This is going to be nothing short of a disaster.
5
WINNIE
As the night sky lightens,my phone beeps with the kind of notification that makes my stomach drop. My eyes burn as I tap my phone’s bright screen to see the message from the bank with an account balance alert, telling me it’s fallen below the minimum threshold for free checking.
I stare at the numbers, still half asleep in Grandma’s guest room. The quilt she made—once colorful and now faded with fabric squares in yellows, reds, and oranges—suddenly feels too heavy.
I transferred the last chunk of my savings to Sorrentino’s Restaurant yesterday. Three thousand dollars that was supposed to be my emergency fund. Except my familyisthe emergency, and I’m the only one who seems to understand and be willing to do something about it.
The restaurant is failing. Not dramatically and not all at once, but like a slow leak that no one notices until an inch of water fills the bottom of the boat.
I’m an optimist, but this is undeniable.
Fabrizio is holding everything together while trying to gethis stand-up comedy career off the ground. Meanwhile, Mom and Dad are in denial.
The problems include competition from newer or chain Italian places in Reno, along with location issues—they’re just far enough off the main strip to lose foot traffic. They keep planning special menus they can’t afford and have somehow convinced themselves that this is just a temporary downturn.
Meanwhile, Dad’s health hasn’t been great, which means he’s not managing things like he used to. Mom has been handling his appointments while also botching the books. Thanks to time spent abroad that resulted in her falling in love with an Italian and learning the language, however, she’s not quite fluent in math.
The business got away from them. Somehow, I’m the life raft. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep it afloat.
I check my balance again on the app. I don’t pay rent. Grandma won’t hear of it, even though I’ve offered a dozen times. But I do have living expenses like insurance, a phone bill, and other adult responsibilities. I have enough for that, gas and groceries for two weeks if I’m careful. Then what?
I’ll figure it out. I always do.
My phone buzzes again with a text from Fabrizio.
Fab: Ma was still up when I got home, telling me about the special Valentine’s Day menu with cuts of steak they can’t afford. Can you call her later?
Great. Perfect. Exactly what I need on an already busy day.
I drag myself out of bed and through my morning routine on autopilot. Shower. Coffee. Bible. I wear a second-hand blouse and a pencil skirt that fits looser than it should. I miss my parents’ cooking. At this point, I’d eat pasta for breakfast. Day-old spaghetti with Dad’s marinara is the best. I dare anyone to disagree!
By seven thirty, I’m in my car, driving toward the municipal complex with a travel mug of Grandma’s strongest coffee.
I pass the old firehouse on Main Street. The brick building looks sad in the early morning light with scaffolding around one side and construction materials stacked near the entrance. A hand-painted sign that saysBakery and Café Coming Soon!stretches above the main bay.
I wonder if Patton revised the forms and if they’re on my desk. Possibly.
I’m not being petty by making him fix every tiny error before I approve them. I’m doing my job. There are rules for a reason, and I’m not going to bend them just because Lieutenant Grouchy Face makes me feel like a fly landing on his baked goods every time I try to be helpful.
I wonder if the way he looks at me is because he truly abhors me or if there’s something else.
He rattled me last night. How he stood in my doorway, hulking with his wide, muscular frame and a distinct expression of disapproval and distaste, like I personally designed the zoning regulations just to inconvenience him.
Before Mayor Barbie interrupted our face-off, we were so close. His gaze dragged over every inch of me. He smelled like cedar and woodsmoke. Campfire memories and comfort.
Ugh.
Although my rebellious body has other ideas, I tell myself I am not at all attracted to a man who clearly hates me.
I pull into the parking lot and grab my bag. Time to be the capable, cheerful Parks & Rec director everyone expects me to be.
Smile and wave, Sorrentino. Smile and wave. My days of being Miss Nevada are long gone and so is the heartache over allof the things that could have been. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
The massive frosted glass garage bay doors of the new fire station attached to the municipal complex hang open. I catch glimpses of movement—the crew prepping equipment, the Dalmatian sniffing around, likely looking for snacks.
