TWO
Stella
A MONTH LATER...
You’ve got to be shitting me.
The last thing I want to see after the crap day I’ve had is my ex-boyfriend sitting on my parents’ couch, watching the game with my dad. I don’t know what’s worse—the tracksuit Donnie’s wearing, or the fact that my dad’s wearing the same fucking one.
They look like Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger from the movie Twins.
Scowling, I set my purse on the coffee table. Donnie’s around more now than he was when we were dating. It’s unnatural. Dads are supposed to hate their daughter’s boyfriends and any variation thereof, not become BFFs with them.
“You guys gonna get matching tattoos next? Get yourself a nice couples massage?”
“Quit giving me lip, missy, and get the hell outta the way.” My dad waves his beer around, gesturing for me to move as he cranes his neck. God forbid he misses a single second of his precious Pats.
I roll my eyes and head for the stairs, hearing Donnie mumble something to my dad before his heavy footsteps start after me. “Go away, Donnie. I’m not in the mood.” I cringe as I listen to myself, hating the way my accent becomes more pronounced the pissier I get.
Dawnee. Dawnee. Dawnee.
I sound wicked smart right now.
Pushing open my bedroom door, I take off my smock and throw it across the room. I never want to see that ugly-ass thing again.
My door closes softly, and I can practically feel Donnie standing behind me. It’s impossible not to, since he takes up damn near half my room. Bastard’s huge. He towers over my slight, five-foot-three frame, and clocks in at two hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle.
But I’m at that reckless stage of being pissed where I think I could take him. A swift fist to the balls and he’d be down for the count.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I feel a headache coming on. “I swear to God, Donnie, I can’t fuckin’ deal with you right now. Just get out, all right?”
His hands start kneading my shoulders, massaging away my tension. “You’re so hot when you’re angry.”
That’s it.
I bring my elbow back and sock him in the gut. His breath oompfs out of him before he starts laughing. “You know I like it rough, Stella. You’re only turnin’ me on.”
Whirling around, I smack him. “Get out, Donnie! I’ve had a shit day and I’m not in the mood for your pathetic attempt at flirting.”
“All right, all right,” he mutters, fending off my blows. Instead of leaving, he plops his ass down on my bed, making the whole thing groan under his massive weight. “What’s wrong? You have a bad day at beauty school?” He smirks as he says it and my hands automatically ball into fists.
“It’s not called that anymore. It’s cosmetology school, and yes, I had a bad fucking day.” My lip starts to tremble as my stupid eyes water. I bite it to keep from crying, but of course it doesn’t work.
Donnie takes my hand in his and pulls me onto his lap. “What happened?” he asks, genuinely concerned.
Sniffling, I tell him, “I melted the hair off my mannequin.”
It was awful. Everyone else’s mannequins had the perfect shade of blond and my mannequin had white, gummy hair and a giant bald patch on the crown of its head. I was humiliated, and I’m pretty sure there’s a video of it on YouTube now.
Donnie frowns. “Mannequins don’t need hair.”
I roll my eyes and push myself up, pacing the room. “That’s not the point. The point is I’m failing. Again. This is the phlebotomy class all over.”
I don’t know what made me think I could get a job drawing blood. I can’t stand the sight of it. Makes me queasy.
But it seemed better than being a dog groomer. I love dogs, but I only lasted a week at Pawsome Pups before I got tired of coming home every night smelling like wet dog.
The only semi-decent job I’ve had recently was being a cocktail waitress at Oblivion. The tips were great and the hours weren’t too bad. If I hadn’t fucked it all up by fooling around with that guy on the balcony, I’d probably still be working there.
But no, I had to quit the next day, too ashamed and embarrassed at the thought of potentially running into the guys who caught me with a stranger’s fingers two-knuckles deep in me, or worse, running into the guy who owned said knuckles.
I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep fucking up.
