The five of us tumble into Sal’s in a tangle of cold cheeks and chattering kids. The place smells exactly the same—garlic knots, fryer oil, oregano baked into the walls.
Sanders shoves in beside Luke, both of them already arguing about who gets first turn on the handheld game. Leigh slides in beside her brother and pulls out a crayon from the stubby jar on the table, bending her head over the Kraft paper tablecloth.
For a second, with three kids squeezed into one side of the booth and Woody settling beside me, it must look like something out of a life I almost had. I always imagined several children and going to Christmas events together, squeezing into a booth.
The clatter of plates, the squeak of the vinyl, Sanders’s laugh cutting above the noise. All of it presses right against my ribs.
The server comes by and drops menus. The place is buzzing. Half the parade crowd must’ve had the same idea, and there's no way I’m letting us wait thirty minutes for sodas.
“Three Sprites, one Coke, and a water,”I rattle off automatically, glancing toward the kids. They nod, grinning like I’ve just ordered magic.
Woody arches a brow at me. “Ordering for everyone, I see?”
“I asked the kids as we walked in, and I know you still only drink Coke.” I don’t look directly at him when I say it, because knowing those little details is teetering on more dangerous than casual.
The drinks come fast, considering how busy they are. Condensation slicks on the glasses as the kids draw and recall comments and residual posts referring to their #SaveChristmas challenge.
The hum of the room swells around us, all clatter and chatter, a steady reminder we’re packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the post-parade crowd.
I smooth a paper napkin across my lap, pretending I'm not consumed with how close Woody is and his scent wafting over me. We share the bench, both of us more awkward than two people who used to be married and share a child should be.
“They’ve got their own world going on,” he says, nodding toward the kids. His voice is low, carrying only to me.
“It's pretty sweet,” I murmur. “To be a kid again and make best friends in an instant.”
For a moment, silence stretches. Not the brittle kind we choked on in the last years of our marriage and too often in the years since. This one feels softer. Almost comfortable. I busy myself with the laminated menu, though I already know it by heart.
“You still order the veggie slice with extra olives?” he asks suddenly, and when I glance up, his mouth curves in the faintest grin.
Heat curls in my chest. “Some things should never change.”
His eyes flicker like he wants to say more but thinks better of it. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly too aware of the way his gaze lingers a fraction longer than it should. My pulse ticks faster, and I'm suddenly overheated.
The server swings by to see if we're ready to order. I order two large pizzas and warn her we may have another order when the last of our party arrives.
When she leaves, Woody leans back, arms folded loosely. “Still running the show.” There’s no bite in his tone this time, only quiet observation.
“It’s called being efficient.” I aim for lightness, but it comes out more snarky than I meant for it to.
My body betrays me, leaning in ever so slightly as if drawn by habit. His cologne, subtle and clean, threads with the tangy scent of marinara. My fingers toy with the corner of a napkin until it shreds.
His gaze drops to my hands. “You always did that when you were nervous.”
"What?"
"Fiddle with your napkin, bending the corners in."
“I’m not nervous.” Too fast. Too defensive. My cheeks warm, giving me away.
“Right,” he says, but there’s no judgment. Just that knowing look that reminds me he once read me better than anyone.
The kids erupt in laughter over some victory on the screen, pulling me back. I cling to the sound, grateful for the interruption.
Fifteen minutes isn’t long, but it stretches enough to give me a flash of what could have been.
The bell over the door jingles, andCarly Turner hurries in. Her hair is twisted up, wisps falling around her face, her work uniform still on. She looks wrung out, but the moment Luke and Leigh spot her, they light up like someone plugged them in.
“Mom!” Leigh waves her crayon in the air, nearly splattering wax on the pizza posters taped to the wall.
