6. MJ
MJ
L ater That Night
Everything is quiet now.
Too quiet.
No more laughter echoing up the stairwell.
No more shouting over who used the last of the oat milk or whose turn it is to mop the kitchen.
No sisters camped out on the couch with wine and questionable taste in reality TV.
Just me.
Alone.
Again.
I slide the lock on the door, toe off my sneakers, and let out a long breath as I kick my way toward the fridge in the tiny apartment above Pizza Girls .
You’d think my place would smell like dough and sauce and roasted garlic—but it doesn’t. This building’s ventilation system is amazing, and the smell of the pizzeria doesn’t reach upstairs.
Instead, I’ve got a glass bowl of cinnamon apple potpourri by the door, and when I step inside, it greets me.
Comforting, warm, familiar.
Horace arranged this place for me a year ago when the lease on the old house was finally up.
Said I deserved a space of my own. I scoffed, but Carina insisted. My brother-in-law apparently owned a stake in this apartment building, and he worked it out so this place is now mine.
Not bad. Three bedrooms, though I use one as an office. Two full baths, living room, eat-in kitchen.
Then Doug and Dina added one of those fancy electric fireplaces in the corner, “for ambiance,” they said with a wink when the four of them moved me in and handed me the keys.
God, I love my family. My sisters’ mates? They’re great. Just like real big brothers.
We’re close knit and that’s good with Carina and Horace expecting a new baby and Dina and Doug traveling so much now that her art is starting to take off .
I’m so proud of both of them, really.
It’s just. Well, I’m lonely.
I toss my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, the one Dina made me during her pottery phase, and open the fridge.
There’s a single slice of sausage and pepper pizza left.
It feels like a metaphor.
I reheat it anyway, standing barefoot in the kitchenette, staring out the tiny window overlooking the alley.
It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine.
The whole place is.
I’m pretty much running the pizzeria these days, though the girls are still pitching in.
Everything else, though? The day to day. The recipes. The cooking.
That’s mine.
My life is full.
Except when it’s not.
I try not to dwell. I’m not lonely.
I’m just alone .
There’s a difference.
Still, my brain keeps replaying him.
That guy.
The one with the movie star swagger and the work boots.
The one who tripped over his own feet and still managed to look like a Calvin Klein ad while doing it.
The one who stared at me like I was the only thing on the menu he was interested in.
And yeah, I noticed.
You’d have to be dead not to notice all that golden skin and muscle and menace wrapped up in a T-shirt that should be illegal in three states.
But it was the way he looked at me that hit hard.
Like he didn’t know whether to worship me or run for the hills.
I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I mean, I am a big girl with a real belly, hips, and big boobs. I got more curves than a racetrack.
So, yeah, I can relate to the whole what do I do now thing.
The microwave beeps.
I grab my plate, flop on the couch, and flip on the TV. Something loud and Australian is playing, but I’m not really watching.
My thoughts drift back to the app.
Date to Mate.
I never finished my profile.
Maybe it’s time.
Shush up.
I bite my lip.
Once upon a time, I put Carina’s info in there on a hunch.
Now she’s happily mated. Dina, too. And me?
I’m over here pretending I don’t want what they have.
That I’m perfectly fine being the spicy aunt who flirts with the produce guy and goes home to an empty bed.
I mean, I am fine.
Right?
Still, I pick up my phone.
Open the app.
Scroll past the welcome screen and those pastel pink hearts and Witchy runes Uzzi insisted on adding.
Then, I click on my profile, and my finger hovers over the Go Live button.
I hesitate.
Then, I click it and— nothing.
No matches yet.
But I hesitate a second longer than I should.
My thumb hovers over the profile settings.
Maybe I should update the picture.
Maybe I should put "likes meat lovers' pizza and guys who trip over their own feet" under interests.
Maybe—just maybe—I’m ready for something more than pizza and peace and perfectly curated solitude.
Maybe.