I’m twenty-two years old and I’ve got no real-world skills. School was a bust. I barely squeaked by with a C+ average. The only thing I’m genuinely good at is taking bomb-ass selfies for Instagram, but that doesn’t really translate into a stable job.
The bed groans as Donnie stands, taking my hands in his. It stops my nervous pacing long enough for me to look up at him. “I don’t know why you’re worryin’ yourself to death over this. In ten years, when we’re married and have a couple of rugrats runnin’ around, this won’t even matter.”
My eyes narrow into murderous little slits as I yank my hands away. “Maybe I want a career, Donnie. You never stopped to ask me what I wanted to do with my life. You just assumed I’d stay home with our kids while you went off to work every day. Maybe I want more than that.”
For a moment he looks like I’ve slapped him. Then anger twists his face. “What, being a wife and mother ain’t good enough for ya?”
Donnie doesn’t want a wife, he wants a maid—someone to cook his meals, clean his house, and wash his clothes. Preferably with his baby on her hip while she does it.
Sixteen-year-old me would’ve given anything to become Donnie’s wife and pop out a couple of his kids, but I’m not that girl anymore. My dreams may not be big enough to fill a movie screen or sharp enough to run a board meeting, but I know they won’t be fulfilled if I stay with Donnie. I’ve known him long enough to know that I’d never truly be his partner.
I’d just be second in command on Team Del Vecchio, while Donnie reigns as captain.
I bite my lip as a lone tear escapes down my cheek. “Maybe it’s not enough, no.” I have no clue what I want to do with my life, but I know I don’t want to spend it with him. That may sound harsh, but it’s better I figured it out now than ten years from now.
He shakes his head, the look on his face telling me he’s finally getting what I’ve been saying for the past three months—it’s over. “You’ve changed, Stella.”
I have. But I think the real problem is that he hasn’t.
***
Being Catholic and having a big family goes hand-in-hand. My parents’ house is packed for dinner tonight and it’s not even a special occasion. I narrowly dodge being pummeled by a kid as he runs past the bottom of the stairs, chasing after his brothers and cousins.
“Slow down, Mario Andretti! This ain’t a racetrack!”
“Sorry, Stella!” my nephew yells back.
I swear I like kids. I do. I even love these little monsters, but right now their piercing mix of laughter and shrieks are like icepicks stabbing at my throbbing head. I love my family, but I cannot wait to get the hell out of here. I’d kill to come home to a quiet, empty place every once in a while.
And from the tired, dazed expression of my big sis, Angie, I’m not the only one who feels this way.
Being the mother to four rowdy boys under the age of ten is its own warzone, so I can’t really fault her for her thousand-yard stare as I plop down at the dinner table next to her. It’s probably the first five minutes she’s had to herself all day.
“How’s it going, Ang?”
She blinks her trance away and glances at me as she twists the stem of her wine glass. “I fished my car keys out of the toilet today and Robbie gave the cat a haircut. How was your day?”
“I melted the hair off my mannequin and the video’s already trending on YouTube. Oh, and I dropped out of cosmetology school.” I shrug. “You know, same old, same old.”
She winces. “Okay, you win. Do mom and dad know?”
“Not yet,” I sigh. “I’m waiting to see how well the Pats play before breaking the news.”
Angie snorts and takes a sip of her wine. “Good luck. They’re down fourteen points.”
“Shit,” I mutter, glancing behind me to the living room. Dad’s yelling at the TV and Donnie’s got a scowl on his face, but I think that’s got more to do with me than the game.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
My head whips around at the familiar voice. Standing next to me with a smirk on her face is my favorite aunt. “Brenda!” I jump up and wrap my arms around her. “I didn’t know you were coming.” Her and my uncle Paul rarely come to these get-togethers.
She pats me on the back before releasing me. “It was a last minute decision,” she says, looking almost sad as she brushes my hair behind my ear.
Has she been crying? Her eyes are kind of red.
Before I can dwell on it too much, she claps her hands and paints a huge smile on her face. “What’s for dinner?”
