Page 3 of Last Slice of Pie

“Dress shoes. I didn’t come from much, so there’s something about dressing up that makes me feel good. Plus, if I’m dressed up, I know I’m about to have a good time. Who doesn’t like having a good time?”

The thought of Bryan getting dressed up to go out and have a good time—it makes my chest ache, mainly because it leads me to believe he’s out having a good time with someone else. It’s not that I don’t want him to go out and enjoy his life, because I do; I just like to stick with the old adage Seeing is believing. Since I haven’t seen it, it’s never happened.

“That’s interesting given that you live so close to the water,” Paul says in response.

“Yeah, well, flip-flops are kind of a daily staple. I don’t think anything of them, having worn them my whole life. If I was from the north, I can see loving flip-flops, but I’ll stick with my answer of dress shoes.” He glances down at his feet.

“Alrighty then, dress shoes it is.” Paul flips to the next notecard. “Question number three: cats or dogs?”

A smile splits across Bryan’s face, and he chuckles as he shifts in his seat again and leans back. “I think most people probably assume I would pick a dog. After all, a dog is a dude pet, but I’ve got to go with cat. I grew up with these two big tabby cats”—he holds up his hands to demonstrate their size—“Simba and Nala, and I guess they made a lasting impression on me.”

Oh. My. God. Simba and Nala were my cats! GiGi gave them to me as kittens when I was ten to keep me company. James was outside playing with Bryan all the time and they wanted nothing to do with me, so she gave them to me as a present. I loved those two cats, and thinking back, he did too. He was always looking for them so he could pet them.

“Cats.” Paul almost grimaces. “I grew up with a cat too, my mother’s cat, and it was as mean as it could be. It didn’t like anyone but her. Needless to say, that cat left a lasting impression on me too.”

They both laugh.

“Okay, question number four: peaceful or playful?”

“Ha!” he blurts. “Paul, I don’t know if anyone would describe me as either one of those. I think I fit more into the perfectionist category.”

“That describes how you are on the field, when you’re working. What about when you’re not working?”

“Come on, Paul—when am I not working?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Off the field, let’s go with . . . private.”

A little too private, if you ask me. There’s never any information about him anywhere. Other than seeing him on the field, there are like zero glimpses into his life, which is unfortunate for me since I have a bad habit of Internet stalking him.

“And our last question, number five: cake or pie?”

Bryan breaks eye contact with Paul and looks at the ground. Leaning forward a little, he rubs his hands together, one side of his mouth tipping up in a smile meant for himself and a memory he’s having, and he answers, “Pie. Definitely pie.”

Marie’s hand flies over, grabs my arm, and I think I stop breathing. He may as well have just declared his love for me in front of a national audience, because there is nothing more perfect for me to hear than him choosing pie. Pie! This man . . . pie—my sixteen-year-old heart whispers, soul mate.

“Pie, you say. Any particular kind?”

He looks back over at the host. “Nope. I love all kinds of pies. In fact, I’ve never met a pie I didn’t like, just some I like more than others.”

“That’s very vague.”

“Well, I should clarify—it’s not the flavors of pie that makes the difference. It’s who makes them, the quality. Once you’ve had the best pies in the world, the rest are just good pies. I’ll still eat them, but they don’t compare.”

“And where can we find these best pies in the world?”

I grip the blanket in my lap hard as Bryan stalls and chooses his words. I so desperately want him to say my name, even though he hasn’t eaten any of my pies in over ten years.

“How about I send you one for your birthday?” he suggests. If it’s me, does that mean he’s going to call and order one? I think I would die. Then again, maybe it’s not me. It’s been a really long time.

“Or better yet, we’ll ask James. I’m certain he’s tasted these amazing pies.”

Bryan grins. “Oh, he has, and without a doubt he’ll tell you where these pies are.”

“He has to be talking about you and your pies,” Marie whispers as my heart pounds harder.

“Speaking of James Jarvie”—Paul flips his cards silently, indicating that their rapid-fire game is over—“it’s nice to hear about the bond you two still have. We all saw firsthand how well you worked together on the field, but we love it when friendships like what the two of you have last long-term. Let’s go back and talk about some of your earlier years. We all know you and James grew up together, but how old were you when you both decided football was the sport for you?”

“We were ten when we started tossing the football around more seriously. Both of us loved the sport, but for me, I’d have to say it was during my freshman year of high school. Our quarterback went down with an injury during a practice midseason, and I was called up from the junior varsity team to see how I would do. I wasn’t nervous under the lights, against the larger players, or in front of the crowd . . . I was in my element. I thrived off of the energy, went out, and threw a seventy-yard Hail Mary pass on my second play. I knew then football was it for me.”

“Look here, folks.” Paul turns toward the large screen behind him, and the pass Bryan just described plays out on the screen. I was there, at that game, and I cried when his receiver caught the ball and ran it in for a touchdown. There had been a collective pause throughout the stands while the ball was midair, and then the crowd roared. See, our football team was historically a losing one. Our town is small, and so was our team, but not that night. After winning, we felt like we were on top of the world.