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I’m walking out of the bathroom, where I just got rid of the condom we used. I glance at the clock to see how much time we have before she needs to get ready for work and I need to take off for my run.
“What’s that?” I get back into bed, then drag her across the mattress to me and pull the blankets up and over us.
“It’s about the pizzeria,” she starts.
I feel every muscle in my body get tense, and my arms tighten around her. She’s brought up the pizzeria more than a few times over the last couple of weeks. And no matter how many times I’ve explained my feelings about the shop, I haven’t been able to deter her from mentioning it time and time again. I know she loves the place, and I know she hates the idea of someone else owning it. She probably wants to talk to me about reconsidering taking over from my parents.
“Libby . . .”
“Please hear me out,” she urges, turning toward me and resting her hands against my bare chest.
“I don’t want anything to do with the pizzeria,” I cut her off. “I also don’t want to talk about it,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“But—”
“But nothing, Princess,” I say, trying not to let my voice go up a register. I decide I finally need to make her try and understand. “You didn’t grow up with your parents working there seven days a week, twelve hours a day, Libby. You didn’t spend most of your weekends answering phones and taking orders. You didn’t have to fall asleep in the back room in a sleeping bag because the restaurant closed late on Friday and you had no choice but to stay with your parents. You didn’t miss out on time with your parents because they had a business to run. Your dad didn’t miss your games because he couldn’t find anyone to cover the shop for him. You haven’t watched that place slowly kill your father over the years.”
“I—”
“No.” I cut her off again. I toss back the blankets and get out of bed. “We’re not talking about it.” I walk toward the chair where my clothes are.
“Where are you going?” she asks, getting up on her knees, her eyes going wide with alarm.
“Gonna head out for a run,” I say, pulling on my sweats and a sweatshirt.
“But—”
“You need to get ready for work. You have to catch a cab soon.”
“We need to talk about the shop.” She grabs my hand, and I shake my head to deny her wish.
“We don’t need to talk about the shop. It’s not my problem anymore. It’s done, Libby. Someone else is buying it. Leave it be for once.”
“I—” she starts.
I cut her off with a swift kiss.
“I’ll see you in a couple days. I’ll call you tonight when I get a chance.” I turn and leave the room, ignoring her when she calls out to me again. Grabbing my key and cell phone off the counter in the kitchen, I shove both in my pocket before putting on my sneakers and leaving my apartment. Once I’m out of the building, I run until it feels like my legs are about to give out on me before heading home. When I let myself back into my apartment, Libby’s gone. I knew she would be, which is good. I didn’t want her to leave like that, leave with me upset, leave while she was probably upset also. I know that she feels different about the pizzeria than I do, but she didn’t grow up like I did. She just needs to let it go. Hopefully once the new owner takes over, we won’t have to talk about it ever again.
Chapter 15
I MUST BE DYING
LIBBY
“I’m looking for Libby.”
The male voice sounds familiar. I frown, trying to figure out where I know that voice from and why there is a man here looking for me at all.
“And you are?” Peggy asks.
I quickly wash my hands and rinse them off, then grab a paper towel and start to dry them.
“Walter,” the voice answers as I push through the swinging door. I come to a dead stop when a familiar set of blue eyes rests on me.
“Walter,” I whisper in shock at seeing him again. Especially here, of all places.
“Hey.” He smiles, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his trousers, looking a little uncomfortable. “I know I should have called, but when I spoke with Palo this morning, he told me you were buying a pizzeria. I wanted to come check it out, and to tell you congratulations.”
“Buying a pizzeria?”
My heart sinks and my stomach coils. I turn to look at Antonio, whose voice is filled with tension. It’s been three days since I left his apartment in tears after trying to tell him that I was the buyer. We’ve talked since then, but the conversations have always been short.
