We spent the entire school year like this, our stools moving ever closer together, elbows rubbing as we worked silently side by side for months.
Until we hit a snag in whatever it was we were doing.
We had an end-of-the-year project due and were required to work on it outside classroom hours.
The moment our teacher proposed this, I knew I was screwed.
Frankie Callahan was not to be touched…especially not by me.
Everyone in school knew it. She was the one person you didn’t mess with.
Yet, there I was, watching her every day like a fucking creep, eager to see if she’d show up smelling like oranges.
There I was…wanting her.
Somehow, during the month we had to work on the project, we managed to keep our interactions limited to the library and courtyard. I think we both knew what being alone would mean.
At least I thought we were on the same page.
Frankie had other plans.
“Uh, J-Jonas?”
It’s the first time she’s said my name out loud, and a warmth like no other spreads through me.
I blink up at her, surprised to find her even speaking to me.
She rushes to apologize. “S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Oh.” She clears her throat. “I-I just… W-We…” She pauses, shaking her head at herself for all the stuttering. “I believe we should move the rest of our project elsewhere. It’s going to require a lot of cutting and gluing, and I don’t think we should be doing that around all these”—she waves a hand toward the stacks—“precious beauties.”
My lips quirk up at her choice of words. “Precious beauties, huh?”
Her cheeks fill with color, and I realize in that moment her blushing is one of my favorite sights. “What can I say? I’m a bit of a book lover.”
“You?” I fake gasp. “Say it ain’t so, Frank.”
“It’s Frankie,” she says.
I study her. “Nah, you look like more of a Frank to me.”
She doesn’t say anything else but seems pleased by me giving her a nickname, and I want to slap myself for flirting because anything happening between us just isn’t possible.
I’m Jonas Schwartz, captain of the football team. I score off the field just as much as I do on it. I’m known for letting things get a bit too wild, and the only time I’ve ever shown any restraint is in first period chemistry when I have to sit next to her every morning.
She’s Frankie Callahan…the pastor and the principal’s daughter.
Enough said.
“What were you getting at, Callahan?” I ask.
“O-Oh. I, uh, well, my parents are out of town this weekend.”
“They leave you home alone?”
“I’m responsible,” she says haughtily, and it’s the first time I’ve heard her have even a hint of attitude.
She’s…fiery.
I kind of like Fiery Frank.
“So, do, uh, do you want to come over this weekend?”
My heart rate picks up at the thought of being alone with Frank. There are so many things that could happen. So many things I want to happen. So many things that shouldn’t happen.
If I go over there, she’ll try to kiss me. And I’ll let her.
The last thing she needs is to be tainted by my use-’em-and-lose-’em reputation. If someone were to find out we were hanging out outside of school hours…well, let’s just say that wouldn’t work out well for either of us.
We’d be alone though…
“You, uh, you could come in the back. Stay the night. It would be just us.”
Just us.
No one would ever have to know. They’d never even know I was there. We could spend the entire weekend together, do whatever we wanted, live in our own little world.
It’s a bad idea. The worst idea she’s ever had. The foulest idea in the history of ideas.
But, if there is anything people know about me, it’s that I love a good bad idea.
“Jonas?”
Two syllables. A bat of her lashes.
That’s all it takes.
“Yes.”
“It’s Frankie,” she spits at me.
Clearly, she’s still pissed about what happened between us.
Just as I had predicted, Frankie tried to kiss me.
And just as I’d promised, I let her.
She climbed into my lap and we spent way too long on her couch, kissing and touching each other. Exploring.
We fell asleep, wrapped together in her twin bed.
We cooked breakfast on Sunday, unable to keep our hands to ourselves at every turn. It didn’t matter that our lips were sore and swollen. We knew our time together was limited, and we didn’t want to waste a second.
Our last afternoon together, we lay on her bedroom floor, counting the silly glow-in-the-dark stars she had stuck on the ceiling.
I don’t know how it happened, but eventually we were nothing but a mess of limbs.
Her shirt came off. Mine followed. And then she was trusting me with something special as I slid into her warmth.
“I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”
“Then make it feel better.”
I did.
And then we heard it—tires turning onto the pavement.
We were supposed to have a few more hours.
Her parents were home early.
I threw my clothes on as fast as I possibly could and beat feet out the back door, thankfully having been smart enough to park three blocks over so nobody would see my car in the drive.
That was the first and only time Frankie and I slept together—I made sure of it.
The next morning, she passed me our notebook.
I’m sorry. Can we talk later? Alone somewhere?
Her perfect handwriting came into view, and I wanted to rip the book from her hands and toss it into the trash.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I wrote the one word I should I have said to her before.
No.
Her sharp inhale ripped a hole through my chest. Heads turned our way as her bottom lip began to quiver and tears sprang to her eyes.
I said nothing, instead turning my attention to the front of the room, staring daggers at anyone who dared look my way.
Frankie fled.
I stayed.
