29. Quinn
Quinn
“So much for paradise,” I say as the plane jets downward in the sky. It’s turbulent as heck, and while everyone else on the plane seems calm, I can’t help thinking I’m never going to see land again.
“That might be the first pessimistic thing I have ever heard you say,” Reid tells me with a smile.
And I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to keep it light hearted.
Trying to keep me from panicking. Trying to keep my mind off the fact that there is a full blown thunderstorm outside the small round windows and our little plane is being tossed around like a football during the Super Bowl.
“It’s hard to be optimistic when you’re thousands of feet from land and might die any moment,” I say, swallowing the bile that jets up from my stomach with every bump.
“We aren’t going to die,” Reid says. “It’s just a little turbulence, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” I shriek. “It feels like we’re four-wheeling through sand dunes. The only difference is if we flip over, it’s lights out,” I say. Maybe I’m being dramatic. But honestly, I don’t think so. I’ve seen movies like this, and they never end well. They always end in flames and explosions.
“Orlando is a skilled pilot,” Reid reassures me as he leans back in his own seat. “I trust him with my life.”
“I guess that’s a good thing since our lives are literally in his hands,” I say, and Reid just smiles again, leaning over to kiss me. And if I wasn’t so terrified right now, I might actually consider the gesture sweet.
Luckily, twenty minutes later we are on the ground. It was a bumpy landing, don’t get me wrong, but we made it, both us and the Little Plane That Could intact.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Reid asks as we make our way to the car waiting for us.
“No, it was awful,” I say, and he just laughs. That is until we route his phone to take us home and realize that every road in every direction is red.
“Damn,” he mutters. And damn is right. As fun as the trip was, there was a delay at the airport, and we weren’t able to take off until nearly 10pm. At this point, I am tired to the bone and ready to be home. But from the looks of it, we aren’t going anywhere fast.
“Well, this sucks,” he says.
“I’m hungry,” I complain.
“I am too,” he says.
Then I smile for the first time since we got on the plane. “I have an idea,” I say.
“Oh?” he asks as we creep along through traffic.
“Yes. Turn right here,” I say.
“Right where?” Reid asks.
“Right here! Now!” I tell him, and Reid yanks the wheel hard.
“Where are we going?” he asks, looking around the run-down neighborhood skeptically.
“You’ll see,” I answer with a smile and my stomach audibly growling in anticipation.
“I do see. I see one of the rougher areas of Manhattan that I’d rather not be in at one in the morning,” I say.
“It’ll be okay, I promise,” I insist. “It’s older, yes, but it’s mostly families down here. Just keep going through the next light and then make a left at the one after that.”
“You are insane,” he shakes his head. Maybe. But I also know what I’m doing.
“Listen,” I tell him as he reluctantly follows my instructions. “If I can follow you on a little plane in a huge rainstorm, you can follow me through New York. Especially when the destination is going to blow your mind.”
Reid’s face tells me he very much doesn’t believe me, but at the same time, he doesn’t say anything. He just follows my lead. And I follow my stomach.
A moment later, I point at a brick building. The windows are lit and there’s two neon signs in the doorway. One says OPEN and the other says PIZZA.
“Are you serious right now?” he asks as he pulls the car over. “No offense, Quinn, but this is janky as hell.”
“I told you to trust me,” I say, taking my seatbelt off. And before he can say another word, I get out of the car, forcing him to follow me.
“I swear if we get shot,” he says, but then he stops as we walk inside.
It’s a quaint place with brick walls and photographs in frames of families from Sicily.
The floors are worn down black and white checkers, and the tables are black metal with red and white checkered vinyl tablecloths.
There are two other groups of people there: a couple and a group of college kids. And it smells amazing.
“Alex, you got a customer!” A woman calls from the back, and a swing door flies open. A short, balding man in a flour and sauce covered apron appears with a smile.
“How can I help ya?” he asks with a thick accent.
“One large Neapolitan,” I answer. “And two sodas.”
“And a beer,” Reid adds. He rings us up and Reid pays, still visibly unsure about the place.
“Ten minutes,” Alex says. “We’ll bring it out to you. Sit where ya like.”
We walk over and sit at a small table off to the side, and Reid continues to look around. Then he looks at me and shakes his head.
“You need to trust me,” I say for the third time.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he asks.
“You are. But you aren’t convinced,” I say.
“I’m convinced we are out of our minds coming to a place like this at a time like this,” he says and I just roll my eyes.
Ten minutes later on the dot, Alex comes out with the pizza. He sets it down along with a stack of paper plates, two bottled Cokes and a beer, all of which he opens with a bar key stashed in his apron.
“Salute,” he says before walking back through the swinging door.
