For as much as I want to be like my aunt—all go all the time—I know I do my best thinking in quiet places. I take a deep breath, excited to worship at the church of nature.
The entrance has a big, metal gate that makes it look like someplace the public isn’t invited, but I think that’s part of its charm—a man-made gateway to a natural wonderland.
And then I notice the sign: NO DOGS ALLOWED.
Inside jokes, intern dinners, and now the pond. It seems the theme for the day is “Places Maddie will be left out of.” Watford looks at me with mournful eyes and bumps his head against my thigh. I hear the “I’m so sorry” in his contact.
“It’s okay, buddy.” I scratch behind his floppy ears. “We’re not going to let this get us down, right?”
As we walk back to Emma’s apartment, I decide the best way to salvage this day is with cake.
Everything’s better with cake.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
MY PHONE BUZZES AT MIDNIGHT.
I’ve spent the last several hours splicing together video to keep my mind off the fact that Gabe hasn’t kept his freaking promise. Max and I exchanged no fewer than a dozen text messages on the subject. He bet if Gabe actually followed through it would be really late.
Looks like my bro is a genius in human nature, too.
The text says, Late lunch tomorrow at Moretti’s after practice?
I know exactly who it’s from, but for some inexplicable reason I can’t help myself from responding:
Me: Who is this?
Him: Do you always respond to texts from strangers late at night?
I smirk.
Me: Did you expect me not to respond?
The three little dots cycle for a while before he answers:
Him: Maybe.
It sure took him a long time to come up with a one-word answer, but it only takes me a second to type a much longer response.
Me: You texted me at midnight *hoping* I wouldn’t answer? Do you not want to get together tomorrow? If not, that’s okay. We can figure out a plan in the next couple of days. But I need to have something great to show my aunt or I’m going to get into huge trouble for not taking pictures of you with the kids.
And then William will hate me and then he won’t write me a good letter of recommendation and I won’t get into UNC.
Him: You send long texts.
In my head, he sounds petulant. I imagine him draped across his leather couch, shirt off, one arm tucked behind his head, bicep flexed.
Wait … what? Slow your roll, Imagination. It must be tired because my mind just took a super-inappropriate jump.
Sorry, I text back. I mean it for both the long message and remembering him shirtless this morning. I’m glad no one can see me because I’m flushed, and the back of my neck is hot. I shouldn’t be thinking about him—especially not like that. Plus, there was a girl wearing only his jersey in his apartment. That thought dumps an imaginary bucket of cold water on my brain.
Him: Moretti’s at three o’clock. Go through the alley door.
I wonder what that’s all about, but he sends me an address that’s not far from my aunt’s apartment.
Me: See you then.
Him: Sweet dreams.
I’m blushing. Why am I blushing? It’s not like he knows I was just thinking about him. Shirtless.
I don’t respond to his text, but I also can’t concentrate on anything else. So I send my brother a message:
I’m attracted to someone totally inappropriate.
My phone rings instantly. “Talk to me, Goose.” Max has a deep and abiding love for movie references, but this is one I know because he says it all the time.
“Top Gun is a horrible movie.”
“Not disagreeing, but it’s a great line.”
I can’t argue with that, so I spill everything. I leave out the bit about shirtless Gabe this morning—there are some things that even your older brother—best friend doesn’t need to know. But I don’t hold back on how cute Gabe was with the kids.
“I was … melty.”
“That’s not a real word.” Max laughs. It’s the sound of holidays and Saturday mornings. It’s the sound of home. “But I get the sentiment.”
I climb under the frothy duvet on the guest bed, and Watford jumps up after me. “What do I do?”
“Nothing,” Max says emphatically. “You do not get involved with a guy like Gabriel Fortunato, even if he makes you melty.” He gags a little to punctuate that sentence.
“Of course not. He’s a client. There are probably rules. Ethics. Bad … karma?”
Max snorts. “You’re not convincing me. So let me convince you: You’ve already made an enemy. How much more is this Mara chick going to hate you if she thinks you’re only on the Fortunato account because you’ve got a thing for him?”
“With the fire of a thousand suns?”
He’s silent for a minute. “Are you quoting Ten Things I Hate about You or Taming of the Shrew?”
“Neither. Both. I don’t know.” I roll my eyes, even though no one but Watford can see me. “How do you remember this stuff?”
“It’s not like I’m trying. Some things just get stuck in there.”
“There” meaning his giant brain. And he’s not bragging. When he was younger, he hated to read because he said stories got lodged in his mind and left him with too much to think about.
“Next question—”
“You have more questions?” My voice shifts octaves on the last word and Watford lifts his head to give me the stink eye.
“Would having a crush on him stop you from doing your best work?”
I don’t answer right away, suddenly doubting my own motives. Was the real reason I didn’t take pictures of Gabe with the kids because I agreed that exploiting sick children was wrong or because I wanted him to like me? “Uggghhhh.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He sounds so self-satisfied that I immediately jump on the defensive.
“It’s not a yes. It’s just not a no.”
Max does his disbelieving cough-laugh. “Go to bed, Mads.”
“Will do. Love you, Bro.”
“Ditto.”
