The bell above Cheesy Delights' door jingles for what has to be the millionth time, but today it sounds different. More final. After eight years of questionable life choices, and even more questionable pizza combinations, this is it.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announce to our nonexistent lunch rush, spreading my arms wide. "After years of dedicated service, countless burnt crusts, and that one legendary incident with the pepperoni launcher—"
"You're being dramatic," Martin says, watching me stack boxes with way more ceremony than necessary. "It's a pizza shop, not the mafia."
I hop onto the counter, ignoring his eye roll. "The grand finale. The last hurrah. The—"
"The last time you'll sit your ass on my clean counter?" Lines around his eyes crinkle despite the gruff tone. He's been manning these ovens longer than I've been alive, and somehow still hasn't lost that spark of mischief beneath his weathered exterior.
"You love me." I slide off, leaving one last butt print on the stainless steel. "I'm your favorite failure-to-launch case study."
"You were my only failure-to-launch case study." He tosses a ball of dough into the air with practiced ease. "Until now."
"Getting soft in your old age, boss?"
"More like tired of your smart mouth." But his hands, permanently stained with traces of flour and sauce, fumble slightly. "Now make yourself useful and pack those frozen orders while I pretend not to notice you stealinghalf my inventory."
The kitchen seems smaller today, every corner stuffed with echoes. That temperamental front register only works if you whisper sweet nothings to it. Above the counter, a perpetually crooked menu board showcases my artistic additions—mostly inappropriate doodles of toppings in compromising positions—that have somehow become part of the charm. And in the back, the walk-in freezer has witnessed more emotional breakdowns than a therapist's couch.
"Remember when I tried to revolutionize pizza technology?" I carefully stack boxes into the thermal bag. "The Great Mac and Cheese Disaster?"
"You mean when you nearly burned down my kitchen trying to prove anything can be a topping?" Martin's mustache twitches. "Cost me a fortune in fire extinguisher refills."
"But I was right."
"You were an idiot." He wipes his hands on his apron. "Still are, but at least now you're an idiot with potential."
"Martin . . ."
"Don't." He points a floury finger at me. "I've watched you hide in this kitchen for years, making jokes instead of plans. It's about time you actually tried being something more than the town's favorite pizza boy."
I zip up the thermal bag, thinking how this is the last time I'll hear that specific sound.
"Thanks for letting me leave early. And for, you know . . ." I gesture vaguely at everything.
"For putting up with your shit?"
"I was going to say 'being a mentor,' but yeah, that too."
Martin waves me off, though I don't miss the sheen in his brown eyes. "Get out of here before you make me emotional in my own kitchen."
"I gave you my best years," I declare, pressing a hand to my chest. "My blood, sweat, and tears are in these ovens."
"That's a health code violation." Martin turns, and I catch something soft in his expression before it disappears under his usual brusqueness. "And you're twenty-six, kid. These better not have been your best years."
"They weren't all bad." I gesture to the dent by the prep station. "Remember when I tried to prove I could spin two pizzas at once?"
"You mean when you concussed yourself?" He snorts, adjusting the temperature dial with the exact twist it needs. "Yeah, that pretty much sums up your entire career here."
The bell chimes one last time as I leave, and I pretend not to hear the suspicious sniff behind me. Some things are better left unsaid, even if we both know the truth.
Afternoon light slants across the 'Employee of the Month' wall. Empty, except for that one time Martin put up a picture of his cat, just to spite us all.
Driving to James's place is heavier than it should be, the thermal bag of frozen pizzas riding shotgun like a guilty reminder. He's finally coming home today after five days in the hospital, and I can't shake the thought that none of us saw it unfolding this way. Or maybe we did, and we were all too caught up in our own dramas to notice. Some best friend I turned out to be.
Ivy and Amelia have been rotating shifts with Daphne, whose quiet devastation is its own kind of heartbreak. I've caught glimpses of them in the hospital café—Daphne's hands wrapped around coffee she never drinks, Ivy's gentle presence a stark reminder of everything I'm still learning about what it means to show up for people.
Yesterday I'd spotted her car in the parking lot, the passenger seat stacked with sports magazines that we both knew James would never actually open. But tucked underneath was a single worn paperback. Some sci-fi novel James had been obsessed with freshman year but never admitted to liking when anyone caught himreading it. Nobody else would remember him shoving that book in his backpack whenever we came around, but Ivy did. She always did.
