AFTER PARTY : a short story

Chapter 3

I don't call her this time. I text her saying I've gotten a ride, but I'll let her know if anything changes. She still hasn't seen my previous message, and I doubt she's heard my voicemail from earlier. I must be bothering her. She's only this bad when she's buried in something work-related. She works hard for us. I shouldn't be bothering her like this.

I drift into the kitchen. Aiden's stacking a too-big Tupperware with every single piece of Hawaiian pizza there is left, which is about one and a quarter boxes of the stuff. "I don't need that much," I say, touching his arm. "I'm not going to eat all that."

"I'm only going to throw it away," he says. "Like, I don't want to yuck your yum – "

"You already have," I laugh.

He almost vibrates like a hummingbird. Something in his expression softens (yet you'd never know it from how his face doesn't move), and that easy smile turns brighter. "It's not like I meant to," he says. "I like my pizza more savory. The fruity cut from the pineapple – "

"I know, I know," I say, leaning forward on the kitchen island. "That's a big reason why people don't like Hawaiian. But I like it. That sweetness, the saltiness. It works for me."

Aiden hums. "Maybe someday I'll like it, too. Maybe not cold."

"Maybe someday pigs will fly."

"With genetic engineering," he says casually.

I nudge his arm. "Stop it. I'll take the sin of human creation out of your house. I get it."

"I didn't say that," Aiden laughs. His eyes sparkle. His hands flatten across the countertop briefly before they gently curl inward, easy and enticing. "I'm saying there are pizzas out there everyone likes. Maybe ones not as divisive as Hawaiian."

"I will die on that hill before I'm forced to only eat cheese pizza."

"Everyone likes cheese pizza."

"Cheese pizza is basic."

"That's why you add toppings, like – "

" – pineapple and ham," I say, sneering.

Aiden leans forward. "I call for a ceasefire. We can continue this another time."

"You're only calling it because I'm right."

He sighs, smile growing a fraction. 'I don't care if you are. I just want to keep talking to you,' he seems to say. Aiden Martin is good at a plethora of things, but he excels at giving you his undivided attention when he wants to. His hands rest lazily against the cold countertop, and his shoulders are nice and gently rounded, and when you're with him, there doesn't seem to be a care in the world written on his face.

I can only imagine the person he'll spend the rest of his life making happy.

"And if I said you're wrong?" he finally asks. "What, then?"

I clench my jaw. "Then your ceasefire is going to turn into all-out war." I only realize it's the wrong thing to say because the look Aiden gives me softens. His eyes widen slightly, and the corners of his mouth turn up by mere millimeters. I pull my fingers off the counter and wipe them down my pants. The air suddenly feels too hot to bear, and I step back. "I'm...going to get some air. I'll let you know when I'm leaving?"

"Okay." Aiden straightens up. He turns back to the Tupperware and goes back to organizing.

I drift back into the living room. Amanda Thompson has her jacket on, and Olivia Jordan has bounced off to talk to Andrew Larsen. The hulking Marcus Vaughan is nowhere to be seen. "Hey, where's Marcus?"