“Lucky, let me be serious for a second.”
“Second’s over.”
“Don’t be like that.” He takes my hand in his, something we’ve done so often over the years, when he consoled me during my dad’s memorials, when we sat in his room listening to his parents fight. When I had a pregnancy scare senior year of high school and my “boyfriend” wanted nothing to do with me.
But after last night—I don’t know what it means. I mean, we didn’t
actually
kiss. His lips grazed mine, soft and wet with liquor. I could feel the breeze between them. My brain was just one big “DO NOT PASS GO” sign so I pulled back. If it wasn’t for someone’s car alarm going off that second, then his phone to distract him, the awkward silence could have been worse.
Bradley doesn’t need my messy life. I won’t let my crazy break what he has with Sky. Even if he says things aren’t the same between them, I know I should take this tickle in my chest and bury it deep down with the rest of my broken hearts. That has to be the right thing to do.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting here,” I motion to the living room, “and waiting for you to be serious while drinking my mom’s 18-year bourbon.”
“I mean, what are you doing
here
? After the memorial and your yearly hug with your mom. I see you twice a year, barely, and it’s like nothing changes. Do you realize you don’t even come home for Christmas anymore?”
His judgment bugs me. He sounds like my mother.
“I get that she was tough to live with. I was there. Remember? But you can’t keep running from place to place. You’re no closer to graduating college than you are to getting married.”
“Where did
that
come from?” I pull my hand away from his and replace it with a punch.
“That sounded way better in my head,” he says, rubbing the spot on his arm where my fist landed.
“I get it, Brad. I’m unaccomplished and you’re on your way to being Doctor Superman, with Mega-Nurse Sky as your partner in world saving.”
His hand finds my face. “It’s not a contest. But I do think there’s something to this. Your mom—she’s a strong woman. Don’t scoff, because you have a lot of that strength. But lately she’s been off. Even without the clusterfuck that happened today, the restaurant gets further behind every day. She needs you, and I know you don’t want to admit it but you need her too.”
“She needs my expert bartending skills?”
“Your excellent tongue.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “For arguing, that is.”
My excellent tongue is tongue-tied.
“You have more restaurant experience than anyone in your mother’s staff. Granted that’s because you keep dropping out of college, but still. You love food. You’ve always loved food. Remember freshman Home Ec.? You were the only one who could make a
roux
that wasn’t lumpy. You were the only one whose cakes didn’t sink in at the center. It was the only class that you got an A in all through high school. You know that you get that from your dad. He always wanted a place of his own, and I think that’s the real reason your mom’s in this. Even if the place is a bit of a lemon, you can make lemon-vodka.”
I let his words sink in. My mom didn’t mention dad when she brought up The Star. There’s nothing of
him
in that shiny upscale restaurant—not that it’s so shiny right now. But somewhere in the back of my head I remember him talking about his own restaurant. He’d serve dessert first, and then work backwards. He’d serve every kind of food so that his customers could always have something new to try.
“I’ll have you know I’m pretty good with a camera.”
“What about when you get bored?” His eyes are x-raying me again. “Because you will.”
“Why are you saying these things to me?”
“You need to hear it.” He kisses the top of my head. “Just think about it. Not too long though, because knowing you, you’ll be off on a bus to Guadalajara in the morning.”
I suck in my cheeks to keep myself from smiling. He always has a way of putting things in perspective. I hate it. “Thanks, Bradley.”
He takes the glass from me and finishes it off. “If you do choose to work for your mother just don’t do the bar top dancing thing. Although, you were only there for two seconds and you just couldn’t help yourself.”
“I was putting out a fire!” I smack his shoulder. “And I worked at that place
two
years ago and you’ll never let me live it down.”
“Nope.” He smacks his lips together and checks his phone, which is going crazy with text messages. Then he stands at the door leading to the hallway and then out. “We’re okay, right?”
“Perfect.” I reassure him. “We’re perfect.”
He steps out, then stops. Turns around. He stares at me with those big blue eyes. God, Lucky, what are you doing?
“See you, Luck.”
I stay on the chaise. The sun is lazily sinking behind the row of houses. By the time the sky is so dark I can’t see outside because of the glare from the lamplights, my mom walks in. I didn’t realize I’d spaced that long.
