Page 157 of Late Fees

Tilly giggled. “Okay, fine…but what about something else starring the object of your affection?”

“He loves Mystic Pizza,” Wendy said.

“Wendy!” Sully snapped. “You’re starting to cross a line, babe.”

Wendy rolled her eyes as she poked him in the side. He laughed in spite of himself. Wendy blew him a kiss and asked, “Do I look concerned?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Please don’t ever break up with him,” Emmett said. “You’re the only one who keeps him in line.”

Sully pointed a finger at Emmett. “I resent that, Polaroid.”

“Oh, no, don’t do that,” Emmett deadpanned with an elongated blink, walking away slowly. Marley giggled behind her hand, and I held back a laugh.

Since joining the staff of Spotlight Video that summer, I’d gotten to know the other employees and was finally starting to feel like a part of their dysfunctional family. Tilly loved to say she’d found her people, and I had to agree with her. I didn’t know another group of people who argued so passionately about movies, actors, and directors. The discussions were intense at times, at other times, ridiculously silly. But because of their misfit personalities, I had yet to have a boring shift at work.

Tilly popped a VHS tape into the pillowcase and then joined me at the desk. “Remember that pizza place in L.A.?

“How could I forget?”

“God, that was awful. Those poor Californians have no idea what good pizza is.”

Tilly had come to visit me for an extended weekend while I was at UCLA. One night, she was in the mood for pizza and ignored my insistence that it would not be what she remembered from back home.

It was straight up awful…and I tried to warn her. And she still couldn’t get over it. Whenever anyone mentioned pizza, even when it was the title of a Julia Roberts movie, she thought about that night with the god-awful pie that ended up in the dumpster behind my dorm.

“Let’s not think about the pizza; let’s remember all the good stuff,” I said, taking her hand in mine.

“Like watching the sunset at the beach?”

“Yep.”

She licked her lips and tilted her head to the side. “And that donut place by your dorm.”

“Californians may not make great pizza, but their donuts are insanely good.”

“Or…every night…back at your place.”

“Even with the obnoxious guy down the hall who never turned off his music…ever?”

“Yep. At least he had decent taste,” she said with certainty. “Wanna stay over tonight?”

“Definitely.”

“And every night?” she asked, nuzzling into my neck, her voice silky and seductive.

“I wish I could,” I said, smoothing down her hair as I gazed into her eyes, almost forgetting that we were surrounded by coworkers who were talking amongst themselves.

“I hate that you’re going back to the dorms.”

“I know…but I actually like my roommate this year. And this way, you won’t ever get sick of me.”

“That would never happen.”

“I know, but my parents insisted. They think we’re way too young to live together full time.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to actually live in the dorm, though. I mean, you could let Ruben have his own room and just pick up your mail when you go there to hang out. Dahlia would love that.”

---