As we sit at a table in The Great American Pie, a bunch of people are staring. There are a few waves from Chicagoans about us, but thankfully, everyone respects our privacy. As Lexi peruses her menu I ask, “You gave me the impression you’ve been here before? Don’t you already know what you want to have?”

Lexi looks up from her menu, “Yeah, but I don’t often order the same thing twice.”

“Oh.” I tilt my head, “why’s that?”

“You never know what you’re missing if you keep trying the same thing. Why? What are you having?”

I’m a little embarrassed; I was planning to have the same thing I have every time I come here. “I love Hawaiian pizza. Every time I come here I ask for it with extra cheese. They got some Rye County Stout here, too. It’s from a brewery in Chicago. It’s delicious.”

“Hawaiian pizza? Ick!” She sticks out her tongue. “Fruit on a pizza doesn’t make much sense to me. Look at all the other toppings here; there’s Canadian bacon, basil, anchovies. The list goes on. Why would you keep going with Hawaiian every time?”

“What are you suggesting? I should get something else? Would you like to order for me?”

“Oh, I would. Seems to me you need to try some other toppings.”

“All right. I’ll make you a deal. You order for me and I’ll order for you.”

She furrows her brow, “Drinks, too?”

“Sure, why not? But I’ll only eat what you give me on one condition.”

“What’s that?” she asks unfazed.

“You have to eat whatever I order for you, sports bunny.”

“Same goes for you, Brock.” She sniggers, “or should I call you ‘Rock.’”

I roll my eyes, “Yeah, the guys are calling me ‘Rock’ now. Please don’t.”

“Pretty cheesy, Brett. So, why are they calling you ‘Rock?’”

“Isn’t it obvious,” I ask. “I’m their Rock. The guy they can count on.”

“Oh, I thought it might be referring to your equipment south of the border,” she says, teasing.

We end up writing each other’s orders and toppings on a paper which the waitress picks up and reads.

“What about his drink?” the waitress asks, reading over the order.

“I put it on the paper.” Lexi tries peeking at the paper the waitress holds on her tray.

“Oh.” The waitress recognizes it. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Tell your bartender to search it online,” Lexi suggests. “It’s easy to find and I’m sure he’ll have the ingredients.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.” She makes a quick note then walks away.

I give Lexi a look, “What are you getting me into?” I ask.

“Don’t worry, Brett. I wouldn’t be cruel to you. I put a few things down I knew you have never tried.”

Five minutes later, the waitress comes back with our drinks. She sets mine down in front of me. There’s a shot of dark liquor next to a beer mug full of something that looks like orange juice, but dull in color. I don’t recognize the drink, “What is this, Driver?” I ask, surveying it.

“That is a lunch box,” she says proudly. “When I lived in Oklahoma, there used to be a bar some of my friends and I would sneak into. One of their popular drinks was this.”

“A lunch box?” I repeat, curious. “What’s in it?”

“Orange juice and beer. The shot is amaretto.”

My stomach lurches at the thought of orange juice and beer. It doesn’t sound like something appetizing. I watch it, waiting for it to curdle. She looks down at the beer in front of her, “Is this what you were going to order for yourself?” She lifts her brow. “Is this the Rye County Stout?”

“Well, you’ve never tried it. You’ve been to Chicago countless times covering games, I’m sure, and you’ve never tried a well-known stout here. Face it, Driver, that’s pretty lame.”

She gives me a playful pout, “I suppose you’re right, there is no excuse.” She lifts the dark beer to her lips and takes a sip. I watch, a part of me wishing I was the glass. She has such gorgeous lips. “You’re right, that’s good.” Her tongue smoothly licks off the foam from her upper lip, giving me dirty thoughts. “Are you going to try yours? You need to drop the shot in there first.”

“Wait. Isn’t that going to make the drink fizzle? I’ll get foam everywhere.”

“Sure is, Rock. Drink fast.”

I don’t know what it is about Lexi, but every time I’m with her, it’s always an adventure. Going to a pizzeria is interesting, even if I picked out the spot. “All right.” I let out a long breath.

“You don’t have to drink it all in one shot.”

“Good.” I drop the amaretto in and quickly begin gulping. As the head fizzles, I put it back to the table. It’s now half-full. “That was delicious! That’s the second drop shot drink you’ve ordered for me, Driver. Aren’t these kinds of drinks reserved for wild parties with drinking games?”

“Yes. Going from foster home to foster home, I lived all over the country. Every time I moved, I’d have to make new friends. I didn’t have much money to buy a cool toy. I never lived in fancy homes, so I always tried to teach kids new games as an icebreaker. When I got older, I found that an easier way to make pals was to buy them a drink and make a game of it.”

