Page 67 of Last Slice of Pie

Crab Cakes

FOR ME, PIE has always been a disciplinarian, a teacher, a therapist, a reward, and an escape. It’s the one thing I’ve turned to over and over to work out my emotions. It doesn’t matter if I’m happy, celebrating, lonely, or sad; I know with flour on my hands and the sweet smell of fruit permeating the air, everything will be as it should be. I’ve learned so much about the history, the craft, and myself, and I can’t ever imagine not baking pies.

What people don’t realize about pie is that it’s been around since the early Egyptians, 6000 B.C., and the first-ever recorded recipe came from the Romans, a goat cheese and honey pie. From there it evolved, mainly as a meat pie, and it was the English who switched to fruit, serving it for breakfast.

In present day, pie in America is considered the most traditional dessert, with apple pie winning out over the others. But, it was the shoofly pie, a molasses crumb cake baked in a pie crust, that was used to celebrate the centennial of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

I think about things like this sometimes, especially after people give me a look or make a snide comment about the importance or relevance of what I do. I take a look inside myself and remember that pie fills my soul. It makes me feel good, and I know it makes others feel good too.

It’s such a simple thing, but there’s nothing else in the world that’s a more universal way to show love than a pie. Whether it’s a sweet pie or a savory pie, pies are gifts given to be neighborly or welcoming, for holidays, births, funerals, potlucks—you name it, there’s a pie for it, and it’s a pie that is the ultimate exclamation point to any meal.

“What are you thinking about?” Bryan asks.

I look over at him, and the circles under his eyes remind me that the last twenty-four hours have been the longest day.

Camille’s grandfather’s plane holds eight with two rows of seats, four on each side, and an aisle in between them. On it were her grandfather, her father, Reid’s mother, Reid’s brother, Camille, Reid, and the two of us. At one point or another, Bryan and I both slept, but mostly we just sat in the back, in the dark, saying nothing.

Once we landed back in Tampa, we said goodbye and took a shuttle from the private terminal to my car, which is where we are now, headed to Bryan’s house.

“The history of pie.”

His brows pull down. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I love everything about what I do, where it came from, and what it means not only to me but others as well, and well, it grounds me when I need it to. I think about pie nonstop. Don’t you think about all aspects of football all the time?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” He rubs his free hand over his face while the other stays tight on the wheel. Silence descends upon us again.

The sun has risen and is casting an orange glow upon the world. Buildings flash by, the corner Cuban shops have flurries of people going in and out, and as we finally cross the river and pull into Bryan’s driveway, I let out a long overdue deep sigh.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” I tell him, staring straight forward as he cuts the engine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head turn as he looks at me, and my eyes find their way to his. “Yeah, I have this feeling every year when the season ends.”

“I feel . . . disoriented.”

“I get that. For so many months, we live and breathe by a tight schedule, and now there isn’t one.”

“What do we do?”

He knows I mean more than just the obvious with that question, and the nerves I was suddenly feeling dissipate under the tenderness in his gaze.

“For starters, we go inside.” He gives me a small smile. “I’m dying to get out of these clothes.”

Come to think of it, I am too.

Grabbing our things, we head inside. As the front door closes, Bryan drops our bags, reaches for me, and pulls me into his arms. Against my ear, he remorsefully and quietly tells me he’s sorry for the things he said. I know he is, and I’ve already forgiven him.

“There’s so much I feel I need to tell you.” His lips rub against my cheek.

“So, tell me.” I turn my head so my lips can meet his. Very ardently and earnestly, he kisses me as I cling to him. His taste, his familiarity—it’s so revitalizing after the last couple of weeks. I want to stand here and kiss him forever, but he breaks away, runs his hand down my arm, and wraps his fingers around my elbow as he leads us into the living room to sit on the couch.

Although we’re sitting close to each other, it’s not close enough, so I pull my legs up and face him. He discards his jacket, tossing it onto the seat across from us, and then runs his hand through his hair. Stubble shadows his jaw and his lips are puffy from kissing me, but it’s his eyes that flip through emotions like a classic View-Master. My stomach dips at his internal turmoil, but we do need to talk. There are things that need to be said.

Clearing his throat, he reaches for my hand and runs his thumb across the top. “First and foremost, I need you to know it’s always been you. From the very first night in the tree house, my heart has always been yours.”

Yes, hearing this makes me want to burst with happiness, but at the same time, I can’t help but mourn what we’ve lost, the years spent apart.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me? So much time has passed. It feels wasted.”