Page 17 of Just a Friend for the Lion

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I’m so proud of both of them, really.

It’s just. Well, I’m lonely.

I toss my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, the one Dina made me during her pottery phase, and open the fridge.

There’s a single slice of sausage and pepper pizza left.

It feels like a metaphor.

I reheat it anyway, standing barefoot in the kitchenette, staring out the tiny window overlooking the alley.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine.

The whole place is.

I’m pretty much running the pizzeria these days, though the girls are still pitching in.

Everything else, though? The day to day. The recipes. The cooking.

That’s mine.

My life is full.

Except when it’s not.

I try not to dwell. I’m not lonely.

I’m justalone.

There’s a difference.

Still, my brain keeps replaying him.

Thatguy.

The one with the movie star swagger and the work boots.

The one who tripped over his own feet and still managed to look like a Calvin Klein ad while doing it.

The one who stared at me like I was the only thing on the menu he was interested in.

And yeah, I noticed.

You’d have to be dead not to notice all that golden skin and muscle and menace wrapped up in a T-shirt that should be illegal in three states.

But it was the way he looked at me that hit hard.

Like he didn’t know whether to worship me or run for the hills.

I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I mean, I am a big girl with a real belly, hips, and big boobs. I got more curves than a racetrack.

So, yeah, I can relate to the wholewhat do I do nowthing.

The microwave beeps.

I grab my plate, flop on the couch, and flip on the TV. Something loud and Australian is playing, but I’m not really watching.

My thoughts drift back to the app.

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