“All good here.” I force my tone to be light.
“Sei un angelo.” The stress falls from Mr. Rossi’s voice. It takes a toll on him—his wife’s condition. There are dark circles under his eyes but he wears a tired smile. “I haven't forgotten you have class today. Cedella still needs me but I’ll be back down soon, okay?”
“Okay.” I mash my lips into something that’s more smile than frown.
“You making the pink cupcakes?”
“No,” I say warily. “Should I?”
“You always make them for Valentine’s Day.”
Right, it’s almost Valentine’s Day. The worst holiday ever invented by the American candy and greeting card industry. Last year, my boyfriend dumped me the day before, and stopped by on February fourteenth to pick up coffee for himself and his newgirlfriend. “Pink cupcakes. Right. I’ll get started on those when I get back, okay?”
“Va bene,” Mr. Rossi says distractedly, and ducks out of the bakery again.
So much for makingstrazzatetoday. It’s not like Royal would be back anyway, even if I called him.
Why would he want to?
Happy endings aren’t for a girl like me.
Leah
On the wayback from class, my boots are soggy again. I really need to replace them, but I also have to pay my phone bill and rent. Then I have college tuition, which is way more than a hundred and seventeen dollars a credit.
Why am I even bothering with college? At this point it’ll take me seventy-five years to graduate, and several lifetimes to pay off the debt.
When the pale pink store front is in view, I try to shake my sadness. Why am I feeling like this? It's not because I'm single. It's not because I'm working at a bakery. It's because when I add up the pieces of my life, the total sum equals pathetic.
Is this what my life is going to be like?
I'm so caught up in thoughts, I’m almost at the bakery when I realize the Closed sign is flipped and the lights are off, but the door is half cracked.
That's odd. Maybe Mrs. Rossi took a turn for the worse and Mr. Rossi didn't want to have to deal with any customers.
I walk in and carefully close the door behind me so as not to let the heat out. Something crunches under my cheap boots. Glass.
I turn and gasp. The front cases are smashed. Broken glass covers the floor and countertop. Glinting shards coat the remaining cupcakes and muffins. Big Bernadette is lying on her side on the floor, dented. Coffee’s pooled on the floor, looking like black blood.
“Mr. Rossi,” I cry. There’s a faint groan from the kitchen area. I fly over the shattered glass to the back.
Mr. Rossi is crumpled in a corner, surrounded by the pots, pans, and whisks littering the floor. I race through the piles of spilled flour to crouch at his side.
“Leah, he groans. The skin around his eyes is bruised. His cheek is red and swelling. “I tried to call you,” he mumbles through swollen lips. “Tell you not to come in.”
“Easy.” I take his arm gingerly, wincing when he does, and help him sit up. We both stare at the wreckage of the bakery. “What happened?”
“Stefanos came.”
“Stefanos? Who is Stefanos?” Where have I heard that name before?
“Said I owed him.”
“What? I thought you owned the place.”
“Not rent. Protection.”
“Protection,” I repeat. “From whom?”