Reid watches as I take two slices and place them on the paper plates, handing him one. He picks up his slice, visibly judging the grease and the stringy cheese. But when he takes a bite, his expression shifts.
“Oh,” he says, and I take a bite too, melting into my chair. “Oh, wow.”
“What?” I ask with a grin, even though I know full well what. I just want the satisfaction of hearing him say it.
“Okay…I don’t know if I’m just really hungry or–”
“Just freaking admit it,” I cut him off. “It’s the best New York style pizza you’ve ever had, isn’t it?” I ask, taking another bite.
“It’s the best pizza I’ve had, period,” he states, diving back in. Four bites later, he’s reaching for another slice.
“I told you,” I say as I take a sip of my Coke.
“You did,” he nods. “And you were right.”
“What was that?” I ask, holding a finger up to my ear.
“I said you were right,” he echos and I giggle. “But seriously. How did you know about this place? I haven’t had pizza like this in years.”
“I stumbled across it a few years ago. And every time I am craving pizza, nothing else will suffice. It’s my favorite.”
“Your favorite pizza?” he asks, taking another bite.
“My favorite Italian dish…” I say, and he stops. Then he nods, and I smile.
“Alright, alright,” he says. “And you’re right. They don’t have anything like this at Alessi’s.”
“No, they do not,” I say, reaching for another slice.
“So I’m going to be honest with you,” he says, leaning back in his chair with his beer. “I have had pizza like this before.”
“Oh, really?” I ask. Then I wave my hand. “Let me guess. It was in Italy.”
“No,” he answers. “Though I have been to Italy. And the pizza is good. But no, it was actually at a place like this, here in New York City.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yep. Believe it or not, my parents used to bring me to places like this,” he says and I narrow my eyes.
“No offense…but aren’t you like…old money rich?”
“None taken,” he says with a smile as he nurses his beer.
“And yes. But I wasn’t always,” he says and I nod for him to go on.
“So my mom was Irish. My dad was Italian. His family came here in the early 1940s to escape the war. His grandparents, my great-grandparents, left everything behind. They had a vineyard, an estate. And after the war, they were under the impression that it was destroyed.”
“That’s so sad,” I say softly.
“Except…that it wasn’t. My great-grandfather’s brother actually saw to it that it was alive and well. And when he died, my grandparents were already gone, and in the will he left the vineyard and all its profits to my father.”
“I take it that was a nice chunk of change?” I ask.
“Colline d’Oro,” he says, and it’s not ringing any bells. “Golden Hills Vineyards,” he says, and my eyes widen. Because I have heard of Golden Hills wine. Everyone who drinks wine has heard of Golden Hills wine.
“Your family-owned Golden Hills?” I blurt out and he nods.
“Owns,” he says.
“So that’s why you’re rich,” I let out, taking another bite of my pizza.
Reid snorts. “No. I’m rich because I own my own law firm and it’s wildly successful. I’m wealthy because of my inheritance. Two different things, sweetheart,” Reid says as he takes another sip of beer.
“Yeah, yeah. All I’m hearing is you having money. Cheers to you.”
Reid laughs. But then I bite my lip, thinking back to something he said earlier. “So your father was Italian and your mother was Irish.”
Reid nods.
“I don’t want to sound uneducated, but wasn’t that kind of frowned on? Especially back then.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he answers. “But my dad didn’t care. He saw my mom working at a seamstress shop and he just had to have her.”
“…had to have her…” I echo shaking my head.
“His words, not mine,” Reid chuckles. “Though I suppose it does sound like something I would say. But it was frowned upon and forbidden.”
“And yet, they stayed together,” I say.
“He pursued her, yes. At every cost.”
“That’s so romantic,” I sigh. Then I zero in on him. “How can you not believe?” I ask.
“Believe what?” Reid asks.
“In love. In romance. In marriage. How can you have parents with a story like that? And if I had to guess, died still madly in love and not believe it’s real?” I ask.
“Oh, I never said I don’t believe it exists,” he says and my mouth drops open.
“What?”
“I just don’t believe it’s likely,” he explains. “What my parents had is rare. It’s the exception. Most people will never find it. And I don’t think we should go around living in the delusion that it happens for everyone.”
“But it can,” I say. “And if it can, what’s wrong with chasing it?”
Reid doesn’t say anything else, and I don’t feel like pressing it.
I’m too tired and my adrenaline is crashing, so I let it go.
But I’d be lying if I said hearing about his parents, about a golden piece of his childhood, didn’t bring a smile to my face.
In fact, it almost gives me hope for him.
Hope that he could eventually believe in love.
Hope that he could eventually follow his heart. Hope for a lot of things.