Page 25 of A Slice of Love

But missing him doesn’t compare to how angry I am with him.

It turns out I’m not one to forgive easily.

The knob rattles as Julian tries to barge his way back into my apartment.

I scuttle away from the door and throw myself onto the couch, flinging open the pizza box and shoveling a slice into my mouth.

“Oh, hey,” I say around a mouthful of food as Julian pushes the door shut behind his large frame.

If you saw the two of us walking down the street, you’d probably laugh at the image before you.

I’m on the shorter side of life, standing at just five foot three and three-quarters—at least according to my gynecologist, who stole a quarter of an inch from me at my last exam. Julian is easily six four and built like he benches refrigerators every morning.

We’re our own circus when we’re out and about together.

“Don’t ‘oh hey’ me. I know you were eavesdropping.”

“Who? Me?” I bat my lashes. “I would never.”

“Bull.” He lounges back onto my couch, easily taking up the rest of the sofa, leaving me tucked away in my little corner. “Give me that pizza.”

“Heck no! This ismydinner. If I hand it over to you, you’ll eat the whole damn thing.”

“Calling me fat?”

“I’m calling youbig-boned.”

“I’ll give you a big bone.” He juts his hips off the couch. “Come to Papa Julian.”

I roll my eyes. “In your dreams.”

“We call those nightmares, sweetie.”

That’s the thing about Julian and me: we havezeroattraction to one another. It’s not that he’s not into girls—because he’s into both girlsandboys—it’s just that he’s not into me, and I am perfectly okay with that.

We’d gone to school together for years but never really talked to one another until our senior year when we were both cast in a play.

When Julian Schenn, star linebacker of the Dogwood Dodgers, walked into the community theater for the first time, my jaw hit the floor. It was the last place I expected him to show up. He was all rough-and-tough jock. Theater wasn’t his idea of fun.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

Turns out Julian was a closet theater geek…and he was closeted about other things too. That year, working late nights prepping for the spring production, he came out to me as bisexual and confessed he didn’t want to play football in college—something his parents wanted him to do desperately. Instead, he wanted to pursue the arts and was testing out every medium he could get his hands on.

We bonded over the fact that our parents were pushing us to be these people we weren’t and have been inseparable since.

Well, minus the four years of college I left for.

“So…Jonas Schwartz, huh.” He says it so casually, like he’snottrying to rile me up, even though he definitely is. I eye him, eating my pizza and ignoring his wasted efforts. “Good to know he’s still hot as fuck. I mean, can wepleasetalk about that beard? Are we still sure he’s straight? Because there area lotof places I’d like to feel that thing.”

There are a lot of placesI’dlike to feel it too.

Julian’s right though—Jonasdoeslook extra good with a beard.

Then again, he’s always looked good.

I’ve technically known Jonas since I first moved here in ninth grade. My mom got a new job and my dad was ready to tackle leading a church. So, we packed up our entire lives and headed out east.

Moving is hard on a kid no matter what, but picking up one’s whole life and ripping her from the only place she’s known since she was born when she’s a teenager…well, it’s hell.

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