I shake my head against my pillow. “That’s from that Patrick Swayze movie Mom loves,” I say.
“It wasn’t a reference to Ghost. It was just a goodbye.”
When he hangs up, I realize that for the first time in my life I’m a little homesick. That thought, instead of anything work related, lulls me to sleep.
I’M SLATED TO WORK THE FRONT DESK THE NEXT MORNING, BUT Katie insists on joining me until lunch. She drags a big box of tabloids and another chair to sit beside me.
“If you get wrapped up in something Fortunato-related, then I can take the phones.” She pulls out a stack of European magazines and plops them on the long tabletop. “And if I get sucked into a mind-numbing whirlpool of beautiful people, then you can pull me out.”
For the past two years, I haven’t put friendships very high on my priority list. There are girls from my high school dance team that I hang out with every now and then, and a couple of them were pretty disappointed when I decided not to try out for the team for our senior year. Even though they were my friends, I’ve never felt like any of them could be the one friend that I texted about every single thing. Partially because I’ve always had Max. If there was anything funny or important, he was my go-to. And if the issues were too uncomfortable to share with him, I always went to my mom.
Being here in the city, away from my family, has made me feel like I’m missing out on something. Maybe I need a friend who doesn’t share my DNA?
I can’t restrain my grin from Katie, both because she’s becoming my friend and because she pretends to hate combing through the gossips. “You totally love this part of our job.”
“I do. It’s sort of gross, but the eye candy, the dresses, and the makeup tips are so much better than making copies and getting coffee.” She holds up both hands. “Sorry.”<
br />
“It’s fine.” Mostly because she’s not wrong. I’m happy that I’m an awesome coffee-getter, but I’ll be happier if I can prove that I’m also a fabulous video editor, social media wizard, and intern publicist.
My second day at the front desk is so much less hectic than the first. I don’t know if it has to do with my skills improving or if it’s Katie’s company, but I find plenty of time to work on Fortunato-related projects on Patty’s computer, scribbling a list of possible questions, and I don’t hang up on anyone at all.
At two, Mara shows up. She’s wearing a summer sweater and pin-striped pants with enormous, flared bottoms, and her long, glossy hair hangs over her shoulder in an intricate braid. I instantly have outfit envy. It’s not that I look bad in Aunt Emma’s clothes, but they don’t belong to me. Mara isn’t shopping in someone else’s closet. She just looks this good all the time.
“Arman is busy, so I offered to take the afternoon shift.” She delivers the sentence without any inflection. She’s either not thrilled with her volunteer position, or she’s still doing her best to hate my guts.
I decide to play dumb. “It’s nice of you to help.”
She shrugs. “Katie was stuck out here all day yesterday and this morning with you. And Javi offered, but he strikes up random conversations with strangers.”
“Oh, I totally understand that.” I save my work in the editing program and offer her the chair with a flourish. “Anything I can get you before I leave?”
“No.”
Well, all righty then. Should I try to explain? Probably not. I don’t know that it will do any good, since Katie already tried to smooth things over for me.
Something my mom said yesterday echoes in my ears. Everyone is the hero of their own story. I guess that makes me the villain of Mara’s. Have I unintentionally derailed her summer internship plans?
Her loss is my gain. Ugh. What a horrible thought. What a villainous thought.
I decide not to chat her up. Even though it bothers me to know that someone dislikes me, no one likes to hear the bad guy monologue about their reasons.
As I step into the elevator, I look over the list of questions I wrote for my meeting with Gabe. They’re good questions. Leading questions. I smooth out my hair and take a deep breath.
I can have a clear conversation with Gabriel Fortunato and not act like an idiot.
Probably.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
MORETTI’S IS A TINY STOREFRONT ON CLARK STREET NOT FAR from my aunt’s apartment. I’ve probably walked past it a dozen times and never noticed it wedged between a yoga studio and fancy soap and lotion shop.
I intend to walk through the front door like a normal person, but the little blue-and-white sign is flipped to CLOSED, so I guess I’m stuck following Gabe’s directions. As I head toward the break between the buildings, a silver Ferrari whips past me and turns into the alley.
Gabe climbs out, phone in hand, reflective sunglasses hiding his eyes.
“Is it legal to park here?” There isn’t a NO PARKING sign, but the last thing I need is his car getting towed while I’m supposed to be meeting him for an early dinner.
“Yes,” he says, with a laugh. “At least for me.” He opens an all-metal door set into the brick wall, and when I hesitate to walk into Moretti’s kitchen, he sighs and leads the way.
Once inside, I’m overwhelmed with the mouthwatering fragrance of garlic and baking bread. Stems of herbs—drying basil, rosemary, and oregano—hang from a rack lining the ceiling, and a pristine, busy kitchen fills a space larger than I imagined for a restaurant this size.
“Gabe!” a woman about my mother’s age cheers when she sees us. She rushes over, plastic glove-covered hands held out to the sides, as she offers her cheeks for him to kiss.
He does immediately, speaking in Italian, gesturing to me. Whatever he says earns me a wide grin in greeting, and she ushers us to a tiny bistro table shoved into a nook that might once have been a closet.
