5
I’m standing in my kitchen, staring at my phone like it’s going to save me and my spiraling thoughts, when I realize I’ve been holding it for approximately seven minutes without actually calling anyone.
Pizza. I offered pizza. Simple enough.
Except now I’m spiraling about what kind of pizza to order because what if she doesn’t like pepperoni? What if she’s vegetarian? What if she has opinions about crust thickness?
She just said no pineapple. I stare at the screen for another minute.
Fuck it. I’m ordering everything.
Twenty minutes later, I’m arranging three pizza boxes on my counter like I’m preparing for the hockey team to come over. Pepperoni, veggie supreme, and something called “artisanal goat cheese with caramelized onions” that the hipster kid at the pizza place assured me was “totally fire.”
Plus two orders of breadsticks. And every dipping sauce they had. Marinara, ranch, garlic butter, honey mustard, even some weird chipotle thing that I’m pretty sure no one actually eats.
I step back to survey my work and realize I look like someone who’s never ordered food for another human being before.
Which, honestly, might be accurate.
She’s been in her room for forty-five minutes. Is that normal? How long does it take to unpack a weekend bag?
I change my shirt. Then I change it again because the second one makes me look like I’m trying too hard, and the first one makes me look like I’m not trying at all.
I settle on a gray t-shirt that hopefully says “casual but put-together” and immediately regret every decision I’ve made in the past twenty-four hours.
I’m wiping down the counter for the third time when I hear footsteps on the stairs. My heart does this stupid thing where it speeds up like I’m about to take a penalty shot in overtime.
She walks into the kitchen, and I have to actively remind myself to breathe.
She’s changed out of her travel clothes into jeans and a simple black t-shirt, and her hair is down now, falling in waves around her shoulders. She looks comfortable. Like she belongs in my kitchen.
Which is a dangerous thought.
“Pizza’s here,” I say, gesturing to the counter like she can’t see the three boxes taking up the available surface area.
She stops and stares at the spread. “West.”
“Yeah?”
“How much pizza did you order?”
“I got variety.”
“This is enough pizza for a hockey team.”
“I didn’t know what you liked.”
She walks over to the counter, and I catch a whiff of something that might be shampoo or lotion, and my brain short-circuits slightly. Bea didn’t smell like this.
“What’s this one?” she asks, lifting one of the lids.
“Goat cheese. The kid at the pizza place said it was fire .”
“Goat cheese?” she questions.
I shrug. “I don’t hate it.”
She looks at me like I’m insane, which is fair because I’m pretty sure I am.
“What about this?” she asks, pointing to the collection of sauce containers. “Did you order every sauce they had?”
I nod. “I wanted options.”
“Options,” she repeats.
“Yeah.”
“For pizza.”
“For pizza.”
She shakes her head but she’s almost smiling, and I consider that a win.
“Well,” she says, opening the pepperoni box, “I guess we’re not going to starve.”
We eat standing at the counter, which somehow feels less formal than sitting at the dining room table but also more intimate because we’re close enough that I can hear the way she chews and see the way she picks the pepperoni off her slice before eating it.
“You’re eating pizza wrong,” I say.
“There’s no wrong way to eat pizza.”
“You’re picking off the toppings.”
“I’m customizing my experience.”
“You’re defeating the purpose of pepperoni pizza.”
“The purpose of pepperoni pizza is to make me happy. Mission accomplished.”
She takes a bite of her now-pepperoni-free slice, and I have to look away because there’s something about the way she eats that’s oddly mesmerizing.
This is insane. I’m losing my mind over the way she chews food.
She reaches for the honey mustard and dips her pizza crust into it, and I actually feel something inside me malfunction. Who dips pizza crust in honey mustard? Who does that and makes it look like the most delicious thing in the world?
“You okay?” she asks, noticing my expression.
“Fine. Just... honey mustard on pizza crust is an interesting choice.”
“It’s good. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Your loss.”
She finishes her slice and reaches for another one, this time from the veggie pizza, and I realize I’m just standing here watching her eat like some kind of creep.
“My friends are excited to meet you,” I say, desperate for a distraction from whatever’s happening in my brain. “They’re curious about my mysterious girlfriend.”
“Mysterious?” she asks.
“I didn’t mention any names until the other day.”
“So, they know my name? Not your ex?”
I shake my head.
She gives me a look I can’t quite read, then reaches for another slice. I grab another one too because it’s awkward and I don’t know how to act.
We lapse into silence, and I realize we’re both just standing here, eating pizza and trying to navigate this bizarre situation I’ve created.
My phone buzzes. I glance at it and see another message from the group chat. I flip the phone face down without responding.
“Your friends?” Liv asks.
“Yeah. They won’t stop talking about you.”
“About meeting me?”
“About me having a girlfriend. They were starting to think I was hopeless.”
“Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Hopeless.”
I look at her, standing in my kitchen, eating pizza with honey mustard, and I realize I don’t know how to answer that question.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Maybe.”
Something shifts in her expression, but before I can figure out what it is, she’s reaching for another slice.
“Well,” she says, “lucky for you, I’m an excellent fake girlfriend.”
“Yeah?”
“The best. I’m going to be so convincing that your friends will think you’re actually capable of maintaining a relationship.”
“That’s setting the bar pretty high.”
“I’m up for the challenge.”
She finishes her second slice and looks at the remaining pizza boxes. “We’re never going to finish all this food.”
“Leftovers.”
“For a week.”
“I like leftovers.”
“You like carbs.”
“I’m a hockey player. Carbs are life.”
She laughs, and it’s the first genuine laugh I’ve heard from her all day. It makes something warm spread through my chest.
“I should probably shower,” she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Get ready for tomorrow.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Thanks for dinner. And the excessive amount of sauce options.”
“You’re welcome.”
She starts to leave, then turns back. “West?”
“Yeah?”
“This is going to be okay, right?”
There’s something vulnerable in her voice that makes me want to promise her things I can’t guarantee because my memories go back to high school when Tessa pulled me by my ear and demanded that I never look at Liv’s boobs ever again.
Back then I was looking at the necklace around her neck.
It was mountain-shaped, so I was deep in thought about Liv liking mountains so much that she wore a necklace for it.
My sister always smacked me around her friends, but she’s not here right now for the buffer, and I hope everything’s going to be okay.
“Yeah,” I say instead. “It’s going to be fine.”
She nods and heads upstairs, and I’m left standing in my kitchen surrounded by enough pizza to feed a small army and the lingering scent of her shampoo.
I start putting the leftover pizza in the fridge, trying not to think about the fact that she’s down the hall, in my house, about to shower.
Definitely not thinking about that.
Not thinking about the way she looked in my kitchen, comfortable and relaxed and like she belonged there.
Not thinking about how she laughed at my stupid joke about carbs.
And definitely not thinking about how in a couple of days I’m going to pretend to be in love with her in front of all my friends when I’m starting to suspect the pretending part might be the problem.
I close the fridge and lean against it, staring at the ceiling.
This is going to be a very long weekend.