Page 26 of Last Slice of Pie

Us. He said us. We’ve never been an us. The us was always him and James, with me in the background wishing I were included. I love how it sounds coming off his lips . . . his full, luscious lips.

“If that’s what you’d like, I can, but I’ll make us a smaller one. These are all going to be large twelve-inch pies.” I push the wooden rolling pin through the first half.

“How many do you have to make?” He stretches his arms out as if he’s going to touch the dough and then retracts them. Good thing, because he hasn’t washed his hands.

“Twenty-three. My plan was to only make twenty this year, but these pies are only going to local people, and how can I say no to them?”

“How could you ever say no?” he teases, and that’s when my eyes catch the tape around his hand.

“What happened to your hand?”

He looks down at it and wiggles his thumb. “My thumb got jammed last weekend, but it’s all right. The swelling is gone, and we’re just keeping it wrapped for a few more days.”

“Okay,” I say, eyeing him skeptically. Maybe he should leave it on longer than a few days.

Seeing my facial expression, one side of his mouth quirks up. “Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

“If you say so. By the way, why didn’t you text me and tell me you were coming? Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not. Just curious.”

“I thought a surprise would be more fun.” He’s watching for a reaction with those blue eyes as he lifts his glass and takes a sip of the tea. Am I imagining it, or did he sound a little hesitant? He’s so hard to read; then again, with his job, he’s perfected the neutral look.

“I’m definitely surprised.” There’s no need to lie. Again, with his job, he’s probably trained to know when someone’s bluffing. He can spot ticks and tells.

“Since you came to me for my family event, I thought I’d come to you for the holiday.” He leans back a little in the seat.

“You’re welcome for every holiday. I told you before, this is your home, too. It always will be.” Our eyes connect for a long, heavy pause, and I’m the first to break away.

Why am I telling him this? He’s made it clear by his absence over the years that this is not his home, that I am not his home, or really even anyone important. The reminder pings a pain deep down, one related to both him and James. Although James keeps in touch and tries to come back here and there, both of them left me. I need to remember this, because odds are, this is temporary anyway. Who knows, maybe this is even a guilt thing. Wouldn’t that just suck for me.

Instead of responding, he blinks, and his jaw gets sharp as he pinches his lips together to smile. Then he looks around the kitchen and back at me. “All right, put me to work. Tell me how I can help.”

“Okay, and remember—you asked for this.” I lay the rolling pin down and wipe my hands across my apron.

Leading him into the dining room, I show him how Marie and I have our shipping system set up. Every day, orders are piling in, and we’ve spent hours and hours bubble-wrapping and packaging.

“All the invoices from yesterday’s orders are printed here. We’ve found printing and keeping a physical daily log has been easier for us than tracking them in a spreadsheet.”

He takes the clipboard from me and scans over the list details. Underneath each is the printed order for packaging. The smell of him, clean with hints of his body wash, drifts my way.

“You had thirty-seven orders placed yesterday?” He looks up at me, awe present in his gaze.

“Yep.” I can’t help but smile. I’m proud of my little business, and seeing his reaction pleases me more than it should. I work hard, have worked hard for a long time, and it’s nice to have him see that I’ve made something of myself, too. Of course, it’s not on a grand scale like him, but it’s mine and no one can take it from me. “Yesterday was actually one of our slower days.”

“Wow, Lex, this is incredible. What happens when you run out?” He thumbs through the invoices and then looks over at the inventory we have stacked in the back half of the room.

“We’ve already run out of the black cherry bourbon filling, so it says out of stock on the website. It’s not black cherry season, but if it’s ingredients I can find, I can make more. Fortunately I haven’t had to yet, but I’m certainly not going to be complaining about the day I do. Marie and I are also tossing around ideas for a December pie filling, something easy, and something I can make a lot of.”

“This all sounds great. I’m proud of you.” He looks back and forth again between the clipboard and me, smiling.

“Thank you.”

A blush rises. I feel the heat of it, and I also feel the prick of happiness in my eyes. He doesn’t realize what him saying this to me means, but I know. Blinking quickly to hide the emotion, I turn back toward the setup.

“So, I think what I’ll have you do is line up the boxes in order.” I walk around the dining room table to point things out. “I have different sizes over there, so bubble-wrap what was ordered, and then you’ll drop in the invoice. The bubble wrap is there, and it’s precut to fit around each jar. Afterward, I’ll come behind you to finish them up. Sound good?”

“Sounds great. What does it look like when it’s finished?”

I stop at the opposite end of the table and explain the final touches. “We tie raffia around each jar, drop in an accompanying thank you card, and then top it off with foam peanuts. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s felt like a lot with how many orders there’ve been. Once we seal the box, we immediately adhere the label—which is on the invoice form you’re putting in the box, so be sure to remove it before closing it up—and then that right there”—I wave my hand toward the machine perched on the corner of the table—“is a digital postal scale. We weigh the package, it prints a postage sticker, and then I set the finished boxes by the front door. Jerry from the post office comes and picks them up for me.”