Page 7 of Last Slice of Pie

“Why? What happened?”

He turned his head, and his lips pressed into a flat line. “Nothing.” He sounded so dejected and so sad.

I handed him a clean shirt of James’s and helped him put it on. Afterward, I opened the backpack and pulled out the snack. He shook his head, so instead I handed him a bottle of water. He swallowed slowly and continued to watch my every move.

As I went to put the washcloth back in the bag, I remembered his face. I looked him in the eyes as I leaned forward to brush the hair off his forehead. His hair was so soft, nothing like James’s. He let me wipe down his face then his hands, and sometime during this process he’d stopped crying and begun shaking.

In the tree house was a large cooler where we kept two sleeping bags and pillows. It made a great outdoor trunk because it stayed airtight against the bugs and kept the humidity out. I pulled out the sleeping bags, opened them up, and laid them flat on the floor. I threw down the pillows and took Bryan by the hand, and he moved over to the makeshift bed and curled up on his side. He just looked so sad.

I didn’t even ask him if he wanted me to stay; I just lay down next to him and threw the blanket over us. I wanted to curl up around him and hold him, but being uncertain, I just lay in front of him, face-to-face. I brushed the hair back off his forehead and reached out to hold his hand.

“He hates me,” he whispered.

“Why would you say that?” I asked, feeling sad for him.

“Because he tells me so every day.”

I couldn’t imagine GiGi ever saying she hated me or James, and my heart swelled as it ached for him. His eyes once again flooded with water, and big tears slowly dripped down the side of his face.

“I miss my mom,” he whispered, closing his eyes as his chin quivered and grief settled over him.

I don’t remember my mom, so I don’t miss her, but I couldn’t imagine losing GiGi.

He snuggled a little closer and continued to shake. It didn’t feel that cold out to me, but just in case, I rolled over and scooted up next to him. I wrapped his arm around my waist and continued to hold his hand. He pushed his face into my hair, and I could feel his breath on the back of my neck as he cried. Slowly, the shaking stopped, and we both fell asleep. I hoped in his dreams he’d be able to escape his sadness, whereas in mine, all I saw was a beautifully damaged boy.

The next morning when I woke up, Bryan was gone.

That was the first time he left me, and little did I know, it wouldn’t be the last. That’s why I should turn around and go back home instead of standing here like a creeper waiting for him to make his grand entrance, but I continue waiting.

Our town square is set up like any other small-town town square in the south. The streets are laid out like a grid, and right in the middle of the business district is a piece of land deemed historical, one dedicated to our founding fathers. I do believe ours is larger than others, which is why we call it the town park instead. Of course, it has the requisite gazebo in the middle for special events and such, and all around it and throughout the park are oak trees, really large ones that are great for climbing—or in my case, hiding.

Peeking out from behind a tree on the eastern side of the gazebo, I watch as the crowd waiting to see him continues to grow. After all, around here, he is a celebrity and a role model to the children. Adults have followed his football career for years, ever since he started playing for a recreational league at the age of twelve, and the kids, well, they look up to him as a real-life hero.

From this vantage point, I am given the gift of time: time to study him, time to gather my wits, and time to decide my next move—that is, if I want to make a move. I’m not sure I do.

Yes, I’ve seen him on television, but this version is so different from the guy I knew back then, and really, I know nothing about him.

Absolutely nothing.

Well, except that he prefers pie over cake. My heart sings at the thought.

“I can’t believe you dragged me out here for this. I’m sweating like a hog and it’s pouring off of me,” Marie chirps from behind me while swiping at the sweat threatening to roll down her chest and into her shirt.

“Look, it’s bad enough that I feel the need to hide from him, but I can’t stand here by myself. What if someone sees me? At least this way we look like we’re having a private conversation.”

She rolls her eyes and starts flapping her elbows to attempt to dry out her armpits. “Seriously, you should just find him after this, walk straight up to him, and say hello. After all these years, what do you have to lose? Nothing.”

“But we’ve never said hello. That wasn’t our thing,” I argue.

“Well, fine! Say hey, say whatever. It doesn’t even matter. Just get in front of him, strut your stuff, and make him feel sorry for leaving you.” She swipes at the sweat forming across her forehead.

A laugh slips out of me as I try to imagine what I would look like strutting. As I’m a little on the curvier side, my guess is it would look more like waddling.

Off in the northwest corner, the high school marching band starts to play. The music gets progressively louder as they approach the gazebo, and my heart rate picks up in anticipation of being closer to him than I have in years.

I know I’m being ridiculous, but right now, at this moment, my nerves are winning out. Yes, we were friends as kids, but he’s never returned home, not once, and to my knowledge through James, he’s never talked about it or even asked about me.

Again, unrequited love.