Love by the Slice (Valentine’s Sweethearts)

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

GREG WAS TOO cute. That much, Shelly knew for a fact. He was tall brown-haired and doe-eyed and wicked smart, except Ezra made fun of him because he tended to space things off. Greg always figured life would work itself out.

Shelly, on the other hand, knew life never worked itself out. Instead, you worked life out. You worked it out by working. By saving up so you could get a car. By using that car to get to community college. By using that to get a room near the college so you could work full time and take classes full time. And then, eventually, you could help your younger brothers and sisters get out of the same disaster you escaped.

Meanwhile, in Hartwell, Shelly found the work tolerable. Most people shoveled their front steps. Most people who ordered pizzas would tip…not well, but reasonably. Or, at all. Ezra had banned a couple of chronic non-tippers. Tonight were the New Year’s Eve parties, so she’d been really busy between seven and ten. Now, at eleven thirty, not so much. That was fine. Her gas light had blinked on two deliveries ago. Her car was running on fumes, and so was she.

She’d make it through this delivery. Ezra didn’t want her driving all the way home with drunks on the road, though, so she’d stay tonight with him in Hartwell. Gas would happen tomorrow, along with her beginning the one winter term class that would get her within shooting distance of the credits she needed to graduate in May.

After that: a better job. Although it also meant she’d be leaving Loveless Pizza. And Greg.

Well, maybe she could keep delivering. More money never hurt.

Greg had that happy-go-lucky air about him. Ezra said “air-headed” but Ezra didn’t actually dislike him. Greg was Ezra’s opposite number in so many ways, impractical and boundlessly optimistic, whereas Ezra—like Shelly—was a realist. It was always a little jolt to the spirit when Greg said everything would work out. You could relax…and then it usually worked out.

The customer tipped her five bucks (for three pizzas? Cheapskates) and then Shelly returned to Loveless. This was likely the last, so she didn’t pull into the alley behind the pizzeria and just stopped on the street.

Except…she couldn’t see Greg through the glass store front. Was he dumping trash?

He hadn’t come back by the time she’d extracted the thermal bag, so she walked around back to where the security light shone on the alley. There, she heard voices.

“You might as well come out,” Greg was saying. “I’m not entirely stupid.”

A pause, and then Greg added, “You’re not in trouble. But it will be trouble if you freeze to death.”

A shuffle, and then Greg said, “Come inside. …no, really, come inside. No one’s going to yell at you. But it’s cold out here, and it’s warm in there.”

Shelly stepped around the edge of the building to see a skinny kid in a too-big winter coat, poised against the edge of the dumpster as though about to run.

Greg glanced at her, surprised. Shelly said, “It wasn’t a far run.”

Greg gestured to the kid. “We have one more customer.” He turned back to the kid. “Seriously, get yourself inside.”

Shelly said, “Usually we use the front door, but it’ll be okay.”

Inside the shop, the kid stayed right near the door, and Greg returned to the counter. Shelly said to the kid, “Who are you?”

Greg answered, “He’s someone hungry and willing to eat a pineapple and anchovy pizza as long as he can get it for free.”

The kid looked terrified. “I’m sorry.”

He seemed about eleven years old, maybe twelve if he were really malnourished. Shelly said, “What happened?”

Greg set down the dough he’d been tossing and pointed to the screen. While he was spreading sauce, Shelly saw the delivery order he’d cancelled. “Oh,” she murmured. “You wanted me to come back to the shop with a topping combination no one else would order, especially right before we closed, and then we’d toss it in the dumpster. That way, you’d get dinner.”

The kid edged toward the door. “Don’t call the cops.”

Greg snorted. “Grand theft pizza? I don’t think they’d care.”

Shelly had never gone dumpster diving for food. Some of her friends had, but her life had never gotten quite that low. The food pantry had always come through with something, even if it was a little gross. Those large cans of pre-fabricated stew weren’t great, but you could mix up some biscuits with them, and they’d at least keep you full enough so you could sleep.

The kid scowled. “Then why make me come inside?”

“Because no one deserves to starve and freeze to death at the same time.” Greg snorted. “What toppings do you actually like?”

The kid said, “I don’t have any money.”

“I wasn’t asking for money. What toppings do you like?” Greg side-eyed him. “And if you say anything’s fine, you’re getting anchovies and pineapples.”

The kid muttered, “Pineapple’s okay.”

“Ham, too?” Greg said.

The thing to do with scammers was send them away with nothing, not reward them with a custom pizza. Shelly said, “Why are you doing this?”

Greg said, “Weren’t you listening, either?” When he looked at her, he was grinning. “I just said no one deserves to starve and freeze to death.”

The pizza got topped up and went into the oven. Ninety seconds at the wood-fired oven’s insanely high temperature, and then it was out. As Greg zipped along the pizza with the cutter, he said to the kid, “The first thing you learn in a pizza kitchen is if you drop the pizza, not to try to catch it.”

Shelly flinched. “Third degree burns?”

“I assume second degree. Cheese sticks to you, and that sauce is boiling.” Greg looked over to the kid. “Go sit at the counter.” When the kid obeyed, he said, “What’s your name?”

The kid replied, “Rowan.”

Shelly wondered for the first time if Rowan were a boy or a girl. Not that it mattered, but the kid wore jeans and a flannel shirt under a worn winter jacket, and the shoulder-length hair that poked out from beneath the winter hat could go either way. As Greg plated a slice for the kid, Shelly said, “Wait, do you have other people at home waiting for pizza?”

