“Ugh. You two make me want to barf.”
“We’re sickening.” She shrugs.
“And about to be parents.” I throw an extremely soft pillow at her, so as not to cause further damage to her developing baby. “I can’t believe this.”
“It feels like a dream,” Annie whispers, and I reach over and hug her. Because this really is her dream—after losing both of her parents (her dad when she was just a baby, and her mom when she was in high school) all Annie’s ever wanted is a big family with a million kids and a dog and probably not a white picket fence because she’s a writer and she’d find that detail too clichéd. But now, with her wedding coming up and her baby on the way, she’s living her dream. Everything’s going according to script.
“I’m so happy for you, babe,” I say, and I am. I really am. But there’s still a part of me that feels like I’m stuck here, sinking in quicksand while everyone else moves on.
* * *
* * *
It’s late when Annie leaves, but I’m wide awake. I need to sleep if I want to be functional at work tomorrow (have you ever messed up someone’s coffee order? Let me tell you, caffeine-hungry customers don’t care about your fatigue!), but I find myself lying in bed, staring at the sloped ceiling, my mind scrolling through the events of today like they’re an endless Instagram feed of frustrations.
Nick and I promised we’d pretend like that kiss didn’t happen, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. But just because my mind and pinky agreed doesn’t mean that the rest of my body can forget; I’m keyed up and jittery, waiting for some kind of payoff.
I pull my phone off my nightstand and text Nick. Our texting history isn’t robust—it’s mostly about work, saying I’m going to be late (me) or asking if I want to pick up a shift (him)—and I’m sure he’s asleep right now, but I go ahead and text him anyway.
Hey. I thought texting might be a safer medium for us, on account of there’s no physical contact and nothing inappropriate can happen. Unless you send me dick pics or something, which doesn’t sound like you, but I don’t know your texting habits.
He doesn’t respond.
Anyway, do you want me to bring you a piece of pie tomorrow/today?
I wait for a second, then text again.
That sounded sexual, but I mean it literally. And it’s an apple pie, so it’s not one of the more sexual pies (cherry and peach, if you’re wondering).
Except wait. Wasn’t the pie in American Pie, the ultimate pie-sex cultural touchstone, apple? Ugh.
Do you want a piece of nonmetaphorical, nonsexual pie?
There’s no way Nick’s awake right now, so I don’t expect a text back. I only sent these because . . . well, who knows? I don’t want a relationship or an anything-ship with Nick, but the weak, impatient part of me can’t stop myself from poking. As long as I keep it to a text format, it will be fine.
I let my mind wander as I consider what Nick might be doing if he isn’t sleeping. Maybe he’s watching a boring documentary. Maybe he’s reading a book. Maybe he’s in bed with someone.
I sit bolt upright, horrified by the thought, as my phone buzzes.
Bring me a piece of pie tomorrow.
I flop back down. And that’s it. No acknowledgment of anything else I said, of my rambling, of my analysis of the most sexual pies. No clarification of whether he’s being metaphorical or literal. One sentence. It’s all very . . . Nick.
I can’t sleep, so I check my email on my phone. Yes, I know a phone’s glowing screen and constant distraction is a terrible thing for sleep and blah blah blah blue light, but I never said I made good decisions. Clearly.
I have an email from—ugh—a gossip website. They’re trying to put together a piece related to Annie’s movie and this dude wants to know: Are you and Rick really a thing? Is there any truth to the story behind the movie?
This guy obviously hasn’t done any sort of research, or else he’d know that Rick is only Nick’s name in the movie, not in real life. The grossest thing is, this isn’t even the first time a website or magazine has contacted me. They always want something—a comment, a picture, any sort of “exclusive”—and I never, ever respond. I get that they’re only doing their jobs so I’m not going to be an asshole about it, but I’m also not going to open up my personal life to score a website a few clicks.
But tonight . . . well, tonight is different. I’m reeling from that kiss and my conversation with Annie and I would love to tell the world (or the Internet, which might as well be the world) the truth.
So I reply.
Hi. Thanks so much for your email. There is actually nothing between Nick and me—we’re coworkers, and that’s it. We’ve never been in a relationship and we’re never going to be in a relationship. End of story.
I click send, then quickly type out another reply.
Oh, and also stop emailing me.
I place my phone on my nightstand and roll over, but it takes me forever to get to sleep.
Chapter Seven
Nick stays in his office the next morning. In between customers, I steal glances back there at his barely cracked-open door, wondering what’s going on. Is he replaying our kiss in his head, pinky promise be damned? Is he hoping for a round two? Because that would be a very bad idea. A very, very bad but also tempting idea. I lean on the baked goods case, thinking about all the things we could get up to in that office. We could definitely move that grungy old desk across the floor. Knock some filing cabinets over.
Tobin taps me on the shoulder. “Hey. Uh, are you saving that pie for something?”
“What pie?” I stand up so quickly I almost lose my balance and topple over.
Tobin points to the slice that’s on the back counter, loosely covered in a clean dish towel. “Uh, the literal one slice of pie on the counter right now?”
“I don’t appreciate your attitude, young man,” I say, pouring a black coffee and handing it to a regular who doesn’t need to order at this point. “And that pie is for Nick.”
“Then, like, could you take it back to him? Because Gary keeps asking if he can have it.”
“Gary!” I call out. “Hands off this apple pie. You know I’ll make you any pie you ask for, any time.”
“Have you ever made a Concord grape pie?” Gary asks from his table near the corner.