Chapter Forty-One
Parker is helping himself to his third slice with what might be the most impressive poker face I’ve ever seen on someone devouring pizza.
Balanced on the armrest between us, the takeout box wobbles every time I shift in the passenger seat and accidentally nudge it with my arm.
After waiting in line at Apizza Scholls for nearly an hour, it wasn’t much of a surprise that we couldn’t secure a table.
Our only option was to take the pizza back to the car and eat it while parked on a nearby block.
Currently, a bed of napkins is the last line of defense between pizza grease and the interior of Chú’s Toyota, and I have a momentary flashback to the two strawberry milkshakes in Parker’s Jeep.
I sigh at him. “Just say it.”
“Nope.” He bites into crust. “I decided I’m going to be pleasant today.”
I lift the box lid to help myself to a second slice. I don’t care what Parker thinks; this is still the best pizza in Portland—nay, in all of Oregon. And I made a good call ordering the classic margherita. “I know you’re dying to tell me that Ken’s is better.”
“This is good pizza, there’s no denying that,” he says diplomatically, peeking at me from under his SF Giants baseball cap. “We’re both enjoying it, so why sour the mood?”
“And if I said the wood-fired hype was just food podcast propaganda?”
His fingers twitch around a balled up napkin, but he seems to think better of it and changes tack. “Hey, you should ask Apizza if you can write a piece on the restaurant.”
“I don’t know that I could sell it to Alfreda. Our intern tried to pitch a food-crawl piece, and she shut it down. ‘Too lowbrow,’ apparently.” I air-quote the words and roll my eyes.
“She’d be crazy to say that about your work. I don’t know why they can’t give you more freedom to write what you want. I read the first issue cover to cover, and your pieces were the most interesting ones.”
A warm tingle starts in my chest and works its way up to create a soft flush on my face. “That’s your bias speaking.”
“Maybe a little. But you know I’m right.” Wiping his hands clean, he smirks over at me. “What should we do next? Do you want to stay in the city?”
I check my watch. We hadn’t anticipated such a long wait in line. “I’d like to stop by Powell’s since we’re here, but we should head back soon if we’re going to make it in time for dinner.”
I move the pizza box onto my lap, and Parker starts the car.
When I reach for the display screen and navigate to Music, the system syncs automatically to Android Auto instead of Parker’s iPhone.
Without warning, smooth and sultry saxophone notes float through the car’s cabin, the familiar melody making us jump in our seats.
“What the . . .” Parker looks around, puzzled, finally lifting the armrest to check inside the storage compartment. “Oh my god. My dad left his phone in the car.”
“Careless Whisper” is on full blast, and I can hardly hear my own thoughts over it. My head falls into my hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Does he listen to any other song?”
“I can’t. Not today, George Michael.” Parker turns off the music with a quick tap of the screen. “Every time I hear that song, I think of us in the garage and my dad killing any shot I had at hooking up with you.”
“It was for the best,” I say around a grin. “There was no way we weren’t gonna get caught. The hickey was risky enough. That’s why we have rules. No funny business when we’re at home.”
I glance over in time to see his jaw set, his eyes trained on the road ahead. “That rule still exists?”
“Yes. Which means nothing can happen this week.”
“I know, but I’m just saying, if the rules are still in force, then doesn’t that mean that we’re not over?”
Parker takes a glimpse at me, and his gaze falls on my mouth for a fraction of a second. My body freezes in that fleeting moment. What am I supposed to do when instinctually, every muscle in me still craves him? How do I pretend I don’t still think about all those nights at the hotel?
But I tamp down that urge by reminding myself that what I want doesn’t align with our rules anymore.
And although nothing leads me to believe Parker is here to ask me for a serious relationship, I’ve already made up my mind: If he doesn’t want to be my boyfriend, I’m not going to wait around for our schedules to line up to be his casual friend.
“Maybe I’m breaking every ground rule by saying this,” I harden my voice, summoning every ounce of my courage. “But the thing is, I just can’t go back to casual now.”
“Dani, I’m not asking that of you.”
“Then why did you come back to Silverpine? To drive me around and wait in line for pizza?”
“Do I really need a reason? I miss you. I spent the best three months of my life in New York with you, after seven whole years thinking I might never see you again,” he says. “Of course, I would come back when I hear you’re in our hometown.”
But is that really enough for you? Because I’m always going to want more than this.
I know I should be honest, but what am I so afraid of?
That the only other option is to move on with our lives?
My throat closes up as I watch the streets slip by in smears of color—painted walls, cyclists in their bright gear.
There’s a faint haze in the air from the earlier drizzle.
I can’t seem to focus on anything but the ticking of the turn signal when the car stops at a light.
My mind has been in its own haze of uncertainty for days.
I came to Silverpine for some clarity; why do I feel even more confused than before?
“Are you all right?”
Pulling in a long and deep breath, I blurt out, “My dad is planning to sell our house.”
Parker’s eyes go wide. The initial flash of shock settles into a blank expression. Did I look just as stunned when Dad broke the news to me? “Your house next door to us?”
“That’s the one.” My answer comes out more dryly than I intended. “He wants to move out east to be closer to me.”
“Your dad’s going to leave Silverpine?”
“Yes, and I can’t tell him not to do it, especially now that he’s making an effort to build a relationship with me.”
“But what about you? You don’t want to sell, right?”
“Of course not. It’s been my home since I was seven.
” I look down at the pizza box resting on my lap and suddenly notice how tightly my hands are clutching the sides.
“The worst part is, I spent so many years avoiding this place. Now that I can come back, I thought . . . I don’t know, that it would last a little longer? ”
“You can always come back,” he reassures me.
“But it’ll be different,” I say. “We won’t be neighbors anymore.
” I try not to think of the times I wheeled my luggage up the front porch and found Dad waiting for me in the foyer with a cup of oolong tea.
I try even harder not to recall all the Thanksgivings and Christmases spent next door.
I don’t want to start crying. I’ve done a good job of holding it back for so long now.
After we leave Powell’s, the ride home is quiet, and I don’t think either of us knows what to say.
In the silence, I let myself absorb the sight of our hometown as it rolls into view.
Towering evergreens make room for the cobbled paths leading up to the town center, where mist clings to the cedar shingles of the storefronts.
A pair of older men are sitting with mismatched mugs outside the Pine Street Bakehouse.
As we pass it, the chime bell above Dawsons tinkles sharp and clear with a swing of the door.
“It’s too bad we couldn’t take the Jeep out again,” I say, facing the window. “You know, for old time’s sake.”
“Next time,” Parker promises me.