All I can do is wait and hope that my doppelgänger comes striding down the sidewalk with delivery bags in tow. Every passing second ties my stomach into unfamiliar knots. I’ve been spending too much time with Grant. His anxiety is contagious.
He taps me on the shoulder and points, and the sight lands like a gut punch.
Coasting down the street is a teen boy on a bicycle, wearing a coordinated green polo and Pizza Paradise baseball hat squashed down over a shock of carrot-ginger hair. He’s got a large pizza box balanced between his handlebars. My blood goes cold as I remember who and what he’s biking toward.
“That’ll be me,” Grant says, allowing himself just one second for a shaky breath before he gets up from the bushes. I grab a fistful of his shirt and yank him back down.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, as if I’m not worrying about it. “I’ll go.”
Grant looks at me with that bunched-brow look I have come to know meansYou’re being ridiculous. “From the look of that kid, the killer is currently receiving a notification that saysDennis is here to deliver your order.”
I shrug. “I’ll just stuff my hair up into my hat. I could be a Dennis.”
He scoffs. “As if there’s ever been a beautiful woman named Dennis.”
All at once, the bickering instinct abandons me.
“What?”
He blinks once, looking intently toward the street. “I said, as if there’s ever been a woman named Dennis.”
“No, you didn’t. You said—”
“Can we get this over with?” he says in a rush. “Please?”
I’m too lost for words to argue. Grant clambers out of the bushes and walks away before I can regain my focus. I watch him cross the road, right as the boy flicks down his kickstand in front of the Takeawayer’s house.
Grant waves at the boy and strikes up a casual-looking conversation out of my earshot. As if there’s a casual reason to ask for a pizza that’s not yours. In response, the kid frowns and shakes his head.
“Come on,” I mutter. “What’s the plan here?”
As if in answer, Grant reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. A bribe, courtesy of Lesley. Now we’re talking.
Or maybe not. The kid dismounts his bike, grabs his pizza defensively, and makes to step around Grant. Grant blocks his path, peeling off several more bills to add to the offer. This whole thing is looking wildly sketchy.
The kid starts arguing loudly.
“Piss off! I’ve got a job to do,” he shouts, his voice echoing down the street. He moves toward the house and Grant blocks him again, looking increasingly unnerved. Much more of this and someone’s going to call the cops on the weird man harassing the teenager.
Fuck it. I take off from my hiding spot and dart across the street. Sideswiping the delivery boy, I snatch the pizza from his hands and the hat off his head and take off down the street shouting “GO! GO! GO!” at Grant.
I race around the corner at what can only be superhuman speed. I could qualify for the Olympics, probably. Then Grant catches up with a humbling quickness. We sprint a full lap of the block, then jump back into our spot in the bushes before the kid can turn the corner and see us.
We crouch down, breathing hard, peering through the leaves to keep watch for the boy.
“Something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve stolen a pizza,” Grant whispers.
“No comment. What did you say to him?Give me that pizza and I’ll give you a hundred pounds?”
“A thousand.”
“Athousand?” It comes out in a hiss of a stage whisper, and Grant shushes me. The kid comes whipping around the corner but slows to a trot, looking around for us. “And he still wouldn’t take it? Damn. I hope he gets promoted.”
“I know. Remind me to call his boss later if I’m not disemboweled in a freezer somewhere.”
I give his shoulder a little bump. It’s hard to believe the antsy Grant of last week is now making jokes. I mean, he’s just as antsy now, but still.Jokes.It’s progress.
The delivery boy walks the length of the street and back before kicking a trash can and cursing. We wait in silence until he finally hangs his head, gets back on his bike, and leaves.
