Chapter 4 Small Cake
Sophia turned twenty on a Thursday. She knew this because her mother had put a glittery number two and a glittery number zero on the kitchen table before seven in the morning.
There were no balloons or banners, though not because Constance Rossi lacked access to them.
She had access to everything because she was an accountant with a credit card and no fear of online ordering.
The only reason there weren’t balloons was because Sophia had begged. Actually begged.
“Happy birthday, my love,” Constance said from the stove.
Sophia stood in the kitchen doorway in pajama pants and an oversized Loyola sweatshirt, staring at the glitter numbers. “You promised no decorations.”
“These aren’t decorations.”
“They are glitter numbers.”
“They are breakfast companions.”
“They are decorations.”
Constance turned around with a frying pan in one hand. “They are small.”
Sophia pointed at the table. “They sparkle.”
“That is because twenty deserves sparkle.”
“Twenty deserves coffee.”
“Twenty gets both.” Constance slid eggs onto a plate. “Sit.”
Sophia sat because it was easier than arguing before coffee.
The kitchen smelled like eggs, toast, and the strong coffee her mother made when she wanted to pretend she wasn’t sentimental.
Outside the window, Little Italy was still gray and damp with early morning.
A delivery truck rumbled past. Someone’s dog barked.
Normal Thursday things. Except the glitter numbers sat across from Sophia on the table.
Constance placed breakfast in front of her, then kissed the top of her head. “Twenty.”
Sophia picked up her fork. “Yes.”
“My baby is twenty.”
“Yes.”
“That is two decades.”
“That is how numbers work.”
Constance sat across from her with her own coffee. “You were very small when you were born.”
Sophia closed her eyes. “Please don’t start the birth story.”
“You were.”
“Mom.”
“Tiny little thing. Very angry.”
“I was a newborn.”
“You had opinions.”
Sophia took a bite of toast. “That does sound like me.”
Constance smiled, but it softened fast. “Your father called this morning.”
Sophia looked up.
“He did?”
“He wanted to catch you before class, but I told him you had a late start today. He said he’ll call after lunch.”
Sophia nodded. Her father never forgot birthdays.
He sent cards too early, called at odd times, and once mailed her a soup recipe handwritten on three separate index cards because he said the paper felt more official.
This year, his gift had arrived two days ago.
A new leather notebook, soft and dark green, with her initials stamped on the bottom corner.
Sophia had pretended not to cry, mostly.
Constance watched her over the rim of her mug. “He also said he is proud of you.”
Sophia looked down at her plate.
“Good,” she said.
Constance didn’t tease her for it. That was how Sophia knew her mother understood. She took another bite and reached for her coffee. Constance waited almost eight seconds. A personal record.
“So,” her mother said, “is refrigerator boy aware that today is your birthday?”
Sophia almost dropped the mug. “Mom.”
“What?”
“No.”
“No, he isn’t aware, or no, don’t call him that?”
“Yes.”
Constance smiled into her coffee. “You are very evasive for twenty.”
“I am not evasive. I am eating eggs.”
“Does Vinny know?”
Sophia pushed a tiny piece of toast around her plate. “Victoria knows.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Victoria probably told everyone because she thinks birthdays are security events.”
Constance’s eyebrows lifted. “That girl knows how to look out for you.”
“She understands being bossy.”
“So do I. It is a useful skill.”
Sophia tried not to smile and failed.
Constance leaned forward. “Do you want him to know?”
Sophia’s fork stopped. That was the real question.
She didn’t want a big thing. She hated big birthday attention.
Singing in restaurants made her want to crawl under the table, even when it was for strangers.
Balloons made people look at you. Candles meant everyone waited while she made a wish, and Sophia hated that kind of pressure.
But a small part of her wanted Vinny to know.
Not everyone. Him. Which was terrifying and annoying and probably a sign she needed more coffee.
“I don’t want people making a fuss,” Sophia said.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Sophia sighed. “Maybe.”
Constance smiled like she had won a small but important trial.
“Don’t do that face,” Sophia said.
“This is my face.”
“It is too pleased.”
“I am pleased. You are twenty and maybe interested in a kitchen boy.”
“Kitchen man.”
Constance’s smile widened.
Sophia groaned. “Forget I said that.”
“Never.”
At Bella Luna, Victoria was waiting near the host stand with a paper coffee cup and the face of someone trying very hard to look normal. That was the first warning.
Sophia stopped just inside the door. “No.”
Victoria looked offended. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say hello.”
“You weren’t.”
Gia leaned over the host stand. “She wasn’t.”
Sophia looked at them both. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Victoria said.
