Page 87 of The Fast Lane
He walked us out to the porch, his hands shoved in that hoodie pocket again. We said our goodbyes and had taken maybe three steps before Travis’s voice stopped us.
“Do you think you and me, could we stay in touch? Maybe email or something.”
Theo turned back. “Are you sure about that?”
Travis shrugged. “I’ve always wanted a brother.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Theo pointed out.
“Then I guess you should give me the chance to.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Note to self:
Never forget the healing power of pie…
and the blabbering power of pie-themed cocktails.
Theo hardly spoke on the drive back to the motel. It was a thoughtful silence, and I guessed after you met the brother you didn’t know existed for the first time, you’d need time to process. But enough was enough.
“We need pie,” I announced. “There’s a place called Pie in the Sky a block from the hotel. Open twenty-four hours.”
“Pie?”
I nodded firmly. “Yes. Pie. You’re thinking too hard right now.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re going to hurt yourself. To pie, my good man.”
We decided to park at the motel and walk. Pie in the Sky was as if a hipster bar and a fifties diner had a baby. The décor was all shiny chrome and red faux leather with black and white squared flooring. There were matching red and chrome booths. But instead of a lunch counter, there was a tall, wooden bar and instead of milkshakes, they served pie-inspired cocktails like apple pie on the rocks or a key lime pie martini.
There was also actual pie. Several tall, spinning, glass display cases with oversize pieces full of crusty, sugary goodness.
“This place is Heaven.” I eyed a slice of lemon meringue pie like it was the new love of my life. “It has to be.”
“Clearly.” Theo placed his hand low on my back and directed me to an open booth in the corner. “I’m going to run to the bathroom.”
“Sure, sure,” I mumbled, head already buried in the menu. The options were endless. I could splurge a little and have a drink or two. I was a lightweight because my anti-seizure meds interacted with alcohol in funny ways, one of them being it metabolized quickly and hit me hard.
A server arrived within seconds, dressed in a modern twist on fifties style with a flirty above-the-knee poodle skirt and a black shirt with off-the-shoulder sleeves. “Hiya, what can I get you?”
“All of it.” I grinned. “But maybe just water until my friend comes back.”
“No problem.”
For a pie-themed bar (or maybe because of) it was a busy place. Most people seemed to land in the thirty to forty age range with some outliers, just for fun. The bar was packed and the two bartenders, dressed as modern-day soda jerks with red suspenders, matching bowtie and no shirts, were likely pulling in some very nice tips.
At the end of the bar sat a guy with dark hair, glasses, a sweater vest and a nice smile, radiating hot professor energy. He made eye contact with me, his smile widened, and he lifted his drink in my direction. I gave him a little nod in what I hoped was polite disinterest and swung my gaze back to our table and the menu.
Yes, the guy was hot, but he had nothing on Theo. I’d take dreamy blue eyes and small, secret smiles all day long.
Several minutes later, a glass slid onto the table.
“A Boston crème pie martini for you.”
I looked at the drink and then the server. “I didn’t order this.”