She takes Bradley’s glass and refills it.
“I’m sorry about before,” I tell her. “I’m tired. I haven’t slept.”
“It’s alright, darling.” She drinks. “I simply thought we’d make a good team.”
Her lips hug the glass like a long lost friend. Something in the back of my mind is tugging at this, telling me to take the drink away. But I don’t.
“’Til the opening,” I say. This will be good for us. Dad would approve. “I’m reapplying to art school for the next semester.”
It’s a lie, but I need a way out.
“Right, the photography. I knew Bradley could talk some sense into you.”
She takes her drink with her to bed, spouting out the things she wants me to get done. Oh my—what did I get myself into? “We have to be at the restaurant at 9 AM tomorrow for a walkthrough to make sure we can go through with our plan.”
“Our plan?”
“For the tasting next week.” She’s already down the hall when she shouts, “Bright and early.”
Then I realize—the black bag Bradley brought over. It’s got
his
college logo. When I open it, I find six bright lemons.
Compared to my last apartment, my room is Buckingham Palace. The guest bedroom has a down-soft bed. The sheets are the perfect temperature and the blinds let a soft morning glow peek through.
Then I realize there’s a girl standing in my room.
I jump up in the bed, flapping around, and knocking over my glass of water. It rolls on the carpet but doesn’t shatter. “What the hell?”
Her watermelon slice smile vanishes. “Oh! Sorry. I heard you rising.”
“Were you stationed outside my room?” I picture her pacing back and forth deciding on when to knock.
“Your mom asked me to check in on you when you were awake.”
Translation: Your mom said to wake you the fuck up.
“What time did you have to get up to be here?” I look at the clock. It’s 8:45 AM.
“Oh, I live here,” Felicity says. “Didn’t your mom mention it?”
I take my shirt off and throw it on the bed, hoping that makes her leave. Then I figure, she lives with my mom. Who knows what she has to see.
“She must have forgotten,” I mutter. I dig through my duffle until I find a clean t-shirt. It says GO HEART YOUR OWN CITY.
I gather my long hair into a ponytail, and then pause. “Did she, like, ask you to watch me brush my teeth?”
“Oh, sorry!” She retreats, waving in apology. I suspect she’s used to her sweet sorority girls and I’m an alien creature she’s not sure what to make of. “We’ll be in the kitchen.”
It’s amazing what real sleep in a real bed will do to a girl. Bradley’s couch is humane if you’re one of his drunken friends sleeping off the night—but it also smells like all of his drunken friends. Boys just don’t know how to make a place cozy. No wonder Sky makes him stay over at her place instead. I’m sure it’s covered in pink and lace and trophies.
My mom on the other hand—I see her touches in this room. The lavender sprig in a slender rose vase. A silver hand mirror and a vanity powdering kit that looks worn, like it came from a vintage shop instead of the home section of Bloomies.
I roll some balm on my lips, a quick pat of sheer blush, and I’m a whole new girl with a clean face, minus the coffee stains.
I almost resemble a girl with a plan.
Ok. Not exactly a plan, but something more than yesterday.
When I get down to the kitchen, I see the remnants of breakfast. I feel a pang in my chest—bitterness rising up—because my mom can make breakfast for Felicity but she never made breakfast for me. Felicity, with her corkscrew curls and Bambi eyes, is ready for the day with a tablet, a smart phone, and a folder as thick as my Archaeology 101 textbook in my first semester, back when I wanted to be Indiana Jones. Before I realized the things I wanted to discover were mythical, like Atlantis, a comfortable bra, or true love.
“Lucky,” my mom says. She’s wearing red suit pants and a white tank top that shows off the rack Husband #2 bought her during a “family vacay” to South Beach. He offered to get one for me, too, but I was only fifteen.
“I thought you were getting ready.”
I slip on my moccasins. “I am ready. I’m wearing makeup.”
Felicity’s big eyes look to my mom, then to me.
My mom deflates a little bit. “Tell me you’re not wearing that.”
“It’s all I’ve got.”
“You can borrow some of my clothes,” my mother offers.
Felicity looks back and forth again.