It was the last time we ever spoke.
Until now.
I let my eyes wander over her body, hands aching to reach out and touch her once more. To see if her body still fits mine so perfectly. See if her tits hold the same weight they once did. If I can still fit an ass cheek in each palm. If her lips still taste like oranges.
If I can still make her gasp my name with just a flick of my fingers.
She shifts under my perusal, and I have a feeling she’s thinking about the same thing I am.
“What are you doing here, Jonas?”
I don’t miss the extra layer of ice she puts on her words.
She’s pissed at me, and rightfully so.
I try not to laugh at her ridiculous question because it’s painfully, embarrassingly obvious what I’m doing here.
“Delivering your pizza.”
“No, Jonas, I mean here. You’re not supposed to be here. You should be…” She huffs and gestures wildly. “Well, not here.”
“You call Slice. I deliver.” I lift the box. “That’s how this pizza thing works.”
She doesn’t acknowledge my snarky response. “You should be gone.”
I gnash my molars together, annoyed by the reminder. It’s not the first time I’ve had an encounter like this, a customer informing me where I’m supposed to be.
I know where I’m supposed to be, and it sure as shit ain’t here slinging pizzas.
But that’s what happens when you shoot your career in the foot, drown your sorrows in booze, and slack on your physical therapy for two months, leaving you behind where you wanted to be.
&nb
sp; “Yeah, well, I’m not,” I say flatly.
Her hard eyes soften, and a peep of the Frankie I used to know shines through. “What happened?”
“I, um…” I shuffle the pizza onto my other hand, feeling uncomfortable as she stares at me with questioning eyes. “Well, I—”
“Damn, Frankie, quit giving the guy the third degree. He’s had a rough year.”
She blinks up at Julian, almost like she forgot he was here.
I did too.
“You would know that if you hadn’t ditched me and run off to that fancy art school of yours for the last four years.”
Art school? Is there where she’s been? At my college’s sister campus?
She drops her head, trying to hide behind her hair again just like she used to. “Stop whining.”
“So you admit it then? That you ditched me?”
“I’m about to ditch your dead body somewhere,” she mutters, reaching into her back pocket then shoving a wad of cash in my face. “Here. Keep the change.”
A resounding thud echoes through the otherwise quiet apartment complex. The door is slammed so hard, I swear I hear something rattle against the wall.
“Frankie!” Schenn shouts at her, and she responds with something unintelligible.
They speak in hushed tones, and I know I shouldn’t stand here and listen, but I can’t move.
I found her. After years of searching and wondering and regret, I found her.
And she’s pissed as hell.
Now if only she’d let me explain that I had to tell her no all those years ago.
I didn’t have a choice.
Her parents made sure of that.
Slice Four
Frankie
“What the hell, Callahan? You can’t just slam the door in his face like that.”
“Well, I did.”
I try to shoulder past my best friend, but he doesn’t let me get very far, blocking my way with his giant frame. “Dammit, Julian. My pizza is getting cold.”
“Our pizza.”
I glare up at him. “My pizza. I didn’t promise you food.”
“Only because you’re a bad host. Come on, Frankie—you’re being rude, and it’s way out of character for you.”
“Rude? Rude?” My heart tries to burst from my chest as my temper rises. “I’m the one being rude? Are you kidding me right now, Jules? You know what he did to me!”
“Last I checked, you did it right back to him.”
“Good gravy, I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about him…well, getting his rocks off and abandoning me.”
“Oh.” Julian nods. “That’s where you were going with that. Makes more sense.”
I shake my head, trying not to fly across the hall and kill him for being so dense. “I swear, if I wasn’t holding this pizza…”
He ignores my thinly veiled threat and finally moves out of my way…toward the door.
“What are you doing!” I shriek, shoving my small frame in front of him, as if puny me is going to stop the ex-linebacker.
“I’m gonna go talk to him.”
“You’re what? No, Julian!” I shove at him with one hand, pushing the pie under his nose. “I’ll share my pizza. I promise. Just don’t go talk to him.”
He grabs at my shoulders, holding me back at arm’s length. “Hush. I’ll be right back.”
He swoops by and is through the door faster than I can jump on his back with this pizza in my hand.
“Julian!” I hiss after him, and I swear I hear him laugh at me.
“Hey, man, wait up!” he says to Jonas.
I, Frankie Callahan, do something naughty, something I know I shouldn’t be doing—plaster myself to the door and eavesdrop.
“Frank doesn’t like me very much, huh?”
Julian chuckles. “You could say that.”
I glower at him through the door.
Don’t bother pretending to be shocked, Jonas. You’re a terrible actor.
Well, that’s not true.
He spent months acting like he liked me, and I fell for every one of his charms.
“Not like I don’t deserve her wrath, but it’s…”
Their voices trail off, and I push my eye up to the peephole, annoyed to see them walking away.
Julian looks back and winks.
The jerk knows I’m spying on them.
