Page 62 of A Pizza My Heart

Am I that obvious?

Wren’s fingers slide into my hair like they did earlier, and everything I thought was dead inside me flares to life, revived by her touch.

It’s such a simple thing, and I’m a fool to be so enlivened by it.

Especially since I know it’s nothing but professional.

But earlier…that wasfarfrom professional. That was personal, and I want to get personal with her again.

“What time is your shift?”

Her question startles me, and she tightens her grip on my head, anticipating my twitch in reaction.

“Noon,” I mumble, not wanting to disturb her process. “Yours?”

“I’ll be there at four, work until close.”

“I close too.”

“You’re pulling a twelve-hour shift on your first day? Are you insane?”

“We’ve established that over the years.”

“Fair point,” she agrees.

“I could also use the cash. Plus, I’m bored.”

“Bored? Here? But there’ssomuch to do.”

“Have you not had your cappuccino today? Your tongue is sharp.”

“My bad.” Only she doesn’t sound the least bit remorseful.

She’s right, though. While the touristslovethis place, it’s overplayed for us locals. We’ve done and seen it all.

Which is why so many of us leave, looking for something…more.

Not me. I wasn’t looking for more in the slightest. My “more” fell into my lap—literally.

The summer I turned twenty-two was rough. We’d just lost Molly Daniels and all our hearts were broken. We didn’t know how to cope, how to move on together. So, we didn’t. We began to drift.

Winston was off screwing his broken heart whole again, and Wren was in school for hair.

I was alone.

Sad. Bitter. Unsure.

Layla “missed a serve” and tumbled into my lap on the beach. She offered to buy me a drink to apologize; I said yes.

We drank, made stupid mistakes, and paid the consequences—me more so than her.

To atone for my dumbassery, I packed my shit and moved with her to the other side of the country, giving no real warning to anyone.

Then, I paid for it. Hand over fucking fist, I paid for it.

I’mstillpaying for it, couch-surfing like I’m some free-loading shitbag.

“You’re going to break my chair if you keep squeezing it so hard,” she says quietly.

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