We'll Be a Dream

"Bixby, when are we going to get married?" Leo leans against the counter with a dishrag thrown over his shoulder. His skin is aglow in the late afternoon sun, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. Leo breaks hearts every day with the kind of smile he's giving me.

"Leo, when are you going to grow up?" I retort, leaning on the counter across from him. Today has been relatively slow, so right now it's just Leo and I on the floor, but the dinner rush hasn't hit just yet. In the next hour things may get out of hand. Leo runs a hand through his curly dark hair and smirks at me.

"I just want to make you an official member of the family, Bix."

"She is an official member of the family, moron. Can't you see the family resemblance?" Giovanna throws her arm over my shoulder and presses her cheek to mine. We couldn't pass for sisters, but we could be convincing cousins. Giovanna has much darker skin than I do (Fabian and Leo used to tease me about it by calling me Casper), her eyes are bright hazel while mine are the colour of dark chocolate and her hair is the colour of ink and full of curls while mine is dark brown, full of natural red highlights and wavy. Our facial structure is similar and we both have full lips. But Giovanna is shorter than I am and all soft curves and I am so tall and lean that I wouldn't have appealing curves without the right kind of bra.

"I'd say yes, but I don't want to think of her as family. I'm still holding out hope that she might say yes one day." Leo gives me a sly wink, but we both know it's all in good fun. Leo thinks of me as another sister. It's obvious by how he busted up Justin Thorne's bike with a baseball bat after he stood me up at the Homecoming dance.

"I'd give up hope. I'm not the kind of girl that guys settle down with."

"What she really means is that she's not the kind of girl who settles down with guys." Giovanna adds, I grab Leo's dishtowel and playfully snap it at her retreating back. She flips me the bird and disappears upstairs to the apartment.

"Welcome to Nonna's Pizzeria, what can I get for you two lovely ladies this fine evening?" Leo is flashing his pearly whites in his most charming smile at the customers. I glance over my shoulder and catch their flushed cheeks. They can't be more than fourteen years old and exploring on their first summer of independent travel around the city. They whisper to each other and ponder the chalkboard, not bothering to crack open a menu.

"What's the Tuna Melt thing about?" The taller of the two asks Leo.

"You ladies are in luck, the creator of that particular dish happens to be this woman right here, Bixby Jane Hollingsworth." It's true that I technically created the dish. My dad makes the best tuna melts on the planet. When I came back from a summer in Chicago I was feeling really bummed out that he hadn't had any time to make us tuna melts, so I made one of my own with Nonna G.

I glare at Leo for using my full name and turn to the girls with as much patience as I can muster. "The tuna melt consists of pizza dough, tuna, mayonnaise, pickles, green onions and garlic with cheddar cheese melted on top. Do not eat this if you plan on making out with anyone in the near future. It's the best comfort food item in our repertoire."

"So there's no, like, tomato sauce on it, right?" The other girl asks.

"No, I wouldn't imagine that tasting well, but I guess we won't know that for sure if someone doesn't try it..." The girls do decide to share a small Tuna Melt on a pizza, and Leo nixed the idea of trying it with tomato paste. "Don't fix what ain't broke, Bix."

We don't end up getting much of a dinner rush. Giovanna and I take a small Tuna Melt on pizza into the stairwell to the apartment to share. We're slacking off in the worst way by painting each other's nails while Leo and Mama Fraceschi handle things out on the floor. Giovanna has just finished painting my nails blue--which clashes horribly with my company shirt--when Mama Franceschi pulls open the door with a stern expression on her face. Giovanna and I adopt similar expressions of paranoid guilt. I couldn't remember doing anything that warranted Mama Franceschi's stern face, but that didn't mean that I wasn't guilty. It's most likely that Giovanna has done something, because that's usually the case.

"Bixby," oh goddamn, what did I do? "Do you know why someone would be asking for you, specifically, to bring a delivery?" I gulp, because Mama Franceschi's eyes are cool and suspicious. To me, it doesn't seem like such a big deal that someone asked for me. That just means that I'm doing a good job. But to everyone else in the family, except maybe for the girls, it means something more sinister. Their protectiveness is sweet, but mostly unnecessary.

"Because you taught me to always treat our customers with respect?" This is not the right kind of answer, and I know it, because her expression hardens. I worry that she may have taken my honest response as sass mouthing.

"As far as I know, we have never made a delivery to this address before and I've never heard of Mr. Styles." Giovanna gasps and grips my arm tightly in both of her hands, her mind having already come to realize what it meant. Mine caught up a few seconds later, inhibited by her shaking me back and forth.

"No way! No way!" She keeps repeating, ignoring her mother's interrogation about what is going on. "Harry freaking Styles wants you to deliver his pizza? You do realize that this is how most pornos start, right?"

"Giovanna Evelina Franceschi, what in god's name do you know about pornography?!" Mama Franceschi bellows. Giovanna freezes at my elbow and releases my arm.

"Mama, I'm eighteen. You sent me to public school. We have the internet and cable and I know how to read. There are preteens that know what a porno is!"

"So you watch pornography on the internet and the television? Antony, Antony!" Papa Franceschi's muffled reply came from upstairs and Mama Franceschi pushed Giovanna and I aside to storm upstairs.

"What do you know about this pornography on our internet and cable?" I bit my lip and looked toward the ceiling in an attempt to keep from giggling. When her anger wasn't directed at you, Mama Franceschi's wrath became a source of entertainment. Especially because, though I love her dearly, she gets so worked up over such small things.

"So, I guess you're making a delivery, then?" Giovanna asks after a beat.

