I don’t touch it. I want to.
I do short loops. Host stand, bar, kitchen, alley door. I clock small things. The lowboy is light on butter. The fryer dips when both baskets drop. Table six’s leg still wobbles unless you wedge the shim the right way. The air vent near two is too cold. I file each thing and say nothing. My hands stay in my pockets. Mostly.
Francesca glances at me after tasting the red for the third time. She drizzles a thin line of oil to finish the dish and sets it on the pass. Then moves on.
At 6:00, the room is loud enough to feel it in your chest. People lean in, and laughter booms. Forks scrape. A kid taps his glass until his mother takes it, and he taps the table with his finger instead. Theo sells a good bottle of red to a table that only wanted glasses. He’s good like that. Zia explains aglio e olio with a smile, even though she’s probably done it about a thousand times before.
Back in the kitchen, the clams come back gritty. Carmen swears in two languages. “Fire again,” my mother says evenly and without heat. Elio double-checks the rinse, runs a finger through a shell like he’s feeling the beach. New plate goes out. Problem solved, no lecture. I nod to myself. That’s how you do it.
I get stopped by Mrs. DeLuca on my way past table nine. She grabs my wrist like she always has and says, “Tell your mother the sauce is right,” then pats my hand like she’s stamping approval. “And eat. You’re too thin.”
“I’m tall,” I say. Reflex. She smirks.
At the pass, a new server bumps a plate and says, “Sorry,” and Francesca says, “Say ‘behind,’” acting the teacher. The girl says “behind” to the air and moves on.
I keep making mental notes I’ll hate myself for later. Sink sprayer leaks. Salt crock needs a lid. The salad guy is heavy-handed with dressing on the arugula. Theo’s white wine is frosty to the point of ruin. Small things. Fixable tomorrow, not tonight.
Tomas brings me water because Zia sent him. I drink because I always forget to. “You sure you don’t want an apron?” he asks, half-joking.
“I’m sure,” I lie.
The noise downstairs passes through the ceiling and into my aching head. Laughter, the clink of forks, a burst of plates through the pass, the printer coughing. It’s all normal, but without Nonna moving through it like a current, it feels wrong.
Too loud in some places, too quiet in others. I tell myself I’m only here to watch and end up standing at the bottom of the stairs like a kid who needs five minutes.
I take them.
The hallway upstairs is cooler. The air smells like old paper, and the faint metal tang of the old radiator, even though it’s not cold enough yet for it to be on. The carpet is the same short, brown stuff that’s been here forever, hammered flat in the center from decades of feet. Even my feet. The light over the landing flickers and adds something else to the growing list in my head. I lean a shoulder against the wall and let my heartbeat settle.
From here, the restaurant sounds are a little softer, like a radio in another room. The floor under me vibrates a little when someone drops a pan on the line. I could stand here all night and not be missed. That thought makes my chest feel tight.
But not Nonna. She’s missed. By everyone.
I touch the banister. Smooth wood, nicked in the same places my fingers know by heart.
I head for the office.
It’s at the back, just past the storage closet and the weird dead-end turn where the wall angles because of the old chimney. The office door is usually open, fan rattling, ledger on the desk, pen jammed through the spiral of one of the order pads becauseNonna always lost those “damn pen caps.” I need that room like a breath of fresh air, a drink of cold water.
Just to sit in her chair for a minute. Maybe flip a page in the book and see numbers that will tell me what I already learned from observing downstairs.
Halfway there, I hear voices.
I stop with my hand on the cool plaster. The door is mostly closed. Not shut all the way. A wedge of light cuts across the hall. I know my mother’s voice anywhere. The thin thread in it when she’s trying to keep herself calm. The other voice is deep. Not familiar. Calm in a way that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
I get closer, step by step, keeping to where the old floorboards are less vocal. The door is open two inches. Maybe three. I breathe through my nose and listen.
“—not tonight,” my mother says. Not the sharp restaurant voice. Frayed. Harried. “We’re… It’s busy.”
“It won’t take long,” the man says. His voice is steady and smooth. No rush. No attitude. The kind of voice that belongs to someone who never needs to raise it to be heard. “I can be quick.”
“It’s not about quick,” she says. A paper rustles. A chair ticks as someone shifts. “It’s about timing. After the funeral—”
“We’re keeping it respectful,” he says. “I don’t want to make a scene in your dining room. I’m here so you don’t have to hear about it from someone else later.” A pause. “You know why.”
I hold my breath until my lungs complain. The hum from the light gets louder. I angle my ear toward the crack. My mother swallows loud enough to carry.
“I said I would handle it,” she says. “I will.”