“I’m sure all of your tops are stretched out by now. And my hips are bigger than yours.”
If she could make a face despite the Botox, she would. “Blame your father’s Italian side for that.”
“She could borrow some of my clothes,” Felicity offers.
Really, I shouldn’t be such a bitch. Felicity is—nice. Really nice. She’s probably been taking care of my mother, because in any relationship, my mother always needs to be taken care of.
“Thanks,” I say, as genuinely as possible. One look at Felicity’s wide frame, her brown and gray color palette that says
don’t look at me
, and I decide she’s not a good fit either. “But—I’ll be working in the kitchen and stuff so I wouldn’t want to get dirty. Not after what I saw yesterday. This is more sensible.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Felicity says.
“Fine.” Mom takes her tablet and slings her purse around her arm. “Lets go.”
“Coffee?”
“You should have woken up earlier.” She leaves Felicity and me in a cloud of perfume.
Once we’re in the restaurant, I run to the office and make myself a cup. If I’m going to be dealing with Executive Chef James, I need to have my caffeine arsenal. I see him walking back and forth between his office and the kitchen, mumbling on his cell phone. While mom takes calls, Felicity tries to give me her tablet, but I like writing things down. I find a notebook and start a checklist. I start off by talking to Carlos. “Do you have a time estimate?”
He goes into the specific kind of wood my mother wanted for the ceiling. Of course, she does. That between how busy the summer is and delivery time, it won’t be here for another two weeks.
“But you can definitely clean up the frame?”
“Yes, Miss Carter.”
“It’s Pierce,” I say. “But just call me Lucky.”
He smiles politely. “The wall will be finished by Monday.”
“What about replacing the tables and chairs?”
“You have to talk to Felicity for that.”
I add that to my list. So far, this is easy. I can do this. I can order chairs and glasses. I’ve done it before. I go to assess the damage in the bathroom, but as I walk in, someone is already there: a fat guy in a dirty white shirt and even dirtier jeans. He’s packing his tools back into a case.
“Oh, hello,” I say. I thought Felicity was sure we couldn’t get a plumber out here.
He turns around and gives me the once over from head to toe, then turns back around without answering me.
“Hi, I’m Lucky Pierce.”
He cleans a wrench on his shirt. “Go get Jimmy for me, Sweetie.”
“Don’t call me sweetie,” I say. “Who are you exactly?”
“I’m the guy who just cleaned up this mess, is who I am.” He taps his wrench on his chest. “And I’m in a hurry, so go and get your boss so I can get going.”
His smile is so sleazy that it makes my skin crawl. I want to ask what his problem is, but I already know the answer. I’ve come across guys like this for the past four years at every restaurant, dive, lounge, and coffee shop I’ve worked at. A big old man who doesn’t want to take orders or deal with anyone with a vagina.
“Hate to break it to you,” I read the name stitched on his shirt, “
Ben
, but it looks like you’re going to have to deal with me. And since I didn’t call you and neither did Felicity, then I’m going to need a little more information than the screen print on your shirt.” And I’m not about to go running to my mother.
He closes up his toolbox. For a moment, I think I made a mistake by stepping into a bathroom alone with a man twice my size. One time back in New York I sprained my wrist trying to throw out a rowdy customer because my bouncer had gotten drunk on the clock, and I’d hate to repeat the experience.
Then Ben smiles at someone behind me. “Hey boyo, I been waiting on you. Take care of this for me, will you?”
James stands between us and shakes Ben’s hand. They pat each other on the back like they’ve known each other for years. In the stale smell of the room, James is like a sea breeze. I wonder if he uses suntan lotion instead of cologne because there’s no way anyone could just
smell
like that all the time.
“Here you go, Ben,” James hands him an envelope and the fat plumber takes it. I don’t miss the arrogant smile that lingers on his face. I want to rip both of them to shreds. “Thanks for everything.”
“I’ll tell your dad you say hello.” Then with a wink at me he’s gone.
“What the hell was that?” I ask James.
“What do you mean?” He puts his hands on hips. Today he’s not wearing the ripped jeans, just regular jeans, and a sea-green shirt that brings out his eyes.
“You just gave money to that sexist asshole,” I say, “And I was supposed to call the plumber.”