"Guess so," I reply as I push myself off of the stairs. Leo doesn't want me to take the Vespa and I don't feel like arguing, so I get the bike ready to go. Before I leave I check the receipt to make sure I'm not leaving a salad behind. It gives me the tiniest of thrills to see that there isn't one.

I don't mind biking deliveries around the city. In fact, I enjoy it. My preferred mode of transportation around the city is via bicycle. It's probably the only exercise I get. The only time it sucks is when you've just eaten half a small Tuna Melt on pizza twenty minutes before.

I should have pushed harder to take the Vespa.

I have horrible cramps when I arrive at the provided address. It's a nondescript skyscraper, probably full of condos that take up a floor each. I can tell it's a nicer place, because there is a canopy over the entrance and a doorman who looks quite bored with his life. There are a surprising amount of people on this street that don't seem to be going anywhere.

It's like they're waiting for something. I lock up my bike and try to breathe through my cramps, taking a moment to let the queasiness subside. I really hate Leo sometimes. I undo the straps on the insulated red bag and balance the four large pizzas on one hand. I tuck the debit machine under my arm and quickly use both my hands to support the pizzas. The doorman meets me and holds out a hand to stop me.

"Do you mind if I inspect your bag, miss?" I'm slightly taken aback by the request, but submit to his search. He has me remove one box from the bag and lift the lid just so he can see the pizza. He then let's me enter the building.

"My apologies, Miss, but I can't be too safe."

"It's alright, I understand," I tell him. Though the truth is, I've never had this happen before. Then again, it makes sense. Even though I'm sure he was told to expect a pizza delivery, he probably wasn't expecting me. Logical thinking would lead him to believe that a girl dressed as a pizza delivery person could just be trying to sneak in.

I usually take the stairs, but in a place like this it seems like you should take the elevator to avoid any suspicion. When the doors open, there is a man in there wearing the same uniform as the doorman.

"Which floor, Miss?" I trip over my words and tell him which apartment I'm going to. "Twenty-fifth, Miss."

Sweet Jesus am I glad that I didn't take the stairs.

I was almost right about there being an apartment on each floor. Almost, because there are two apartments on each floor. The suite I want is on the left and I place the pizzas on the floor next to the front door. Even though there is a doorbell, I decide to use the knocker first. There are a series of thuds and muffled voices that rise up in volume that falls to a murmur and then raucous laughter before the door is opened. I subconsciously take a step back in surprise and become uncomfortably aware of how my breath might smell.

Harry stands before me, his chest rising and falling as he tries to subtly catch his breath. His hair is a bit mussed and his shirt is oddly bunched at the bottom. He seems to notice where I am looking at quickly straightens it out. I quickly pull my eyes up to his face and immediately regret that decision.

Before I make it to his eyes, I get distracted by his mouth. Harry wets his lips and I feel numb with cold, like I might die of hypothermia if he doesn't light a fire within me. He opens his mouth and the meaning of his words are completely lost on me. Whereas Louis' voice had startled me with how high it was, Harry's voice stunned me with how deep and slow it was. He speaks as though he wraps his tongue carefully around each syllable, each low sound an intimate caress just for his listener. I uncurl my toes and take a deep breath in an attempt to regain some professionalism only to be overwhelmed by his warm and inviting scent. I catch myself unconsciously leaning into him and pull myself back, breathing through my mouth to gain some control over my traitorous body.

"Good evening, Mr. Styles. Your total is $41.93, how will you be paying for that?" My voice is loud in my ears, like I am speaking with too much enthusiasm. And I probably am, because I am embarrassed by my reaction to him and overcorrecting myself.

"Credit," he says the word so tentatively and slowly that it feels like he's added an extra syllable to it. He holds out his card and I pray our fingers don't accidentally brush when I accept it. Thankfully all goes well and I am in my bubble with a job to do.

"So," Harry says while I fiddle with the machine. The word seems to go on for far too long. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Styles." I've swiped his card and now the receipt is being processed. "How are you this evening?"

"Uh, I'm alright, I suppose. The lads and I are going to have a night in and watch a film." I tear off the receipt and realize that I don't have a pen. My the blood rushes to my face so suddenly and so intensely that I feel lightheaded.

"I, uh, need your signature on this receipt, but I seem to have misplaced my pen." Just as I finish I see a pen hovering behind Harry's shoulder, being offered by a bodiless hand. Harry grabs the pen and throws an annoyed glance behind the door. He puts the receipt flat against the door and begins to scrawl his signature. I try to recover from my overwhelming embarrassment by asking him what movie they're watching.

"We were just having that out, actually. We can't seem to agree on one." He hands me back the receipt and the pen. Our hands brush and his warm skin sends an inferno throughout my body, leaving me hot. I avoid his gaze and bend down to pull out the pizzas. I muster my courage and hand them to Harry with a sly smile, still avoiding his eyes.

"Well, in my opinion you can never go wrong with The Avengers." I start to back away from the door, biting my bottom lip lightly. I, pathetically, point at him with both my index fingers and say, "Enjoy your pizzas, Mr. Styles."

"I'll keep that in mind." He says to my back. I don't turn around, just press the call button and listen closely for the sound of a door closing. I count one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one--click.

Then I wait five minutes for the elevator feeling unnerved. I practically sprint out of the lobby to my bike. By the time I get back to Nonna's Pizzeria, I've burned off all of my nervous energy. Giovanna wants to know every detail about my delivery, but I just want to forget about it. Because thinking about it makes my throat go dry. Thinking about it makes my stomach jolt. Thinking about it makes me feel hot and cold. Most importantly, thinking about it would just make me wonder if he was thinking of me, too and if they were good thoughts or bad.

It's better to just forget about it and forget about him.