Page 52 of Last Slice of Pie

I feel off.

And I hate it.

My friends, my teammates, they all chant the countdown to midnight, and as they break out with shouts of glee, anxiety overwhelms me. Fireworks explode overhead and everyone is laughing, hugging, kissing, but I feel frozen. With each breath tonight, there’s been this rise of panic growing on the inside. With each word I’ve heard passed around over the hours, I’ve felt more paralyzed. I feel tense, too tense. I feel like I’m about to spiral. I feel like a storm is brewing and I have no way to calm it.

That’s when Lexi’s lips land on mine.

The world is drowned out, the noise mutes, and the clouds recede.

I’m okay with the storm; deep down, I know it’s fueling me forward. As long as it stays offshore and I can get done what I need to do, in a few weeks I’ll put all this behind me, leaving only Lexi in front of me.

I’m okay.

It’s going to be okay.

I can do this.

Black-eyed Pea Bruschetta

THINGS HAVE CHANGED between Bryan and me over the last two weeks. I don’t know how to pinpoint what it is or how it even started, but it was like the minute midnight hit and took us into January, something shifted.

Yes, I knew he was struggling after the last regular season home game, but this is different. He tried his best to put it behind him when we went to dinner, but I could still see the discontent in his expressions and behind his eyes. He was with me, but at the same time he wasn’t, and this just seems to intensify in the new year. I hoped being around his friends, he might relax a little, but he didn’t. Instead, the tension around his eyes got worse. He works so hard to maintain this embodiment of self-control and constant discipline, but I fear his rational side might be slipping. He’s a general for his team, and people speculating about weaknesses in his armor is affecting his mental game. He knows it shouldn’t be, but sometimes no matter how hard we fight the tide, the waves still pull us under.

With each passing day, our phone calls to each other have become shorter, and while our conversations are nice and normal, they feel scripted and almost stale. His tone sounds a little different, and I can feel it deep down in my soul.

Then again, maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m different.

“Ma’am, if you’ll just sign right here.”

An invoice slides across the kitchen counter and toward me. Looking up from my checkbook, I stare at the plumber, who was another friend of GiGi’s for years. That’s right, a plumber. He smiles, and it’s kind, but I just don’t have it in me to smile back.

The hot water heater cracked the thermal expansion valve, which leaked water all over the floor. Fortunately, the utility closet is next to the mudroom, so I was able to redirect the water outside. Unfortunately, the heater is old. He said there was too much sediment inside and I needed a new one. I know he’s giving me the best deal he can, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is more money I don’t have, and I’m heartbroken.

I sign his invoice then my personal check and hand him both.

“Thanks, Lexi. I appreciate your business.” He nods as he says this to me.

Business.

Business has dipped for Firefly Kitchen since the holidays are over. We knew it would—it happens to everyone—but I had hoped the exposure from the article would extend our season just a bit. Don’t get me wrong, we are still getting orders, and our regular accounts are ordering more than in the past, but it’s not enough. It never seems to be enough.

After walking the plumber out, I return to the kitchen and pull out the ingredients to make a new pie dough: flour, sugar, butter, shortening, salt. There are many different ways to make a pie crust, but GiGi always said it’s the shortening that makes the crust flaky, so that’s what I use, and no one has ever complained that the crust isn’t buttery or flaky enough.

I fall into the repetitive movements, ones that have woven themselves into my DNA. There’s no music, no television, and no sound. It’s quiet except for the voice in my head and the beat of my heart. It’s these moments of quiet where I’ve learned to listen and heal myself. After all, no matter how long Bryan and I are together or how serious we become, I know only I am responsible for my happiness. Whether it’s in conceding, embracing, or finding, it’s all on me. For years, it’s just been me, and this is how I do it best.

Slipping my hands into the dough, I break it into two sections and allow it to squish through my fingers. Tonight, I’m going to drown myself in sympathy wine while eating an old-fashioned comfort food dish: chicken pot pie.

On the table in the dining room, my cell phone rings. At first my heart skips a beat, because I’m hoping it’s Bryan, but quickly I decide I don’t want it to be. I’m not really in the right head space to talk to him. He’s already under so much pressure, so when I do talk to him, I want things to be easy and supportive. I don’t need him worrying about me too, at least not until the postseason is over.

Picking it up, I see it’s Meg and accept the call. As I put it on speaker, a smile stretches across my face.

“Hey, Meg! How are you?” I ask, walking back to my workstation. Somehow I’ve gotten loose flour all over the counter and didn’t even realize it. I swipe my hand through it, pushing it into a pile.

“Hey! I’m good. I’ve been dying to catch up with you, but the restaurant has been so crazy lately.” In the background, I can hear the telltale signs of restaurant kitchen life: “Order up!” and “I need a runner.”

Meg’s restaurant has really hit the food scene in Charleston. She’s booked daily with reservations and has received glowing reviews from local critics. I know it won’t be long before she’s recognized on a larger scale. We’re all so proud of her.

“Oh, no worries. I know you’re busy, and that’s great! I love hearing that things are going so well.” I also follow her on social media; her food pictures are mouthwatering and to die for.