so I say nothing.
That first Thanksgiving after they left, neither he nor James came home, and I was so sad, but I understood. At Christmas, when only James showed up for two nights, I was heartbroken. He didn’t mention Bryan, and I was certain that was on purpose, so I didn’t ask. What would have been the point? Yes, we were all off doing our own thing, but to not even return for the holidays? That was when I knew he was truly never coming back. He’d said it a thousand times; it just never occurred to me that I would be something he wanted to leave too.
“Please forgive me,” he says quietly, and his words pierce me in the chest.
For years I’ve wanted this from him, a confession of sorts, an admission that what he did was awful, him saying he knows what he did to me was wrong, and here it is. I never told anyone, but I did text him congratulations after his first college game, and all he sent back was, Thanks. I sent an email after Thanksgiving letting him know I was sad he couldn’t make it home, but he never responded. As for Christmas, after that, I saw no point. He’d moved on, and that was that. James was the only tie left to him, and my poor, sad, pathetic heart clung to whatever tidbit he tossed my way.
“I’m not mad at you—well, at least not anymore. It just is what it is. I mean, really, so much time has passed at this point . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t even know you . . . not anymore,” I say pointedly.
He studies me, searching for something, and his nostrils flare as he purses his lips and lets out a deep breath. “That’s fair. I guess I don’t really know you either, but I’d like to,” he says, shifting on his seat to sit up a little straighter.
But I’d like to.
A weird buzz starts rumbling around in my chest. It feels a lot like hope, and I wish I could squash it like a bug. What does getting my hopes up do for me? Nothing. He will still leave, and who knows when I’ll hear from him again. He spent the last ten years not wanting to be my friend, and now all of a sudden he does? It’s weird. I’m confused, and I can’t help but stare at him.
Shifting again under my baffled scrutiny, those muscles move under his shirt. My eyes catch on his hands, which are flat and pressed against the marble of the island, and then my gaze trails up and over the rolled cuffs on his forearms, his biceps, his strong shoulders, and the length of his neck to his mouth. He smiles, one of those rare expressions that jump-starts my adrenaline, and I know, right then, I’m in big trouble.
Meyer Lemon Shaker Pie
WE WON OUR game on Sunday against the Browns, but just barely. Their team, which has historica
lly been the worst in our division, almost pulled off a win, and since then I’ve had eyes all over me. Yes, I threw one interception—they do happen, unfortunately—but it was the number of incomplete passes that had my offensive coordinator Chuck ripping me a new one before our Monday morning meeting. Some days are off days, and that’s the only thing I could come up with as to why my passes weren’t connecting. His response was, “We aren’t paying you to have off days.”
Guilt about that comment and about how my performance affects the team slipped in, and I’m having a hard time shaking it. I am the leader of our offensive team. I am responsible for calling the plays in the huddle. I am the one who needs to make it happen. My position means that, above anyone else, I have to have complete mental acuity, and that sharpness I so greatly value . . . it wasn’t there.
“You’re different,” Reid says as he drops his helmet down on the ground and sits on the bench to the right of me. He grabs one of the many water bottles lying around and squirts water into his mouth.
“What do you mean?” I ask, glancing at him, sweat from my hair still dripping down the sides of my face. It’s hot out today, and I swear the turf makes it at least ten degrees warmer. I can’t wait for them to complete the new indoor training facility they’re building.
“I don’t know how to describe it, but I’d swear you seem . . . off. You’re usually more surly this time of year.”
Hearing this alarms me. I wouldn’t call my usual attitude surly, more like laser-focused. The beginning of the season is over, and we’re still tweaking plays based on unexpected limited practice players, injured players, and well, new players. Dedication has to come from the top, and being a leader on this team is important. If they see me as distracted or not giving it my all, I can’t expect them to.
“I have to agree,” Jack says, panting as he comes to stand in front of me. “You’re going through the motions, but something is different. What gives?”
I squeeze my shoulder blades together, cross my throwing arm over my chest, and hold it to feel the stretch of the posterior cuff.
“Look, I know I wasn’t one hundred percent last Sunday. I don’t know why, but it won’t happen again.” I hate having to say this. I hate having to try to justify a poor performance. It’s not who I am, but they need to know I’m here. I’m exactly the same, and I want to erase any doubt anyone on the team may have, because this is going to be our year. I just know it.
“That’s not it. We know Chuck got onto you, your performance at practice this week being a reflection of that, but it wasn’t just you. It was all of us.” Reid slaps me on the shoulder.
That bothers me even more. If I’m having an ‘on game’ where passes are completing, downs are being made, and points are going on the board, everyone is having an ‘on game’. But, if I’m off, there’s a trickle-down effect that’s really hard to overcome. It sets a tone and overlays a vibe across the whole team. We can’t fail, because if we do, it will be my fault.
“No, this one was on me, and I take full responsibility.”
“Dude.” Jack kicks my foot to get my attention. “We still won. Shake it off, and let’s move on to thinking about how we’re going to crush New Orleans this weekend.”
I let out a sigh, because he’s right. We did win.
“All right then. I want to run through the ten core route passes five times each before we call it a day.”
Both guys look at me as I stand and grab my helmet. This will keep us out here for at least another hour and a half, but I need it. I need to wash away the missed passes from last weekend, and I need to burn this energy buzzing in my arm and chest.
