“I think this should cover it,” she said. “I counted twice.”
For a second, I just stared at the bag. Then I glanced toward the kitchen, lit only by the open refrigerator.
There was almost nothing in the fridge — just water bottles and a small pharmacy bag.
That was when I realized what was going on here, and why it all felt so wrong.
A whole life of scraped-together change.
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This pizza wasn’t a treat.
It was the one hot meal she could get without standing at a stove she probably didn’t have the strength to use, trying to make something from the nothing in her fridge.
“Don’t worry about it.” I leaned over to push the bag of coins back toward her. “It’s already taken care of.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t want you getting in trouble.”
I have no idea why I said what I said next. Maybe because lying felt easier than watching her count pennies into my hand.
This pizza wasn’t a treat.
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“It’s okay, really. I own the place,” I said.
She studied me for a second, then relaxed. Her gaze dropped to my name tag.
“Well,” she said, “thank you, Kyle.”
I nodded and set the pizza box on her lap. She opened it, closed her eyes, and smiled as the steam rolled up into her face.
Watching her bask in the warmth coming off a pizza hit me harder than anything else that night.
She smiled as the steam rolled up into her face.
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I stood there for another second, feeling useless.
Then I mumbled good night and headed back out.
I got into my car and pulled the door shut. The pizza warmer in the passenger seat buzzed faintly. Across the street, a porch light flicked on. I should’ve put the car in drive and headed back to the shop.
Instead, I just sat there with my hands on the wheel, staring at her dark windows.
No lights, no heat, no food. Just that woman pretending she was “perfectly fine.”
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