Page 1 of Last Slice of Pie

WHY IS IT that the first love is the hardest love to let go? The truth is, it’s a young, innocent love, one fostered by hopes and dreams, born during easier times that are carefree and filled with memories of firsts. Years later, we all understand it’s not a love of reality or life, and unless you are one of the rare ones, it’s not a love that ends with a happily ever after. But, there’s something about it that definitely makes a lasting impression on our hearts. It creates a nostalgic longing, even if you’re one of the unfortunate ones like me and that love is one-sided, kept afar, unrequited.

It’s not his fault, though. I never told him; he didn’t know—at least I don’t think he did. Because of this, I still cling to the prospect of what could have been versus what wasn’t, and it’s why I’ve followed his football career for years, silently cheering in the background. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s my brother’s best friend, and James freely divulges information about him regularly, which is why I’ve found myself counting down the minutes until his interview on the national sports network tonight.

A bright light flashes throughout the kitchen and is immediately followed by a loud rumble of thunder. The frame of this old house vibrates, and the windows rattle as the foundation shakes. There’s no rain, at least not yet, but it’s coming.

Late-afternoon, early-evening storms are guaranteed during the summer. Daily the humidity rises to near stifling, the skies then burst open, and the land collectively breathes a sigh of relief as the rain soaks the earth.

I love these storms. I love how the temperature drops afterward, a cool breeze moves in, and nightly the sun sets with the most radiant colors. This is just one of the handful of reasons why I’ve never been able to leave my home here on the outskirts of Oakwood, our town in Central Florida.

Out the window, over the kitchen sink, headlights appear at the bottom of the hill. Marie is tearing down the driveway, and I can’t help but laugh. First off, she hates storms. She’s never explained why, but then again I’ve never pushed her to tell me. Second, this poor girl couldn’t be on time to save her life. She’s late for everything.

Pulling two large mason jars from the cabinet, I add some ice and fill them with a homemade strawberry citrus sangria. This is Marie’s favorite drink, and this interview being televised tonight is cause for celebration. Other than a few promotional events and a few pictures my brother posted of himself and Bryan on social media over the summer, I haven’t really seen Bryan since they sideline-interviewed him six months ago during last season’s playoff game, which they lost.

Marie’s car door slams, and her feet pound up the front steps as she runs into the house. It’s five after eight.

“I’m here, I’m here. It didn’t start, did it?” She’s breathless as she rounds the corner into the kitchen, and I smile. “What?” she asks, pushing her light brown hair off her face and taking a deep breath.

“Nothing, and nope, it didn’t start yet. You’re right on time. All they’ve aired is the introduction of tonight’s guest and then they broke for commercials.” I hand her the jar, and her eyes light up. “I thought we could make this night a little more fun.”

“Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you made this! I have been craving this delightful beverage for weeks, and after the bath-time battle I had tonight with Finley, I need this.” She takes a long sip of the sangria and hums with delight. “Oh, this is so good. Seriously, why don’t you consider bottling this too? We’d make a fortune on it.” She hands me back her glass to be topped off.

“I don’t know, I guess because GiGi always made it just for us,” I answer as we walk into the living room. With the storm and the air conditioning, the house cooled quickly, so I grab us both a plush blanket then we curl up next to each other on the couch.

GiGi is my grandmother—well, was—and she also filled the role of our mother. After all, she was only forty-two when James and I moved in.

“Well, if you ever change your mind, I am totally on board with the marketing of this product, too. I can see the dollar signs now.” She waves her hand in the air and pretends to stare at imaginary money floating by.

“You see dollar signs because you are obsessed with money. I have enough—what do I need more for?”

“Perhaps all the repairs you keep having to make on this house?” She eyes me knowingly, shaking her head, and then she takes another long sip of her drink while watching me over the rim.

She’s right, and she knows I know she is, but I don’t want to talk about it or listen to her do so. Reaching over, I grab the remote and turn up the volume.

This house, my house, has been in our family for three generations. It’s a large farm-style with a wrap-around porch, and lately it has seemed to need a lot of repairs and updates, but I don’t mind. I live and work out of this house, and it’s been fun to add my own look and style to the inside, especially the kitchen.

The kitchen, my place of solace. My temple.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been baking pies. When I was sixteen, I entered a pie contest at the Florida State Fair and won. After that, people around town started coming to me to place orders for pies. That’s when I knew college wasn’t for me, but culinary school was.

Five years ago, I started a part-time company called Firefly Kitchen. Three years ago, it turned full-time, and that’s when I hired my lifelong best friend Marie, who did go to college, to help manage the business side of things.

All day, every day, I get to bake pies and cook in this kitchen.

I have the best job in the world.

Marie stretches out her legs to prop them on the coffee table in front of us, and I’m grateful when she changes the subject.

“How about we talk about your football god and how I can’t believe he’s going to do this interview?” She grins at me.

I don’t correct her, but he’s not mine, even if there is a part of me that wants to believe he is. After all, shouting I saw him first should count for something.

“I know. I’m just glad they advertised it so we would know.” I cross my legs under my blanket and take another sip of sangria.

“Of course they were going to advertise this. This interview is going to be huge for their ratings. No one has ever been able to get Bryan to sit down for a one-on-one.”

Ever since high school, Bryan has hated the media. He’s never wanted to be glorified or idolized, even though it comes with the territory of his career. He’s always wanted people to recognize that it’s hard work, dedication, and love for his craft that got him where he is. Plus, he’s seen over and over again how the media can crash and burn someone, so in his mind, the less he gives them, the less they will bother him. Staying off their radar has always been a big deal to him. He just wants to play the game.

“Why do you think he agreed this time?” she asks, as if I would somehow know the answer.