Gia said, “Depends what you mean by did.”
Sophia turned toward the door. “I’m leaving.”
Victoria caught her wrist. “No, wait. Nothing bad.”
“That is what people say before something bad.”
Gia lifted one hand. “I wanted a tiara. I was overruled.”
“Because Sophia would walk into traffic,” Victoria said.
Sophia pointed at Victoria. “Correct.”
“So we didn’t get a tiara.”
“Thank you.”
“We got a sash,” Gia said.
Sophia’s stomach dropped.
Victoria smacked Gia’s arm. “We didn’t.”
Gia grinned. “But for one second, she believed it.”
Sophia pressed a hand to her chest. “I hate both of you.”
“No, you don’t.” Victoria held out the coffee. “Happy birthday.”
Sophia took it. The cup had a tiny sticker on the side that said 20 in gold letters. Small. No singing, no tiara, and no customers watching. Sophia’s throat tightened a little.
“Thank you.”
Victoria’s face softened. “You’re welcome.”
Gia slid a small paper bag across the host stand. “From me. Open later, because it is personal and also because if you cry, I’ll get blamed.”
Sophia blinked. “Gia.”
“It isn’t a big deal.”
“It is in a gift bag.”
“It was on sale.”
Sophia took the bag slowly. From the kitchen, something clattered.
Then Vinny’s voice came through the pass. “That wasn’t my fault.”
Antonia’s voice followed. “Then whose fault was it?”
“Gravity.”
“Gravity works here every day without breaking my ladle.”
Sophia tried not to smile.
Victoria saw and sighed. “You are already smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are smiling at kitchen nonsense.”
“Birthday-smiling isn’t a real thing.”
“It is now.”
Gia leaned closer. “He knows.”
Sophia froze. No. Not no. Maybe. Her stomach dipped.
“Who knows what?”
Gia looked delighted. “Look at her pretending.”
Victoria crossed her arms. “I told him because he asked why I was guarding the host stand like something was wrong.”
Sophia stared at her. “Victoria.”
“What? He asked nicely.”
Gia nodded. “Too nicely.”
Sophia’s face heated. “You told Vinny?”
“I told him it was your birthday,” Victoria said. “Not your Social Security number.”
“I didn’t want a big deal.”
“I know.” Victoria’s expression softened. “I told him that too.”
That changed something. Sophia looked toward the kitchen.
Through the pass, Vinny was moving fast with a towel over one shoulder, his attention on something Antonia was saying.
He kept his eyes off Sophia. Not right away.
Which meant he was trying. That was becoming his most dangerous quality.
Trying. The shift started softly. Sophia expected a joke when she passed the kitchen.
She got none. She expected Vinny to lean through the pass and say something loud about birthday royalty or twenty years of judging garnish. He didn’t.
He said, “Behind,” when he passed her with a pan.
Later, when she came for table five’s pasta, he said, “Hot plate, teach.”
It was normal and safe, almost too normal.
By the second hour, Sophia was irritated, which was unfair because this was exactly what she wanted.
No attention and no fuss. No Vinny making her feel like everyone could see through her apron.
He gave her no fuss. Now she wanted fuss from him specifically.
This was why liking someone seemed dangerous. It made no sense.
“You’re frowning at the bread basket,” Gia said, sliding up beside her.
Sophia looked down. “I am not.”
“You are. Bread is innocent.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re disappointed.”
Sophia looked at her. Gia gave her a very innocent face. It didn’t fit.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Sophia said.
“Sure.”
“Gia.”
“I’m only saying if a certain large kitchen idiot isn’t making a big deal of your birthday, it might be because he was told not to make a big deal.”
Sophia looked toward the kitchen. Vinny was at the stove, focused, shoulders moving as he tossed pasta in a pan. He said something to the dishwasher, then laughed when the dishwasher threw a towel at him. Loud Vinny. Easy Vinny. Not-looking-at-her Vinny. Sophia hated that she missed it.
“I didn’t want a big deal,” she said.
Gia picked up two menus. “People are complicated.”
“That isn’t helpful.”
“Usually true, though.”
By the time dinner service slowed, Sophia had been wished happy birthday by Gia, Victoria, Antonia, the dishwasher, and one regular customer who overheard Victoria say it and tipped her an extra ten dollars “for turning whatever age you are, sweetheart.”
Sophia hated that part and also kept the ten dollars. Vinny still hadn’t said happy birthday. Not directly, not loudly, and not at all. It should have been a relief. It wasn’t.
At nine-forty, Antonia called, “Sophia, can you check the office? I think Brett left a folder on the desk.”