Rowan looked down. “Just me.”

Greg pulled a slice, then said to Shelly, “I get to make one extra pizza per night, for me, so if you want a slice, grab it.”

Shelly pointed to Rowan. “And if that’s supposed to be a few days worth of meals?”

Greg hesitated, then looked at the kid.

Rowan said, “School’s back in two days.”

When Greg seemed confused, Shelly said, “Free breakfast and lunch. Yeah, you can keep my slice and have it tomorrow for breakfast.”

Now Greg looked guilty at having one of the slices, except there wasn’t really any way he could have known, could he? Shelly said, “You didn’t grow up like Ezra and me. It’s okay.”

Rowan scarfed down a slice, then grabbed a second. Where were the kid’s parents? Shelly glanced at the computer. “It’s real close to midnight. Probably not getting anyone else.”

Greg said, “I’m going to wait until twelve-thirty before closing. Ezra and Lacey won’t have the food truck back until then, anyhow. Oh, I forgot.” His eyes swiveled toward the computer. “Ezra doesn’t want you delivering after midnight.”

Shelly huffed. “Because I’ll turn into a pumpkin?”

“Because of the drunks driving home from their parties.” Greg shrugged. “You’d probably be fine, but Ezra’s word is law. How are you getting home, Rowan?”

“Walking,” the kid said around a mouthful of crust, then swallowed. “I’m not far.”

Greg was just…so sweet. He could have left the kid to huddle by the dumpster, waiting for a pizza that never came. He could have ignored Ezra’s whole “drunk drivers after midnight” thing. Although, for that matter, “How are you getting home?” Shelly asked.

Greg said, “Driving.”

“So it’s okay for you to drive around with the drunks,” Shelly teased, “but not me?”

Greg looked momentarily baffled. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

Shelly said, “We could spread out our coats and have a sleepover in the pizzeria,” and then, when Greg went from “baffled” to “shocked,” she added, “Ezra and Lacey, too. If it’s too dangerous for me to drive, it’s too dangerous for them.”

Rowan was halfway through the third slice, but slowing down. The kid swallowed a huge mouthful and said, “You could watch TV all night.”

Greg said, “Oh, right,” and then poked around on his phone until he’d found a livestream of Times Square in New York City. “We should at least watch the ball drop.”

Shelly snickered. “I know we were kidding before, but do we have champagne in the shop?”

“No, but take this.” He tossed her a plastic kazoo in its clear plastic wrapper. “We need to ring in the New Year.”

Rowan laughed as Greg tossed him a second one. “And you?” Shelly prompted.

“I only got two.” Greg shrugged. “I didn’t know we’d have a guest.”

Shelly handed it back, but he shook his head.

Rowan stopped eating, looking a little pale. Shelly got a paper cup of water and set it on the counter, and the kid downed it. Life could be brutal. It wasn’t fair.

No orders were coming in, so Greg began closing duties but didn’t put anything totally away. (Shelly knew from Ezra never to say, “It looks like nothing more will come in tonight” because that guaranteed six orders in the next ten minutes, all of which would be complicated and which would require deliveries to the furthest reaches of their delivery zone, evenly spaced like compass points.) Greg closed up the cases and wiped down the pizza peel, but casually, so as not to attract the notice of any wandering mischief.

Rowan said, “One minute.”

They stood in front of the phone. Shelly said, “Since we don’t have champagne, should I shake up a soda and crack it open at midnight?”

Laughing, Greg went to the cooler. “Anything for you.” He paused, probably thinking about cleanup afterward. “Maybe not the shaking part.”

Rowan called, “Thirty seconds.”

The phone gave a tiny window on one of the largest cities in the world. A million people had crowded into Times Square, and from there they’d crowded onto Greg’s phone screen. Standing behind her, Greg felt very present, and Shelly whispered, “They’re really crammed in there,” because the only thing she could think of was how close he was standing to her.

Rowan started counting down with the numbers on the screen as the ball began its descent. Shelly and Greg joined in, just the three of them shouting the countdown in an otherwise-empty pizza parlor. Nine. Eight. Seven.

That gorgeous pizza-cook behind her shifted his weight and was even closer. She and a guy she’d been crushing on were crowded together like in Times Square.

Six. Five. Four.

He had that silly can of soda in his hand, and too late, Shelly realized what happened when the countdown reached zero.

Three!

Fireworks would go off.

Two!

The crowd would scream.

One!

Couples would kiss.

“Happy New Year!” shouted the announcer.

Shelly turned to Greg, and she kissed him on the mouth.

It was mutual. She knew it was mutual and she also knew it didn’t matter to him at all because he was only imitating what they were doing in New York. Their own tiny Times Square, and their own countdown, and their fake soda, and their little fake kiss to go along with it.

Rowan cheered, and Greg stepped back with a nervous laugh, then offered Rowan a fist-bump. Shelly did the same.

Wow. Wow, and, oh, ouch.

Greg said, “Happy New Year!” On his screen popped up a text saying the same. Shelly didn’t look to see who it was from. In her own pocket, her phone vibrated. Probably Ezra.

Her head reeled. She’d kissed Greg.

Finally.

Happy New Year to her.

If only she could make him mean it.