Page 43 of A Pizza My Heart

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.

“You have to get your hair cut every week, Foster. You need to look clean…proper.”

“This isn’t the fucking Marines, Layla. I don’t think your dad’s housing development business is going to care if I have my hair cut or not.”

“You’re working with the CEOs, not the little men on the street. You will get your hair cut weekly and you will shave every day. End of discussion.”

End of discussion it was. I shaved daily, and I got my hair cut every damn week, blowing thirty bucks for a trim each time.

So the first thing I did when I finally got the balls to tell my ex-wife to fuck off was throw my razor out and save thirty dollars a week.

Turns out I could have pitched my razor years ago, because I can’t grow a real beard to save my life. I spent way too much money on shaving cream over the years. Also, my hair looks just fine with a cleanup every six weeks. No more pissing away money every seven days.

Now, though, I’m in desperate need of a cut.

“You’re right. It might be Hollister.”

I flip him off and he laughs.

“Just stop by on your way to the pizzeria. She lives—”

“In the blue house. Yeah, she told me.”

“I hear your tone.” He takes one last hit before setting the joint down in the ashtray, the one already full of several other butts. “I told you, man—you never asked.”

“I know, I know,” I mutter. “I’m not gonna bother her this morning. She’s been busting her ass at Slice for the last week and I’m sure she needs to rest after closing last night.”

“I bet you ten bucks she’s already out of bed.”

“There’s no way. If there’s one thing I know about Wren, it’s that the girllovesher sleep.”

He gives me a look like he knows I’m wrong but doesn’t say anything about it. “I’m having cereal. Want a bowl?”

“Nah, I’ll just make some toast and egg whites.”

“Egg whites? See, more basic bullshit.” He shakes his head, pushing off the recliner and heading toward the kitchen. “What the fuck has Cali done to you, dude?”

“It’s made me healthy!”

“Healthy is for pussies! I’m having Smacks—twobowls!”

Guess I probably shouldn’t tell him I’m about to hit the beach for a two-mile run.

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