“You saw her, didn’t you? When you went home last week,” Reid asks out of the blue. His narrowed gaze is suspicious and all-knowing at the same time. He remains seated on the bench instead of standing to join me on the field.
“Saw who?” Jack chimes in, moving to stand next to me.
“His girl.” Reid smirks.
“Hold up”—Jack spins to face me, brows raised in shock—“you have a girl? Since when?”
“You’ve been dying to ask me about last week, haven’t you?” I pin Reid with a stay out of my business glare. “She’s not my girl,” I state, shaking my head. It’s not that I’m opposed to it—in fact, I think I’d really like it—but she’s different than what I remember, at least different with me, and I don’t really know what to do.
All week I’ve thought of her. In fact, I’ve lost sleep over her, which I’m certain isn’t helping my game. I told her I wanted to know her, and I do; I’m just not sure how to fix this. I’m aware that ten years ago I was an epic dick to her. I left, never replied when she tried to communicate with me, and even went as far as making sure James didn’t talk about her to me and vice versa. She represented a part of my life I needed away from. I had a lot to prove to Cole, to her, and hell, even to myself.
“I was gonna say, you’ve never had a girl as long as I’ve known you, and quite frankly, it would be weird, like seeing one of your parents date someone new.” Jack shivers.
“It’s not that I’ve never had a girl, it’s just . . .” I hesitate, trying to put into words what Lexi is to me.
“She’s the girl,” Reid chimes in, outing me, and silence falls over the three of us until Jack lets out a long, slow whistle.
I move to walk away, but he grabs my arm.
“No, no, no—not so fast. Let’s back up,” Jack says. “I think I need to be brought up to speed. I’m assuming he’s talking about when you went home for that award, and I’m gathering you saw her, which means she doesn’t live here. So now what? Because, bro, he’s right—you have been acting different, this just might be the reason, and soon enough the guys on the team are going to start picking up on it.”
“I’m not acting different. I had one off game—which, by the way, like you just said, we still won—and I’m not suddenly thinking about a girl. I’ve been thinking about this girl for most of my life, so no one is going to notice or care. Besides, she’s there and I’m here, so I don’t know how it would work or really what to do.”
Billy walks over, eavesdropping. “So this is about a girl, huh?”
I groan and roll my eyes, my hand tightening on the face guard of my helmet.
“Nothing is about a girl. Can we please go pass the ball now?” I wave my arm to them like, Get up and let’s go.
“Are you sure? Because there’s a bet pool going on between a bunch of the guys in the locker room,” Billy says.
“What? Tell me you’re joking.” I turn to face him, and my jaw ticks, everything about me conveying my lack of amusement.
He throws his hands up in a don’t shoot the messenger gesture and takes a step back.
“When is the last time you saw her?” Jack asks, moving to the bench to grab a bottle of water.
I let out a deep sigh, knowing they aren’t going to stop until they know it all.
“Other than last week, ten years ago.”
That uneasiness I feel about so much time passing slides down into my stomach. I know they won’t understand. James never did, and I’m sure Lexi doesn’t either, but it had to be this way. I wasn’t ready; it wasn’t time—until it was. Yes, at first it was intentional, but after a while, the divide just felt too large to cross. I didn’t know how to reopen that part of my life when I had made it clear that it was closed from the day I left.
A harsh laugh bursts out of Jack, and then he eyes me skeptically as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to figure out.
“Ten years, really?”
“Yes. I told you, this isn’t a new thing. I’ve known her most of my life.” I glance at all three of them. They look confused, and their confusion is laced with pity.
I hate this.
“What you need to do is get her to come here,” Reid suggests.
“I offered, but she said she’d already been to a game of mine.”
“When?” Jack asks.
I break eye contact. �
�A long time ago.”
I know she came to my first game because she knew it was my dream-come-true moment. She unknowingly stole another piece of my heart while at the same time reinforcing that, up until now, I wasn’t good enough for her.
“Well, there you go. Push her again. Get her to come out and see how awesome you are at what you do.” Jack speaks as if it’s that simple.
They don’t understand. Next to James, I don’t think there is anyone out there who understands more what I do, how I’ve done it, and why I do it. Lexi always understood me.
“What about the family picnic? Do you think she’d come to that?” Billy asks.
“She’s a little on the shy side. I’m not sure.”
I may not know the current version of Lexi well, but I do know she was never one to be put in the spotlight. She’s always preferred to blend into the crowd versus stand out, and coming here for a team function is something I’m not sure she would agree to.
“Well, I think you should still ask her. Maybe she’ll surprise you, and maybe you can talk her into bringing some pies too.” Reid winks, pleased with himself that he’s figured it all out.
Pies . . . he might be onto something. She’s always had this need to feed people, so maybe I can persuade her through the stomachs of my teammates.
“Dude!” Jack yells excitedly. “A girl from back home, your love of pies—are you talking about James’s sister? The third leg to the tripod?”
“Wait, you know her?” Reid asks, looking back and forth between the two of us.
“Nah, man. I’ve never met her, but she’s infamous. James and Zach have talked about her nonstop over the years, Shelby and her friend Meg talk about her as if she’s in the room with them, and those pies she sent to the party at Zach’s over the summer, especially that black cherry bourbon pie . . .” He rubs his stomach and looks up toward the sky. “No wonder you picked pie over cake.”
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 5