Page 5 of Sweet Heart for the Bear

Dina leans on the doorframe to the small office in back of the pizzeria we, along with our other sister, Marianne, just opened in the lobby of a posh new high rise in Newark, waiting for me to respond.

I wish we could afford to live in the gorgeous building, but after sinking every dollar we have into this place, I’m just grateful we aren’t out on the streets.

Yet.

Rent is due and our slimy landlord, Mr. O’Doyle, isn’t known for showing mercy.

Sure, he’s hinted he is willing to acceptotherforms of payment.

But I’d rather sleep in a box than submit to that creepy fucker. And I sure as heck am not telling Dina about any of that.

“I’m fine. Just having issues with the Wi-Fi,” I lie.

Truth is, I could only afford the free version of the software I’m using to host our website,Pizza Girls.

It isn’t a big deal, except I have us signed up for several delivery services that all hinge on the site working.

And it’s not.

Fuck my life.

“You want something to eat before we open?” she asks.

Dina’s apron is liberally doused in flour, and she’s so adorable with her big blue eyes and short curly hair. She wears her curves proudly, and I am in awe of her and MJ.

That’s what we call Marianne for short. Her middle name is Jeanne. I have no idea why.

I think our parents might have been trying to make us sound more American. They were both born in Italy and came here in their forties.

They never thought they would have kids, but then the three of us were born, one right after the other.

“Are you wearing yoga pants instead of the chef pants I bought?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

“So? I’m wearing the t-shirt,” she says.

I grin at her as she does a curtsy and spins for me.

The hot pink cotton shirt hasPizza Girlsscrolled across the front in bold black script. Dina designed it, so I know she is proud.

That she has said t-shirt tied at the small of her back and tucked under to emphasize her waist is beside the point.

“You look fine,” I say.

“Fine? Damn. I was hoping for a cute at least,” she says, looking down at herself.

“Oh my gah! Yes, you’re cute. Go make pizza!” I laugh and wave my hand to shoo her away.

She giggles and skitters away like a squirrel hopped up on sugar. Freaking adorable.

Truth is, I wish I had half my little sister’s confidence.

But as my last boyfriend, Edgar the Asshole, always said,“No one wants to see all that unless it is tucked in and covered.”

I look down at my baggie chef’s pants and my own t-shirt that I wear two sizes big to cover my boobs. My bra size isn’t obscene, but it’s big.

My ex always hated it when I wore anything even mildly revealing.

I know I shouldn’t care what he thinks anymore, and really, I don’t.

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