Page 22 of A Slice of Love

The next morning, she passed me our notebook.

I’m sorry. Can we talk later? Alone somewhere?

Her perfect handwriting came into view, and I wanted to rip the book from her hands and toss it into the trash.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I wrote the one word I should I have said to her before.

No.

Her sharp inhale ripped a hole through my chest. Heads turned our way as her bottom lip began to quiver and tears sprang to her eyes.

I said nothing, instead turning my attention to the front of the room, staring daggers at anyone who dared look my way.

Frankie fled.

I stayed.

It was the last time we ever spoke.

Until now.

I let my eyes wander over her body, hands aching to reach out and touch her once more. To see if her body still fits mine so perfectly. See if her tits hold the same weight they once did. If I can still fit an ass cheek in each palm. If her lips still taste like oranges.

If I can still make her gasp my name with just a flick of my fingers.

She shifts under my perusal, and I have a feeling she’s thinking about the same thing I am.

“What are you doing here, Jonas?”

I don’t miss the extra layer of ice she puts on her words.

She’s pissed at me, and rightfully so.

I try not to laugh at her ridiculous question because it’s painfully, embarrassingly obvious what I’m doing here.

“Delivering your pizza.”

“No, Jonas, I meanhere.You’re not supposed to behere. You should be…” She huffs and gestures wildly. “Well, not here.”

“You call Slice. I deliver.” I lift the box. “That’s how this pizza thing works.”

She doesn’t acknowledge my snarky response. “You should be gone.”

I gnash my molars together, annoyed by the reminder. It’s not the first time I’ve had an encounter like this, a customer informing me where I’msupposedto be.

I know where I’m supposed to be, and it sure as shit ain’t here slinging pizzas.

But that’s what happens when you shoot your career in the foot, drown your sorrows in booze, and slack on your physical therapy for two months, leaving you behind where you wanted to be.

“Yeah, well, I’m not,” I say flatly.

Her hard eyes soften, and a peep of the Frankie I used to know shines through. “What happened?”

“I, um…” I shuffle the pizza onto my other hand, feeling uncomfortable as she stares at me with questioning eyes. “Well, I—”

“Damn, Frankie, quit giving the guy the third degree. He’s had a rough year.”

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