Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Vince
On the drive home, I try to pinpoint why Sal got to me. The man’s a professional shit-talker, and I typically let his words roll off me like water on a duck’s back.
Typically, except there’s nothing typical about Luna Barone.
I sigh heavily. Luna’s my responsibility, that’s all. I would’ve reacted that way had Sal been talking shit about Aldo.
My brother’s words ring in my ears. Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve.
Passing a bakery, I don’t know what possesses me, but I turn around and pull into the parking lot. Popping inside, I leave with a birthday cake.
I arrive home to find Luna sprawled out on the floor with a notebook in front of her and a pencil in hand, deep in concentration. My eyes land on the skirt she’s wearing that’s far too short, and I dart my attention away from her long legs .
“Mr. Vincenzo,” the tutor greets me with an enthusiastic smile. “Luna’s made some real?—”
“Could you please be quiet? Taking a practice test here,” Luna cuts her off. She finishes reading and pencils in a bubble before closing her booklet. “We can check the answers tomorrow,” she announces, clearly over the tutor.
“I don’t mind staying later,” the tutor says to me.
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I say politely but firmly.
“Of course.” She fawns. “And Luna, I look forward to day two.”
“Not as much as I do,” Luna parrots in the same sing-song tone, and I have to clear my throat to cover a laugh.
“Let me escort you out,” I say to the tutor, ushering her to the door.
“Oh, Mr. Vincenzo, such gentlemanly manners.”
Lady, get the fuck out, because if Luna doesn’t kill your annoying ass, I might. “See you tomorrow,” I say, closing the door in her face and locking it.
I turn to Luna. “Come eat.”
“What happened to those gentlemanly manners, Mr. Vincenzo?” Luna bats her eyes, mimicking the tutor.
“You don’t want the best burger in town?” The recipe I perfected myself.
Luna looks like she wants to say no out of pure stubbornness, but she starts to the kitchen.
“Good girl.” The words slip out of my mouth.
Lun a
Not knowing how to respond, I silently sit down as Vince busies himself with plating burgers and fries.
Good girl.
I’ve never been called a combination of those two words, and I’m confused as to why I’m fighting the need to squeeze my legs together.
Vince presents me with my plate before he takes a seat across from me. “Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the burger with both hands. There’s no dainty way to do this, and so I dive right in. “What?” I ask Vince, who’s staring.
“Nothing,” he says, taking a bite of his burger.
“This is so good,” I say around a mouthful of greasy deliciousness. “Where’s it from?”
“My brother’s bar.”
“Brother?” I pounce. “What’s his name? Which bar? How old is he? Are you close?”
“None of your business. None of your business. None of your business. None of your business.”
“So everything I do is your business, and nothing you do is my business?” I challenge.
“Now she’s catching on,” Vince says with laughter in his voice.
I flip him off with a greasy finger, and he chuckles. “Do you have any ranch dressing?” I ask, popping a fry in my mouth.
“ Ranch? ” He looks like I’ve slapped him across the face. “Why the fuck would you need ranch?”
“You’ve never dipped fries in ranch? You’re missing out,” I inform him.
He makes a face. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“A man set in his ways. How…bland,” I taunt.
Vince smiles, walking to the pantry and returning with a bottle of malt vinegar. “Try this and tell me if it’s bland.”
It sounds disgusting, but since I accused Vince of being set in his ways, I’d be a total hypocrite if I refused. Pouring a splash of the brown liquid on my plate, I dip a fry in it and take a bite. “It’s pretty good.”
“Pained you to admit that,” he says.
“Not as good as ranch , but good.”
“So much I’ve got to teach you,” he chides.
“So much I’ve got to teach you,” I counter.
“Says the eighteen-year old.” He flashes a bemused smile.
“Says the fifty-year old,” I say to rile him up, but he snorts a laugh. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Thirty-four. Not over the hill quite yet.”
“If you need a push down that hill, let me know,” I tell him.
