Page 8 of Last Slice of Pie

Sure, I’ve dated people over the years. I actually had one long relationship with a guy when I was in culinary school, but when it was time to graduate and return home, I discovered I wasn’t that sad to leave him, and I certainly didn’t miss him the way I’ve missed Bryan.

The music eventually dies and the screech of the microphone sounds through the speakers. Taking a deep breath, I step to the side of the tree and scan the crowd. Hundreds have come out to see him. In fact, it looks like most of the town is here. Figures. The gazebo is covered in garnet and gold balloons, our school colors. There’s a large framed photo of him from when he played here, one of him in college, and one of him playing professionally. Several news crews are present, mostly local, and I imagine this is one of the biggest stories of the summer for them. Bryan is making an appearance off the field, which is like spotting a rare bird in the wild.

There’s commotion on the stage. The mayor has walked over to stand at the microphone, and he’s smiling down at someone on the stairs that lead up to the gazebo. Deep down, I know it’s him.

There are so many people and it’s so crowded, but with the way my heart is pounding and how fried my nerves are, he may as well be standing right in front of me.

A warm, humid breeze sweeps by my feet and with it, a tossed-aside flyer. I pick it up and see that it’s an agenda for today. Its main highlights are the award, the acceptance, and then a meet-and-greet session with Bryan where he’ll be signing a giveaway photo of him and posing for pictures. From there, people can wander over to the community center for a potluck lunch that will have everything from pulled pork to Ms. Diane’s famous chocolate chip Bundt cake.

A huff escapes me. I can tell you where I’m not going to be today. There’s no way in hell I’m standing in line to see him or mingling at a town gathering where the gossipmongers will be watching. The last thing I want or need to be is a topic of conversation.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” blares out from the speakers. “I’m Mayor Buckley, and I would like to thank you for coming out this morning. I would also like to thank the distinguished city of Oakwood and recognize the generous contributions one of our own has made, not only to our community, but to others across the great state of Florida. He is an inspiration and the true definition of what success looks like due to hard work, dedication, and leadership. It is my pleasure to introduce this young man to you today, so please give it up and welcome Bryan Brennen.”

The crowd cheers, and it’s not one of those halfhearted responses because they’re expected to cheer. There’s real emotion swelling up out of them that’s meant for him, and I can’t help but be swept away by their enthusiasm and feel proud for him. I may be hiding, but inside I’m squealing.

As if in slow motion, I first see blond hair on the back of his head as he ascends the steps and becomes visible over the crowd. Broad shoulders wrapped in a white tailored button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Muscular back. Narrow waist. Long legs. And then he reaches the top. Turning toward the mayor, he extends his hand, the mayor excitedly shakes it, and then he pulls him in for a hug. There are a few pats on the back, and then they release each other and turn toward the crowd.

His face.

That smile.

He looks just like he did on television, only now he appears a little shinier. He looks real, and in my head I’m screaming, Oh my God. Ten years is such a long time, and right this moment an imaginary bucket of freezing water douses me as I realize my reaction to seeing him feels less like the homecoming of a loved one and more like I’m fangirling at a celebrity. Fangirling.

Anger slices through me, and my eyes blur with the unmistakable vision of humble pie. I know deep down I’m not a groupie, but I may as well be considering I was never important enough to him to stay in touch with. I drop my gaze, not wanting to see him anymore, and suddenly I wish I were anywhere but here.

“Marie.” I turn to face her. “I think—” From above me, a clicking, squeaking, and squabbling starts. At first the noise is just annoying, but as I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I don’t think anything of it until the sound gets closer and louder.

So loud.

So fast.

So much scurrying, and I’m not prepared for the two fighting squirrels that race down the tree. One jumps on my head, the other on my back, and they proceed to crawl all over me while one runs from the other.

Now, you have to understand, the squirrels in the park are so spoiled by the townspeople, it’s like they are almost domesticated. They’ll climb on your arm, sit on your shoulder, and essentially pose for pictures if it means they’ll be fed, but if there’s one thing you’ll never catch me doing, it’s feeding the squirrels.

I. Hate. Squirrels.

To me they are rats with a bushy tail, and the fact that two of them are racing all over me sends my heart into instant overdrive and me screaming from out behind the tree with my arms flailing.

“Oh! My! God!”

Little claws scratching.

Smelly fur in my face.

This is a total nightmare come true!

“Get off me!” I scream while running around in a circle like a crazy person.

Rare diseases, permanent scars, bald patchy spots where they rip out my hair—every imaginable horror stampedes through my head as my feet tear up the grass underneath me.

At some point I trip over a tree root and land on the ground. That’s when the squirrels finally jump off, and I’m left panting and trembling. This has to be one of the worst experiences of my life.

Gasping for air, I slowly stand, shake out my arms, and clap my hands together to get rid of the dirt. Smoothing down my hair and my skirt, I glance at Marie, who is howling with laughter and wiping her eyes.

“Seriously? It’s not funny.” I scowl at her. “You could have helped me.”

“Oh, yes, it is funny! Look . . .” She points behind me, and cold dread slides right down my spine.