Page 72 of Five Years
There was a dirty, seedy feeling about knowing something Hannah didn’t. Leah despised it. She didn’t want a hand in causing someone else’s misery. But if it was already over, and Ariana was making the decision with sound mind and a settled heart, who was she to interfere?
Leah was always considerate of others’ feelings, but she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t about to throw away her chance at happily ever after over some distorted sense of guilt that wasn’t hers to feel.
The text message she’d been waiting for since yesterday finally appeared on her screen. A rush of excitement flooded her.
Ariana
Pizza?
Leah
Now?
Ariana
Tonight? A post-work treat?
Leah
I could eat pizza.
Ariana
Do you remember our favourite spot?
Leah
Like I could ever forget.
Ariana
See you at 6:30?
Leah
It’s a date.
Or not a date.
Was it a date?
What exactly counted as a date?
Leah Googled the definition—a planned social meeting—especially between two romantically linked people was secondary.
But they were romantically linked, right? They hadn’t kissed yet—not in reality. In a dream-like state, absolutely. Had she pictured Ariana naked in every room and on every surface she’d seen in the past twenty-four hours? Sure.
There was an element of distrust around the conversations they’d already had. The soft touches, the longing stares—almost impossible to deny. They had history. It didn’t make it okay, but the history trumped the inappropriateness of the behaviour—or at least that’s what she told herself.
SIXTEEN
People who love pizza tend to eat it often. They’ll experiment with toppings, invite friends to their favourite spot, even eat leftovers for breakfast the next morning. But not many people love pizza enough to have a tiny slice tattooed on their right ankle. And not many have a partner willing to get a matching slice on their left. That put Leah and Ariana in a rather unusual category.
Six years later, the small slice looked more like a blob, but the outline was still intact—perfectly symbolising the trajectory of their relationship. The outline was their feelings: sturdy, holding strong despite the turbulence and confusion of the blob in the middle. It was a new and interesting take on a love story.
Leah called it the Pizza Theory—or the Ever-Moving Blob—or maybe Pepperoni Passion. She had time to work on the name. She walked the five blocks over, each small step feeling like a bigger leap into the unknown. Truth be told, she was nervous—extremely. She’d grown so accustomed to a world without Ariana, and then suddenly, she was back. Back at the forefront of her mind instead of buried as far down as Leah could force her. Back popping up on her phone, reigniting the flutter of butterflies she thought had died forever.
The cold air bit at her skin as she wove through crowds bundled in thick coats. She took her time, the sidewalk glistening with a thin sheen of ice. Her breath formed little clouds in the air, growing more frequent as her pace quickened and her heart began to race.