I laugh, but then I begin to wonder where Lexi had spent most of her childhood. “Your online biography says you were from the Midwest,” I begin cautiously. “Is there any truth to it? Did you move about those parts the most?”

She rubs her arm. “Well, uh, I wasn’t born in the Midwest like it suggests. I’m originally from Michigan. Like I said, I moved about everywhere. When Anne and I wrote my biographical information, we researched how other successful journalists described their past. Midwest, countryside girl with a love for horses seemed to be a common trend.”

“Your past isn’t that bad, is it?” I ask, concerned.

“It’s not terrible,” she reassures me. “I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, but I don’t want people nosing about, asking questions.”

I pause a moment, feeling a little uncomfortable. I want to ask more questions, but I don’t want to say anything that may bring up past hurts. I have heard that some foster families can be abusive. I change over to her parents, “Did you know your parents well before they passed?”

A sad expression clouds her face. “Nah. Actually, my foster families were better parents than they were. My parents both had drinking and drug problems. I was taken out of my home a couple of times before the car accident.”

It’s an awkward moment, and I can’t think of anything comforting to say. It sounded like a rough deal. As she takes a sip of her stout, I think of all the neglect she must have suffered. Family vacations and Christmas holidays, always being the odd one out. Then I begin to wonder how she spends her holidays now. She puts down her stout and gives me a no-nonsense look, “Don’t dwell on it too long, Brett. I’m a big girl. Everything is okay now.”

I give a faint smile. I feel the urge to invite her to my home for Christmas. I sigh. Either you’re going to muster the courage to make this more serious or not, Brett.

“Uh, so what do you do now for Christmas and Easter? Was there a foster family you did get familiar with?”

“No. I usually go to a friend’s family event. I’ve gotten to know Anne’s family well.” She smiles weakly.

“How would you like to get to know my family a bit better?” I ask. Her expression is that of a gazelle that heard something in a quiet savannah. I grow nervous and begin to ramble, “So long as you won’t be reporting anything, we’d have you. It’s usually my mother and sister and myself. It would be nice to have a bigger crowd.”

“Would that be okay with them?” she asks.

“Absolutely. You’d be doing us a favor. My mother loves to cook and entertain. But usually on Christmas everyone is spending time with their own families.”

“Sure. Why not?”

Relief washes over me and the anxiety that had been squeezing my middle only a few seconds before is filled with warmth. Lexi is going to spend Christmas with me. Days with Lexi. I got my best Christmas gift early.

As we continue to wait for pizza, I describe what my home is like and tell her a few stories about my family. She doesn’t seem interested to hear about what I have on the farm back in Ohio. She wants to know more about my mother and sister.

“So, does your sister still live at home?”

“Elena? No. She’s out in California. She wants to become a writer. But right now, she has a job in freelance marketing. She works for several companies. And tries to hide the fact that she has a brother that plays professional football.”

She looks confused, “Why would she do that? I would think having that kind of connection would make her life easier.”

“Oh, she thought the same at first.” I watch as the waitress puts down my personal pizza in front of me and Lexi. “But she now thinks it’s a burden.”

“How so?”

“People are constantly asking her for tickets to games. I’m allotted a certain number of tickets for every game. You know, for friends and family. The seats are always great and naturally, she’s had people ask to meet me and go to a game.”

“That sucks to have people hanging off you like that.”

“Yeah,” I say, agreeing. “She’s had some interesting things happen. There was this one girl, Becca that pretended to be her friend for years. Eventually, Becca had a fit one day and asked Elena if she would ever hook the two of us up.”

“What did Elena say?”

“Elena asked why, and Becca answered, ‘Why do you think I’m hanging out with you?’”

“Wow. That’s awful.”

“It was terrible for Elena. She had gotten close to Becca. They had been best friends for around two years. Once she confronted Elena, the relationship ended. After that, Elena didn’t want to tell new people she met about me.”

She purses her lips, “So, is she suspicious of every girl you bring around?”

“She can be difficult sometimes.” I look down. “What exactly is this?” I ask noting the pizza below me. It is loaded with different colors.

She giggles, “That is Italian sausage with hot giardiniera, jalapenos, and extra cheese.”

“So, it’s going to be hot and spicy?”

“Exactly.” She looks down at her pizza. “Hawaiian? Fruit? Really, Brett?”

“You said you like to try different things. If you don’t like it, I’ll trade you,” I say, joking.

“Let’s split them. I’ll give Hawaiian a try.”