Page 2 of A Pizza My Heart

“You’re such a horndog.”

“You, my friend”—she points a finger my way—“are not wrong.” Slapping my ass, she shoves me away. “Go get ’em, tiger!”

I weave through the tables, fidgeting around in my pockets, trying to pull out my order pad and pen, not paying any attention to my surroundings.

“Eyes up, silly girl!” My dad’s shoes cross into my line of sight and I glance up at him. “Don’t want you running into anyone holding a tray full of food.”

“It was one time!” I argue.

“This week, Wren.” My dad laughs. “One time this week.”

“Semantics,” I mumble.

“And our busboy landed in the hospital.”

“Only because he’s a whiny little baby. Maybe he shouldn’t have caught himself on his wrist. This is really all his fault.”

My dad runs an aging hand through his gray speckled hair, and it’s the first time in a while I’ve noticed how old he’s beginning to look. I guess that’s what happens when you’re approaching your mid-sixties; your age starts to show.

My parents tried for years to have children and were in their late thirties when they gave up hope. Imagine their surprise two months later when they found out they were pregnant…with twins.

We were miracle babies considering my mom had a geriatric pregnancy. It’s a wonder all three of us made it.

“Wren,” my dad says on a sigh, “you’re gonna putmein the hospital next.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“If your mom were still here…”

My heart squeezes at the thought.

Parents prepare you for a lot in life: riding a bike, teaching you to read, dealing with boys, how to not spend all your money on Beanie Babies. They get the basics down and you’re ready for almost anything.

Except brain aneurysms, or the utter heartbreak you endure when one strikes and takes them away from you.

They don’t prepare you for that at all.

“I know, I know. Eyes up in the dining room. I’ll do better, Dad.”

He narrows his eyes at me, and this time I roll mine.

“Sorry, I’ll do better,Simon.”

He insists on me calling him Simon at work because it’s “more professional” or some crap like that.

“Attagirl.” He chucks me under the chin. “Why I hired that one…” he mutters as he walks away, shaking his head.

Now I remember why I’m still working hereanddoing hair full-time even though I’d much rather only be doing the latter—my father.

I can’t leave him to run this place on his own. Sure, my brother Winston works here too, but Winston and reliable don’t exactly go hand in hand.

I make my way over to table five, burying my face in my notepad and trying to avoid having to look at my customers for fear they’ll try to talk.

Pass.

It’s my MO. All the regulars here know it. I’m not big on chitchatoreye contact. I simply want to take your order, bring your food, and send you on your merry way, stuffed and satisfied.

“Hey there, Wren.”

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