***
“So what’s new with you two?” my mom asks Brenda and Paul at dinner. She sets her fork on her plate and lifts her wine glass. “We hardly ever get to see you since you started working for Mr. Fortune Five-hundred.”
Brenda rolls her eyes. “Please. I’m just a lowly assistant. One of many.”
“For one of the richest men in the world,” my mother adds wryly.
Brenda gives my mom a pointed look. “I fetch his dry cleaning and make sure his fridge is stocked. You make it sound like I’m wheeling and dealing with him in the boardroom.”
My mother waves her sister off. “Well whatever it is he’s got you doing, it’s enough to keep you busy.” She takes a sip of her wine and sets the glass down. “Too busy to come see us,” she teases, although it’s kind of true.
Ever since Brenda started working for Clayton Castle, her weekly dinner visits happened less and less, until she stopped coming altogether. She might joke about being a lowly assistant, but I know she loves her job and takes it seriously. He’s a great boss according to her, and the job offers full benefits and generous pay. In this economy, that’s a great trade-off to basically being on-call 24/7.
Brenda and Paul trade glances. She clears her throat before saying, “There’s actually something else that’s been keeping us busy lately.”
My mom’s eyes grow animated. “You’re pregnant,” she says gleefully.
Brenda is my mom’s youngest sister, and pushing forty. Her and Paul have been trying—unsuccessfully—to have a baby for the past several years.
I glance at Brenda, hoping it’s true but knowing it’s not when a slight frown mars her face.
“No.” She looks down at her plate, pushing around her uneaten food. “Paul has cancer.”
Gasps break out around the table as all other conversations cease. It’s quiet for several moments—practically unheard of in our household—until my mom asks, “How bad is it?”
“Mom,” Angie chides.
Paul chuckles. “It’s okay. The doctors caught it early. They say my chances of survival are good.”
Tears well in Brenda’s eyes as Paul clasps her hand, bringing it up to place a soft kiss on the back.
My mom wipes at her eyes, clearly regretting her baby comment. “Good. Good.”
Angie gives her a look, like Really, Mom? to which my mom scowls at. It’s not uncommon for my mom to stick her foot in her mouth, and it’s not uncommon for Angie to be embarrassed by it.
“On the plus side, I finally have some time off now. Mr. Castle was nice enough to give me paid leave while Paul gets treatment. I want to be at every doctor’s appointment, every chemo treatment.” She gives her husband a watery smile, obviously trying to remain positive for his sake. “All I have to do now is find a replacement for me while I’m on leave.” She chuckles. “That’s easier said than done, though. I can’t exactly post a help wanted ad, not for something as high profile as Clayton Castle’s personal assistant.”
Well if that’s not opportunity knocking…
“I can help.” Everyone’s eyes are on me as soon as the words leave my mouth. “Think about it, Brenda. You know me. You know I’m not gonna steal from him or go blabbing to TMZ about his personal life.”
Her eyes narrow as she thinks it over. “True.”
My dad sets his beer down. “Wouldn’t this interfere with beauty school?”
Donnie snorts. “She flunked out today,” he says around a mouthful of food.
Anger flares in me. I can’t believe he’d just blurt that out in front of my whole family. What an ass. “What the hell are you even doing here, Donnie? You’re not part of this family.”
My dad stops eating long enough to point his fork at me. “And whose fault is that, missy?”
I silently fume, knowing it’s pointless to talk back to my dad. It’s like arguing with a brick wall.
A short, chubby, Italian brick wall.
***
After dinner, I pull Brenda aside. “Look, I know people think I’m not gonna do anything more with my life than get married and pop out a couple of kids, but I want more than that. Maybe this is my chance for it. I’m not as dumb as I look, Brenda. I can do this.”
Her face crumples in pity as she pulls me in for a hug. “No one ever said you were dumb, sweetie.” She pulls back and asks, “Now when can you start?”