Page 21 of Last Slice of Pie

Oh. Did I just admit to something I shouldn’t have?

Lying back on the bed, I squeeze my eyes shut and hug my phone to my chest. Does him knowing I watch his games make me sound crazy? I hope not. Yes, I might have watched as many of his games as I could so I could see him, but I do like football as well and occasionally watch other teams too. He doesn’t need to know how many of his games I’ve watched, and we are friends, right?

I let out a deep sigh. Oh well. I have nothing to hide. I am who I am, and I may as well just go for it, dive down the rabbit hole.

Me: I have.

There’s another pause as I wait, and relief floods through me when he responds.

Bryan: Good.

Groaning, I toss my phone on the bed, not knowing what to say after that, and I move into the bathroom. I can’t imagine it would be a bad thing for him to know I watch his games. After all, it wouldn’t be if James said the same thing.

As I sit in the tub, my mind drifts back to what it felt like to have my hand in his and his arm around me at the event. Most of the day, he never left my side, and in one way or another, he was almost always touching me. When we were teenagers, he used to do that too, and I’ve missed it. People noticed. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad, but he didn’t seem to care. For years, I’ve dreamt about what it would be like to stand by his side, so I remained there proudly and just observed him in his natural setting.

Player after player stopped by to introduce themselves and rave about the pies. Part of me wondered if they were just being nice or if they actually liked the pies, but then I decided I didn’t care. I know the pies are good, and that’s all that matters. There’s also no denying how revered and beloved he is by his team and his coaches; they all wanted to tell me one of their favorite Bryan stories, most of them funny. Just like when we were younger, he remained quiet, but his eyes were bright as he chuckled along with everyone, and it was nice to see that side of him hasn’t changed.

It was the best day I’ve had in a long time.

A few hours later, the sun is setting, and I’m back in my dining room printing labels for today’s jars when my phone rings.

It’s Shelby.

I love Shelby.

She and I, along with Meg, became friends in culinary school. I was lucky enough to receive a scholarship, and for the first time, I left home and did something on my own outside of James and Bryan. Second semester, I moved in with the two of them, and the rest is history. We became known as the three legs of the tripod.

“I have something I need to tell you,” she says excitedly.

“Are you pregnant?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and pinching my lips together.

“What?” she yells. “No, I’m not pregnant! Why would you even suggest that?”

“Because it seems like the appropriate thing to think when someone says they have something to tell you, and you are disgustingly perfect with your boyfriend.” I laugh through my words, not able to hold it in anymore.

“Well, it’s not, and I’m not. I just shivered at the thought of having a baby. One day, just not any time soon. Sheesh . . .”

“All right then, so if you’re not pregnant, what’s up?” I ask.

“The new Food Network magazine went out today,” she says.

“Yes, I know. You know I count down the days each month, and I can’t wait to see what they have for Thanksgiving this year.” I glance to a bookshelf I keep filled with recipe books, except for the bottom shelf, which is where I keep my issues of the Food Network magazine. There must be at least six years’ worth.

“Well, you’re also going to see something else.”

“What do you mean?” I head toward the back door, slip on my flip-flops, and hop onto my bike, which is propped up against the porch.

Over the summer, Shelby pitched a television series to the network, and they decided to move forward with a pilot season. It’s called All Around the South to tie in with the magazine’s regional issue, All About the South, where she reviews well-known and not-so-well-known restaurants while tying in a do-at-home recipe for the viewers. I’m assuming it’s an article about that and never in a million years would have expected her to say, “Firefly Kitchen.”

I slam the brake on the bike and waver as I regain my balance. “Wait . . . what?” My eyes travel down the length of the long driveway to the mailbox.

“You heard me. Firefly Kitchen!” She squeals loudly in excitement, and my jaw drops open.

Heat hits my cheeks as ten different emotions charge at me at once.

“Are you serious right now? What for?”

Regaining my composure, I take off on the bike again and head down the hill.