Page 23 of Last Slice of Pie

Reid’s head pops up from the window seat in front of me, and he eyes me knowingly. “You’re more than welcome to come over to our place. Camille and my mother are planning something, so I’m sure it’ll be great, but I think you should go home for Thanksgiving.”

Home.

It rolls off his tongue so easily, but it’s so hard for me to say, much less believe in.

“You think so?” I ask him. He understands more than anyone the conflict in my head. He’s really the only one I’ve talked to about her.

“Yeah, I do.” He nods with confidence and encouragement.

I’ve been thinking the same thing. I haven’t seen her for a few weeks, and I really want to, like deep down in my bones want to. It’s also where I want to be—at her house—but I’m still hesitant for many reasons, from the possibility of showing my hand and ruining a lifelong friendship to changing and disrupting my routines. These habits I’ve established for myself over the last few years have worked really well. Hell, everyone will tell you this is the best I’ve ever been, and change is scary.

“What if she doesn’t want me there?” It’s an honest question, one I hate voicing, but it’s what I fear the most.

“Why wouldn’t she want you there? James didn’t make it back this year, so who is she going to spend the holiday with? Who is she going to bake her pies for?” Jack chimes in, rubbing his stomach again as if this opportunity is just as good as Zach and Shelby’s.

“That doesn’t mean I can just invite myself,” I say to both of them. Neither of them responds; they just watch me and let this idea sink in. By nature, I’m not a spontaneous person. I think, plan, and then execute. I don’t like to do things wrong, and if I feel something isn’t going to go my way, I’m more likely to not do it at all than risk failing miserably.

However, she did say I could stop by whenever, said it’s still my home too.

Home.

There’s that word again.

“Zach said Shelby invited her up to their place, too,” Jack says, brows raised as if this might be an option.

“She did?” My forehead tightens as a frown slips onto my face. Many times over the years, she and I have been invited to be somewhere at the same time, and each time I caught wind that she might be there, I would get foolishly excited. But, for one reason or another, she never made it, and the letdown was always disappointing.

“Yep, but she told them she’s too busy with work, so you know she’ll be home.”

Why does he know these things about her? I only mentioned her article feature to Reid once. It’s not that I have a problem with him knowing things, but listening to him talk about her as if he knows her irritates me.

He’s right, though. She has been busy, and now with the gift guide, she told me she’d be working from sunup to sundown getting more pie fillings made, packaged, and mailed.

An idea sparks. Outside of it being Thanksgiving, I could offer to go down there to help her. She wouldn’t say no to free labor, would she? Then again, she’s always been a bit of an individualist. She likes doing things on her own and her way. However, I am great at following instructions, and it would be fun to watch her work.

It would be fun to watch her do anything.

“She does have friends.” I suddenly think of Marie and the possibility that there might be someone else in her life I’m not aware of. My stomach dips. “She might have other plans.”

“Then show up and make her change them.” Reid shrugs as if it’s that simple.

“I don’t know.”

I hate that, in the pit of my gut, there’s uncertainty. It’s always been there, and it’s always been one of the roots holding me in place. It’s stunted my ability to express how I feel and in turn forces me to internalize every emotion about everything, not just her. But, she did say she had a great time at the team event, and that was after spending the entire day with me, so she would be happy to see me, right?

Breaking eye contact, I look down at my phone and roll it between my hands. The ache in my thumb makes itself known.

During the third quarter, my hand hit a defensive player’s helmet, and my thumb jammed. We still won our game, but I’m grateful for the light practice week. Currently, it’s swollen and wrapped, and I’m hoping the pain will only last a few days. I cannot afford for it to take long to heal.

“Don’t you talk to her on a regular basis? Why haven’t you asked her what she’s doing yet?” Reid asks. I glance up at him, and he’s looking at me curiously. He knows we’ve been texting. Hell, we share a room together on the road, so he’s seen me texting her.

“We don’t talk. We text.”

“Still. How has Thanksgiving not come up?”

“It just hasn’t.”

Our conversations are brief and mainly focused on whatever is happening that day. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to ask her; I just haven’t, and she didn’t bring it up either.