Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sunday was the day Vanessa was supposed to call her parents. That’s how it had been since she’d arrived in Portland for her hiatus.
If she didn’t call Maria and Luciano Barone every Sunday morning before noon, she could expect a call on Monday morning from her mother, with a guilt trip that included some version of, “I guess you don’t love your parents anymore?”
So, she never missed a call. The melodrama wasn’t worth it.
She glanced at her phone. 1 p.m. Two hours past when she normally called them. But Thursday night’s events left her rattled, and she feared that calling now would invite a third-degree she didn’t have the capacity for today.
It was so stupid, this anxiety. Three days had passed, and nothing else happened.
Granted, she’d only left her apartment to work on the fashion show at The Link.
For those outings, she kept to her strict routine—apartment to Anderson’s car, car to The Link.
No detours, no deviations from the route.
She hadn’t even gone to Natalie’s salon this week, her usual escape, and she had limp hair to show for it.
But the thought of stepping outside her bubble caused a cold foreboding to gnaw at her.
If she could’ve avoided The Link, she would’ve. But she couldn’t quit the fashion show. The whole thing was more than a PR fix for her now. She’d become attached to those kids.
Besides, she knew her anxiety was mostly an overreaction.
Despite her blocks, the comments continued to flood her social media. The Vancouver incident. The video from a lifetime ago that kept resurfacing. The mysterious flowers and creepy DMs. It all fed the paranoia inside her that was taking over like an infection.
She needed to tame it. Fast. Like before she called her mom.
But avoiding the call would make things worse, so she opened her contacts and scrolled to Home.
Home. She hadn’t lived in her parents’ house in almost ten years, but she would always consider it that.
Secretly, she loved that her mother hadn’t changed her bedroom.
Loved that whenever she did go back, she could crawl under the ice-blue duvet she’d picked out herself when she was thirteen and rest her head on the matching pillow.
The urge to cocoon herself in that kind of safety until everything settled down was real, but she also couldn’t go back.
Because as much as that house had been her comfort, it had also been her cage.
The phone rang once before her mom answered. “Cara mia, you’re still alive. I was starting to wonder.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. To think, her mother accused her of having an overactive imagination. Well, if she did, she came by it honestly, thanks to her mother.
“Mom, I’m literally a couple of hours late with calling. There have been entire weeks where I didn’t call.”
Her mother harrumphed. “That was the past. Now you’ve been calling every week, and it means a lot to your father and me.
” The vulnerable sentiment was very unlike Maria, and Vanessa swallowed past the lump that formed in her throat.
“Besides, it’s the only way we know you’re still breathing, because God knows you don’t ever go visit your aunt. ”
Zia Ella lived twenty minutes south of the Pearl District, but Vanessa had plenty of reasons not to make the trip to see her nosy aunt.
“Mom, every time I go, she tries to force-feed me or get me drunk on Zio Gambo’s vinegar wine.”
“Because you don’t eat when you’re on your own.”
“How would you know that if I’m on my own?” She swore she tried to hide her snarky tone.
“Because you never let me teach you how to cook!” her mother shot back. “And don’t give me attitude. We’re worried about you.”
Vanessa sighed and reminded herself that this was how her family showed love. With food, smothering, and endless concern. She couldn’t fault them for it. Not when she’d given them plenty to worry about.
“I’ll see her at the fashion show. She bought tickets.”
Her aunt had been among the first to snap up tickets to the show. The Barones were meddling, interfering, opinionated people, but they always supported each other. Through thick and thin.
“Luciana says you’re spending day and night preparing for this show. You’re working too hard. Are you sleeping?”
“Enough,” she lied. Every night, her insomnia was getting worse, but it had nothing to do with the show. She couldn’t tell her mother that or she’d be on the next flight to Portland, with natural remedies in tow.
Switching gears, she asked, “Have you started following The Link’s Instagram account?
I’ve been updating it with teasers all week, and sharing to my professional account, so we’ve been getting a lot of traction.
” Her efforts had garnered local interest, and several designer shops who’d reached out and offered to sponsor clothing for the event.
Her hours of hard work had been paying off in the best way, and she’d seen the positive impact it was having on the girls. And herself. Organizing the event had given her a sense of purpose she hadn’t had in months, if not years.
Her mother’s sigh came across the line, thick with rebuke and quiet disappointment. “Oh, Vanessa, you know I don’t follow things like that.”
Vanessa’s chest tightened, her pride deflating. She forced herself to swallow, but the bitter taste of guilt lingered. She’d always hated how much her mother’s disapproval could affect her. But there it was, that suffocating weight again.
The message was clear as always: You’re still my daughter, but I expected differently from you.
“Right,” Vanessa murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Did you get the plans for the stage your father emailed over?” Maria asked smoothly, leaving the topic of social media behind.
They’d all learned long ago how to avoid matters that might refer back to the incident.
Vanessa cleared her throat. “Yes, and the wood panels arrive tomorrow. I’m going in early to assemble them and hope to be done by the end of the day so the girls can practice on a proper stage as much as possible.”
“What? You?! Vanessa, you can’t do it yourself,” her mother chided. “It’s too big and heavy.”
“Mom, I never let you teach me how to cook.” Because they’d fought anytime Maria tried. “But Dad taught me how to assemble basic furniture. Remember the Barbie bed I built when I was ten? This is basically the same, but upside down.”
Maria huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “An upside-down bed? Figlia mia, what are you thinking?” She said the last part in Italian.
The line rustled, and her father mumbled in the background, then his voice boomed through the line. “Principessa?”
Princess. Her father’s nickname for her for as long as she could remember. And now Jordan called her that too, but in English. She wondered what kind of sins she’d committed in a past life to deserve this kind of purgatory.
“Don’t do it yourself. The wood panels are heavy. You need help. I’ll send Marcello. He owes me a favor.”
“Marcello, the plumber?”
The Italian community knew each other across state lines. The far-reaching web of connections was shocking.
“Yes. I gave his nephew a summer job a couple of years ago. He owes me. I’ll send him over to give you a hand.”
“That’s really nice, Dad, but I can do it myself.” When he grumbled in protest, she added, “And if it’s too much, I can get the kids to pitch in. You always said, hard work builds character in young people. So I’ll put them to work.”
“Do they know what they’re doing? You know kids these days.”
She played to her father’s old-school patriarchal side. “We often share the gym with the boys’ basketball team. Some of them probably take shop at school. I’m sure we’ll manage. Jordan can assist in the worst case.” Only in the very worst case, if she could help it.
“Who’s Jordan?”
“Oh.” She realized she hadn’t told many people that Jordan had become an unlikely player in her latest reputation-saving scheme. “Jordan Thompson. You met him at Joel and Lucy’s engagement party.”
“The bodyguard?” Her father sounded suspicious.
“He’s a friend of theirs too.” Why did she feel suddenly defensive? “But yes, the bodyguard. He coaches basketball at The Link.”
“Hm.” Then after another beat. “Well, make sure he’s there when you unload the shipment. The panels are easy to put together. I built them like a 3-D jigsaw puzzle. But a couple of the longer side pieces are heavy and awkward to carry. So let the bodyguard move those for you.”
The fact that he didn’t try to tell her not to do any of it was the reason she always got along better with her dad. He believed in her. Or at least, he tried to.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll make sure I have help.”
She said goodbye quickly before he could put her mother back on the phone. Exhausted from a sleepless few nights, and drained from the conversation with her parents, all she wanted to do was nap. But there was too much work and not enough days to do it, so she took out her laptop and got to it.