Pen: And he has an accent. I love accents.
Pen: I totally need to get laid.
Pen: Do you think Brian the pie guy’s dick tastes like cinnamon sugar?
Pen: Grab the pies while they’re warm, idiot.
She must be waiting for the elevator to take her back to the ground floor.
Edith: You want to join us?
Pen: Thanks for the invite, but I don’t think your boy would appreciate me landing at the doorstep. Even if I did bring the best pies in town.
Pen: You need anything else, boo?
Edith: You really are the best, you know.
Pen: I know. I know. I’m amazing.
Pen: When you’re back on both feet and ready to reenter the student scene, you’re going to be making it up with me when I’m on the prowl. Mama needs a good seeing to.
Pen: Speaking of the sexy times...
Edith: Still no.
Pen: Okay, but why? If a DLP twin was into me, I’d let him be, y’knowinme.
Edith: Stop talking.
Pen: In fact, if theybothwanted to be into me...
Pen: Shit. Spank bank. Cha-chiiiiing. DP from the DLP. So fucking hot.
Pen: Enjoy the pie. I’m going home to fantasize about your boyfriend and his brother going to pound town on me at the same time.
Shaking my head, I open the door and bend down to pick up the bag of pie. It takes me an age to make my way back through the apartment to the kitchen. Sweat pools at the bottom of my back, and the neck of my shirt is damp.
When am I going to be past this part? I’m so tired of breaking a sweat from just... existing. I used to be fucking strong. A warrior. I could withstand hours of relentless practice. Repeating petit allegro, fouettés, and bourres until my legs burned and my toes bled.
Tears prick my eyes as I unpack the Get the Fork Out boxes. Pen did great with the on-the-fly pie selection. She picked up a savory pie which will do nicely for lunch. It’s a curried chicken, potato, and spinach pie, and for dessert she brought cherry pie, and lemon meringue pie.
If there wasn’t a golf-ball sized lump lodged in my throat, I’d be drooling.
The curry pie is hot, so I grab three plates, pull out the Tupperware container of prepared salad magically ready for me in my fridge, and serve. There’s no way I can carry three plates, plus myself on these damn death sticks.
“Artemis?”
Apollo appears by my side in seconds. “Are you okay?” His pale face is marred with worry, and my heart swells, threatening to break through my ribcage.
Rolling my lips between my teeth so I don’t cry, I nod. “I need help with getting lunch to the table.”
He ushers me out of the room, following behind me with plates. Artemis grabs silverware, napkins, and drinks, and we eat in an almost contented silence. Apparently I didn’t give the boys nearly enough pie, and with promises that they’ll replenish it, they polish off the entire damn thing save for the slice I had.
Just when I think I might finally be able to tell when Apollo has had enough to eat, they break out the cherry pie. Animals. They don’t even bother to cut it. Or get clean forks. They dive right in and plow through the pie like they’d never been fed.
“So, what are you going to do?” Artemis’s enunciation around a mouthful of pie is pretty impressive.
Apollo shrugs, shoveling a heaped forkful of oozing cherry pie into his mouth. Some of the sticky, bright red filling sticks to his lip, and so help me the temptation to lick it off of him is overwhelming.