I fall back against the door, feeling drained like I haven’t in years.
The last person I expected to see when I opened the door was Jonas Schwartz, the boy I fell in love with and gave my virginity to.
The same boy who got what he wanted then never spoke to me again.
A small part of me owes a lot of thanks to Jonas for what transpired between us after our weekend together—he gave me the courage to chase my dream of going to art school.
Sure, a lot of it had to do with the fact that I couldn’t possibly spend another four years attending the same school as him. Even though I lost my virginity to a liar, a master manipulator, a complete and utter jerk…I was the winner.
But he still hurt me. Crushed me. Changed me.
I hate him.
And yet…I miss him.
I miss his laugh. His smile. Those stupid, crude superhero doodles he’d draw. I miss the dimple in his chin and the way he’d always wipe his hands on his pants when he was nervous.
I miss his touch…his roughened, calloused hands, worn from years of playing football and working at his dad’s auto shop during the off-season.
I miss knowing him like nobody else did.
A lot of people thought Jonas had it all because he was the star of the football team, but they didn’t know him like I did.
He worked hard for what he had, put his all into the game, into practice, into his dad’s shop. He never took any of it for granted either.
But missing him doesn’t compare to how angry I am with him.
It turns out I’m not one to forgive easily.
The knob rattles as Julian tries to barge his way back into my apartment.
I scuttle away from the door and throw myself onto the couch, flinging open the pizza box and shoveling a slice into my mouth.
“Oh, hey,” I say around a mouthful of food as Julian pushes the door shut behind his large frame.
If you saw the two of us walking down the street, you’d probably laugh at the image before you.
I’m on the shorter side of life, standing at just five foot three and three-quarters—at least according to my gynecologist, who stole a quarter of an inch from me at my last exam. Julian is easily six four and built like he benches refrigerators every morning.
We’re our own circus when we’re out and about together.
“Don’t ‘oh hey’ me. I know you were eavesdropping.”
“Who? Me?” I bat my lashes. “I would never.”
“Bull.” He lounges back onto my couch, easily taking up the rest of the sofa, leaving me tucked away in my little corner. “Give me that pizza.”
“Heck no! This is my dinner. If I hand it over to you, you’ll eat the whole damn thing.”
“Calling me fat?”
“I’m calling you big-boned.”
“I’ll give you a big bone.” He juts his hips off the couch. “Come to Papa Julian.”
I roll my eyes. “In your dreams.”
“We call those nightmares, sweetie.”
That’s the thing about Julian and me: we have zero attraction to one another. It’s not that he’s not into girls—because he’s into both girls and boys—it’s just that he’s not into me, and I am perfectly okay with that.
We’d gone to school together for years but never really talked to one another until our senior year when we were both cast in a play.
When Julian Schenn, star linebacker of the Dogwood Dodgers, walked into the community theater for the first time, my jaw hit the floor. It was the last place I expected him to show up. He was all rough-and-tough jock. Theater wasn’t his idea of fun.
Or a
t least that’s what I thought.
Turns out Julian was a closet theater geek…and he was closeted about other things too. That year, working late nights prepping for the spring production, he came out to me as bisexual and confessed he didn’t want to play football in college—something his parents wanted him to do desperately. Instead, he wanted to pursue the arts and was testing out every medium he could get his hands on.
We bonded over the fact that our parents were pushing us to be these people we weren’t and have been inseparable since.
Well, minus the four years of college I left for.
“So…Jonas Schwartz, huh.” He says it so casually, like he’s not trying to rile me up, even though he definitely is. I eye him, eating my pizza and ignoring his wasted efforts. “Good to know he’s still hot as fuck. I mean, can we please talk about that beard? Are we still sure he’s straight? Because there are a lot of places I’d like to feel that thing.”
There are a lot of places I’d like to feel it too.
Julian’s right though—Jonas does look extra good with a beard.
Then again, he’s always looked good.
I’ve technically known Jonas since I first moved here in ninth grade. My mom got a new job and my dad was ready to tackle leading a church. So, we packed up our entire lives and headed out east.
Moving is hard on a kid no matter what, but picking up one’s whole life and ripping her from the only place she’s known since she was born when she’s a teenager…well, it’s hell.
Add in the fact that I wasn’t just going to be known for being the pastor’s daughter but also the principal’s daughter?
Yeah, count me out for any social event ever.
I withdrew.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I became shy. A book nerd. A complete loner.
I was okay with that for the most part. A lot of it was my own doing.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t ever lonely.
Talk about the shock of the century when not one person in my new school took the time to acknowledge me until the first Friday of my freshman year, as least not to my face.
An entire week.
Not a single soul.
Until him.
Until Jonas.
“You’re new here, right?”
I turned to my left, locking eyes with the prettiest shade of green I’d ever seen.
His jaw was square, nose sharp, and he smelled faintly of grease or oil or something along those lines.
A Slice of Love Page 4