The divorce was final as of that afternoon. Faith still hadn’t unpacked most of the boxes in her new apartment. She was in no rush. For the first time in six years, her time was hers and hers alone.
She flipped back the lid on the pizza box and surveyed the bounty before her. It was piled high with pineapple, mushrooms, green olives and jalapeño peppers—every topping she knew he would have refused. When she placed the order, she had, momentarily, wondered how well the flavors would mix.
After the first bite, any uncertainty melted away. It was one of the most divine things she’d ever tasted. There, standing in her mostly-empty kitchen, she realized how ravenous she was and ate the entire thing in one sitting. Save for the crusts. Those she tossed into the trash without the tiniest shred of guilt. No one was there to say a goddamned word about it.