Page 50 of A Pizza My Heart

I lift a shoulder. “Nothing bad. I always liked your style.”

She eyes me, pursing her lips and considering my words before nodding and accepting them. “Follow me.”

Wren leads us down a narrow hallway, and my eyes instantly fall to the photos hanging along the walls.

It takes no time at all for me to know it’s Winston’s work.

“Damn.” I whistle quietly, scanning over the images. “Our boy has improved over the years, but this one is still my favorite.”

She stares at the photo I’m studying. It’s one of Molly Daniels, taken about three months before she passed. She has no idea the camera is focused on her.

Her gaze is trained on the ocean as she holds her hat to her head, trying not to let the wind take it away. Her seafoam green dress is wrapped around her body, the ends of it flowing to the side in the breeze.

She’s in the middle of yelling at Simon to not go too far out with Wren, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile on her lips as she watches them together.

I only know all these tiny details because I was there.

The Daniels family was made for the beach. We all lived on the other side of town, wishing and hoping we could one day have the ocean in our backyards. We trekked down to the shoreline nearly every weekend, not able to ignore its siren call. Molly would pack a hodgepodge dinner and we’d all load up in their station wagon—because they were still old school enough to have one—and make the twenty-minute drive, all bouncing in our seats the whole way over.

It didn’t matter if the water was too cold or the sand too crowded or that we were all way too old to be smooshed into the back of the wagon; we were there every weekend without fail.

This particular picture was taken on a Sunday in October, just days before Halloween. We were all together to celebrate the twins’ birthday.

It was chilly out, way too cold to be in the water, but Wren didn’t care; she wanted her birthday to be celebrated on the beach. Winston and I—the total pussies that we were—ate ham and cheese sandwiches on the blanket with Molly while Simon and Wren—the two who could never resist the allure of the water—braved the cold.

I remember sitting on the beach watching Wren splash in the waves, her and Simon flinging salty water at one another, each of them turning bluer by the second. With her being so far away, I could watch her unabashedly—which was one of my favorite things about being on the beach. Every time she’d throw her head back in laughter, the sound would carry up the shoreline, and that ever-present pinch in my chest would get just a little tighter.

I was mesmerized by her.

I was enraptured.

I was in love.

And she had no fucking clue.

“One day, Foster. She’ll see you one day.”

My mouth goes dry and I flit my eyes to Molly, who’s not paying any attention to me—or so I think—her gaze still trained on Wren and Simon.

I lick my lips. “W-What do you mean?”

She laughs, and the lines around her lips are the exact same ones Wren has. If Wren didn’t color her hair all those off-the-wall colors, she and Molly could pass as sisters.

“You know exactly what I mean. When she sees it, she won’t be able to look away. Just give her time.”

And that was that. She knew how I felt about Wren and never said another word about it. I kind of always took it as her way of saying she approved.

“She was stunning,” I murmur. “God, I miss that woman.”

“Tell me about it.”

I glance at Wren, watching her look at the picture of her mother. When she feels my eyes on her, she shifts hers my way, and I see the sadness sitting in her blue pools. I want to reach out to her, wrap her in my arms, and hold her, take all her pain away and bear it as my own.

My eyes drop to her lips when they part, her tongue darting out to wet them, and my gaze follows the movement with rapt attention.

There I go getting enthralled again.

Her baby blues flit to my lips too, lingering for just a moment too long.

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