Page 3 of What If It Was Us
August, Fourteen Years Ago
The summer before my freshman year of high school was when shit officially hit the fan in my family. It had been hovering for years—and when I say years, I mean approximately fourteen. Because the day things started falling apart in my family was the day I was born.
My brother, Peter, was eight years older than me, and I was the product of our mom cheating on his dad with a one-night stand. Peter’s dad left our mom when the truth came to fruition, and became a raging alcoholic as a by-product. He died two years after the split—something Peter says I’m to blame for.
Mom found a new boyfriend earlier this year whom she up and left us for, moving three hours away to Traverse City. Of course, Peter blamed me for that, too. The screaming in the house between Peter and Mom that had been the soundtrack to my life quieted the first few months after she left, but now Peter had turned all his focus on me. I had conditioned myself to cover my ears through their screaming matches, but I couldn’t do that when the yelling was inmyface.
Just last weekend he’d screamed at me that he wasnotgoing to break his back supporting me. That I shouldn’t expect him to cook for me, or dish out money when I needed it. I was still fourteen, and with the labor laws for minors, nobody was tripping over themselves to hire me, but if Peter wasn’t going to help me anymore, I had to findsomething.
I didn’t have a résumé, so I went to the library and did my best to write a cover letter. At the top was my name, Addison Bianchi, in a bold blue font. I had read online that choosing a visually appealing color would make your name stand out in a pile of résumés, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. After passing them out to every store and restaurant in town, I decided to ride my bike to the next town over; it was two miles, which wasn’t too bad on my bike, but it was especially hot, even for August. The humidity was killer, and by the time I made it, I was sweaty and unpresentable.
My white-blonde hair was sticking to my neck, and I tied it up in a ponytail, even though I thought it looked prettier when I wore it down. I had on my longest pair of denim shorts, which I hoped would look professional since they reached farther than my fingertips if I kept my hands at my sides. My top wasn’t much better—I was wearing a T-shirt that I got from freshman orientation. It was light blue with Maple High School written in gold lettering across the front.
It wasn’t until after I arrived that I remembered it was a Sunday; most of the businesses in Tostela would be closed. I just wasted my time riding my bike here for no reason. I looked up from where I sat moping on my bike, and saw an Italian restaurant named Delvecchios’ Restaurant on the corner of the block. The name was written in white cursive lettering over a red awning and a green door. There were no hours written on the door, so I tried the handle, finding it unlocked and pushing through into the sudden wave of air conditioning.
The front entrance led straight to the hostess stand, and behind it, a dining room with low lighting and a floral-patterned carpet. There was a bar against the far wall lined with various wine bottles, and on either side behind it were swinging doors that I assumed must lead to the kitchen. I thought maybe I had been here as a kid; maybe this was where we went after Peter’s high school graduation a few years ago.
Someone stood up from behind the bar, and we both screamed at the sudden sight of another person.
“Oh honey, you scared me!” the woman said with a hand to her chest. She had black hair pulled back into a ponytail, and right away I could tell she was Italian. She was short, olive-skinned, and beautiful in that effortless type of way. She walked around the bar and came over to where I was hovering by the hostess stand. “We’re closed on Sundays; I’m just in here for inventory.”
She smiled at me with the type of smile that looked motherly. I glanced down at her left hand, finding a huge rock of a diamond on her finger. For a split second, I wondered what it would be like to have someone like this as a mom. Someone who looked put together, who called me honey when she didn’t even know me, and who smiled at me like I wasn’t a stranger.
“I was wondering if you were hiring. I have a cover letter.” I self-consciously wiped sweat from my upper lip, holding out my last cover letter to her.
She glanced at it briefly before looking at me. “We’re not really looking to hire.” She had the decency to frown at me empathetically. I felt defeated; I was starting to think it wasn’t possible for me to find a job before school started. Peter was going to be pissed. If he wasn’t going to give me any more money, what was I going to do?
I tried to say, “That’s okay,” but instead, it tumbled out in a mess of words, followed by a choked sob.
“Oh,” the lady said, clearly caught off-guard by the teenager bursting into tears in the middle of her restaurant. She started rubbing my arm. “What’s the matter?”
I hurried to wipe the tears off my face, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m so sorry,” I said as I took a step back. “I just really need a job.”
She looked back down at the cover letter before settling her eyes back on me. “Follow me, sweetheart.”
She guided me over to the dining room, taking the seat across from me in one of the booths that lined the wall.
“Bianchi?” she said with a smile. “You Italian?”
I nodded. Half Italian, anyways. I had no idea what my father was, and my mom gave me her maiden name.
“Well, that’s at least one thing we have in common.” She winked at me before nodding toward my shirt. “You go to Maple?”
I swiped my hand under my nose, clearing my throat. “I start in two weeks.”
“My son is starting his freshman year, too. Did you go to Oaks for middle school?”
“No, I didn’t grow up here. I live in Highland. Maple is closer to my house though, so it’ll be easier for me to bike there.”
She nodded again, eyes flicking down to my paper to read it before looking back up at me.
“You’re fourteen already, yes?”
I nodded again.
“You could work a couple nights a week for a few hours,” she mumbled to herself, “but my kids typically work those shifts since we’re slower during the week. Fridays and Saturdays are our busiest nights, and we’re closed Sundays. We could probably use another setof hands on the weekends . . . Tell you what, whatever weekends you can spare a three to ten o’clock shift, they’re yours.”
I physically sagged in relief. “You’re serious?” It almost sounded too good to be true. I hated weekends because Peter was off work, lazing around the house, drinking, and yelling at me whenever he got the chance. This was a perfect scenario.