“The back table, huh?” I wedge into the chair that can only slide a handful of inches from the wall. When Gabe sits down, his knee knocks against mine, and it takes a second to arrange my legs so that they aren’t touching his. My feet rest on the base of the pedestal with his straddling mine. Even with the width of the table separating us, there’s barely enough space for two plates.
“You should see me and Scott try to fit.”
The image of Scott’s bulk and Gabe’s body smashed in here together makes me smile. “You eat here a lot?”
“As often as I can.” Then his expression shutters. “Don’t tell anyone that. I’d like it to—”
“Stay private. I understand.”
The woman sets down two glasses of water, a wood platter covered in cheese, salami, and bruschetta, and a pile of what looks like eggplant, then disappears without saying a word.
Gabe immediately creates a miniature sandwich, while I dig in my wallet for my folded piece of paper. There isn’t really a lot of space on the table, so I leave it on my lap. I’ll start with a harmless question and hope that the other topics come up naturally.
“How do you like Chicago so far?”
“Is that an official question, or are you just making conversation?” he asks without looking at me.
Not as harmless as I imagined. “I guess that depends on your answer.”
“If I hate Chicago and want nothing more than to return to Italy, you’ll only tell me to lie.” He shoots me a chilly sideways glance. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to say?”
“Why don’t you tell me the truth, and we can go from there?”
“I love Chicago. It has quickly become a second home to me. The people, the parks, the food are all divine. There’s no place quite like it in all the world.” He says it without sarcasm, but that almost makes it sound like a carefully packaged lie.
“Are you being honest now, or were you honest before?”
“Does it matter?”
If this is the direction my afternoon is headed, then I want off this train. Be brave, Maddie. Just jump. “Look, I don’t want you to lie to me. If you can’t say something nice or interesting or smart, then we’ll rely on your good looks to carry your social media presence.” Heck, while I’m off the rails, I might as well keep rolling. “I get that you don’t want to be here, that you’re hungry and probably tired after training. But I agreed not to film you with the kids, and I don’t want to fail on my first intern assignment. I’d really appreciate it if you could be a professional for a few more minutes.”
His mouth is open in shock, but his lips are curved up at the edges. Amused shock? Is that a thing? I’m weirdly pleased that I’ve managed to draw this sort of reaction.
“I’m sure,” he says, tilting his head toward me, “I can find something interesting to say.”
I circle my hand, urging him to do it.
“I do like Chicago. The city has a lot to offer, but …” He pauses, scooping up a bit of bread and cheese. “But I don’t know that it will ever feel like home.”
The silence stretches for a moment as I consider his words, his tone. There at the end, he sounded a little vulnerable, like he was actually divulging a truth. It may not have been the most flattering response, but the honesty and pinch of homesickness made it relatable.
“Okay.” I nod slowly. “I think we can use that. What about—”
“No more questions until we eat something. Please.” He waves to his food and says, “In Italy, we eat what’s presented to us and then discuss business between courses.”
That might be etiquette, but it feels like stalling. Still, I follow his lead to be polite, scooping the meat and cheese onto the bread but avoiding the eggplant.
“Are you from Chicago?” he asks as he creates his next bite.
“Is that an official question, or are you just making conversation?” I throw his words back at him.
His hand stops halfway to his mouth, and he flashes a smirk that
I’ve seen in the tabloids. It’s formulated for maximum devastation: teasing, naughty, completely effective. If this were a date, I’d puddle at his feet.
“I already told you we weren’t discussing business.”
“Oh, so casual conversation is allowed while we eat?”
The smirk melts into something more sincere, and strangely, it has a more potent impact on my insides. “Yes, of course. And?”
“And …” I shake off the feeling that’s gooier than the melted mozzarella pictured on the menu. “Am I from Chicago? No. I’m from Normal. It’s a few hours southwest of the city.”
“Normal is a strange name.”
“It’s accurate.”
“So Normal is …” He’s done this before, pausing to search his vocabulary for the right term in English. “Basic?”
“Exactly!” I laugh. “It’s your basic midwestern town.”
The woman comes back with two small bowls full of steamy, creamy-looking rice speckled with mushrooms. She hurries away before I can thank her.
“How do you know the secret back doors to Chicago’s best Italian restaurants?” I ask scooping some into my mouth. It tastes like comfort food, like something your mom made for you when you got a bad grade or someone was mean to you at school.
“Scott, actually. He studied abroad in Rome and came back to America dying to find the most authentic Italian food.” He waves to our small enclosure. “And he found Maria and Moretti’s.”
“Ah. That’s where he learned to speak Italian. Mystery solved.”
“His Italian isn’t nearly as good as he thinks it is.” Gabe has two more spoonfuls of creamy rice in his bowl, but he pushes it to the side. I’m a little jealous he has any left. “Tell me more about yourself,” he prompts.
“Why?”
“It’s only fair that you should tell me about you, if you expect me to do the same. Besides, we’ll be working together a lot, so—” he adds, making that pinching hand gesture Italians always do in movies, totally living up to the stereotype. I guess Italians really do talk with their hands. “I need to know who I’m in business with.”
Far From Normal Page 8