He smiles, leaning across the table. “ Piccola , I have no doubt you’re more than ready, willing, and able to lend a hand.”
“I’m handy,” I agree, darting my eyes to my food.
There’s a weird energy in the room; I guess because Vince and I are getting along. And we’re back to what in the actual fuck.
We finish lunch in silence, and I bring my dirty plate to Vince, who’s standing next to the open dishwasher. Our fingers accidentally brush each others, and I drop my hand so fast it causes the plate to fall, shattering into pieces. “I’m sorry,” I stammer, years of conditioning causing me to flinch.
“Luna, I’m not your old man.” Vince chides.
“I know that,” I snipe, hating that little bits of vulnerable Luna are seeping out like air from a deflated birthday balloon.
I squat down to clean up the mess, but Vince jerks me up by my arm. My eyes wide, he says gently, “Sit.”
I walk over to the table and have a seat, watching as he silently cleans up the mess. He grabs another plate from the cabinet and knife from the drawer, and I’m stunned when I see what’s in the box.
The thoughtful gesture nearly has me in tears until he brings me a piece, and I see the decorations up close. It’s a lovely cake with white frosting and yellow buttercream roses. I grit my teeth.
“What’s wrong?” Vince asks, confused.
I grab the plate and storm across the kitchen, scraping the piece of cake in the trash. Slamming the plate down on the counter, I march to my bedroom and lock the door. Tears blind my eyes as I slide to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself.
Yellow roses symbolize friendship, but Vince said it himself: don’t mistake him for a friend.
Vince
I don’t understand how things went from jovial to homicidal, but here we are.
Luna shoots me a death glare as I answer the door, leading the first potential chess coach inside.
“Mr. Vincenzo,” the man says in a thick French accent as we shake hands. He appears to be around my age, dressed in skinny jeans. His face can best be described as extremely punchable. Strike one.
“And you must be Luna.”
“Hello.” Her face lights up as she smiles brightly at him. Strike two.
Luna’s more prepared than I could ever be, firing off a list of questions. “Do you currently have your own chess ambitions?”
Frenchie shakes his head. “I’m a full-time coach, with no desire to return to competitive play. ”
“Why?” Luna asks.
“Because it gives me greater joy to see my students succeed than any victory of my own.”
I’m calling bullshit.
“I want to break into the top fifty by the end of the year. Tell me your plan to help me make that happen,” Luna says.
Frenchie throws around technical terms I don’t understand, and he and Luna have a lively back and forth. “If our lessons go into overtime, we keep going,” he tells her, and that punchable face is begging for my fist. “Your needs always come first.”
And that’s strike three. Frenchie’s out.
“Thank you. We’ll be in touch if you’re selected,” I interject.
Luna cuts me a look as I usher Frenchie out the door.
“He’s a no,” I tell Luna when it’s just the two of us.
“Why? He seemed knowledgeable enough,” she argues.
I shake my head, knowing exactly what kind of lessons that man would offer Luna if given the opportunity. “Frenchie was bad news.”
Luna crosses her arms. “Because he was attractive?”
“The answer is no.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“My dime; my decision.” My right to be ridiculous. “Why did you get so upset over the birthday cake?”
Luna hesitates, and I’m afraid she’s not going to tell me, but she finally says, “No one’s ever got me a birthday cake.” For the second time today, I want to dig up her father just to kill him all over again. “No one except the man Stockholm syndroming me.”
I snort. “That’s not a verb.”
“You’re making it a verb,” she counters with crossed arms.
“For the love of all things holy, it was a birthday cake!” I throw up my hands in frustration. “Nothing more, nothing less. Besides, haven’t you heard the old expression: you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“Can I borrow your bookie pencil? I need to write down these pearls of wisdom.”
If my glass eye could twitch, it would.
The doorbell rings, putting a pause to this nonsensical—whatever the hell this is.
I escort inside the second chess coach candidate: a non-French elderly woman.
She’s hired.