2. When One Door Closes…
Chapter 2
When One Door Closes…
Antonella
“I’m sorry, we’re going to have to let you go.”
God damn it, seriously? I just got in the office—iced coffee in hand. Still has ice in it. I tilt my head, staring directly into the non-existent reality-TV camera. Because that’s what today is.
A sitcom.
Well, there goes my entire article. This morning’s meeting was pointless. They couldn’t have said anything beforehand?
I stand in one spot in the HR’s all-white office, thinking of things to say. To argue, or not to argue. I’ll go with the easier option and spare myself the embarrassment of a dramatic exit. This time.
“Thank you for this opportunity.” My shoulders slump slightly as I leave the office, completely defeated.
A lot of people are getting laid off right now—saying something won’t help any. It’s been a long time coming, and in the back of my mind I had hoped to be the one exempt from it. Seeing as my projects do the best online.
Cheers to all the overtime in hopes of promotion gone to waste.
Okay, five hundred dollars left in my bank account for the month. Not near enough to cover the rent. And not to mention the fact I spent the last of my remaining spending money on two coffees—one not even for me.
Damn generosity.
The Italian man sure is devastatingly handsome, and way taller than me, too. Probably six-foot five if I had to guess. Gorgeous forest green eyes, and a scar extending from his thick eyebrow down to his chiseled jawline. It’s a wicked one—faded—but intriguing nonetheless.
I want to lick it.
“Statazit, Antonella.” I tell myself, shaking the abstract thought of the cappuccino man out of my mind. It’s not like I’ll ever run into him again in this large of a city. It’s a fluke. A coincidence. Random hot guy who obviously works out with a chest as rock hard as his.
I pack up my desk, walk out of the office, and step into the elevator. With a sad, full cardboard box in hand, I press the button and stand next to someone—who also is carrying a box full of their own items. We exchange sympathetic looks, no words.
Silence .
The doors open after a few agonizing moments. We both do the work version of the walk of shame into the parking garage. At least this other person has a car. I have to foot it all the way back home.
The honking and whooshing of cars passing above us on the interstate echoed throughout the parking garage.
Great, old, city of Chicago.
The Windy City .
I trudge out of the parking garage and onto the sidewalk. Sure lives up to the name today as a few papers from this morning’s meeting fly out of my cardboard box and onto the ground. Should’ve just left everything there—but I’ll be damned if someone took credit for my work.
“ Fuck .” I groan, dropping my shoulders and glancing up at the sky, cursing at the world for the awful day. I lean down to pick them up—except someone already has their hand on it. A man’s hand. A man’s abnormally large, pale, veiny hand.
Can today get any worse? Now, I have to socially interact with someone.
“The stupid wind.” I rise to my full height of five-foot.
“I believe this is yours.” Mr. Sullivan—or rather—whatever the hell his name actually is, smiles. “Lovely to see you again, Miss Vitale.”
I nod, and my lips part ever so slightly to speak—yet words aren’t forming.
Today is filled with handsome men talking to me, the only bright side. And if that’s the single good karma I earn today—then so be it. Putting it in the fuck it bucket .
“Sorry!” I snatch the papers from him.
“Apologies aren’t necessary, beautiful.”
Goodness gracious.
It’s as if my lungs have stopped functioning correctly. I mean, seriously? A literal God.
The two of them .
I clear my throat and take the papers from him. He thinks I’m beautiful? Little ol’ me? I’m the farthest from beautiful—today especially. The world keeps pouring down on me.
“Thank you,” I stuff the papers back into the box.
“Of course, gorgeous.” There’s a certain glint in his eyes as he steps closer, and when I think he’s about to say something else, he walks away from me without another word.
Another compliment? Who is this guy? I peer over my shoulder at the six-foot three, athletic-built man walking away. I probably stared at him for longer than I should’ve.
Oops. Probably gave off creeper vibes. Either way, I’m not going to apologize for it. Thank God he wasn’t looking.
The rest of the ten-minute walk home is, thankfully, uneventful. I unlock the door to my run-down apartment, shoving the door open with all of the force I can muster up.
The rent’s way too ridiculous for what this place is worth, and my landlord keeps increasing the rent every single month. Probably because I don’t fuck him.
Illegal and immoral? Yes, but it’s the only place I can— could afford.
Obviously, not anymore.
I flip the switch and the lamp in the corner of the room lights up the room. Dump, sweet dump. Paint is chipping off the walls. There’s a cabinet falling off one of the hinges in the kitchen—the only cabinet in there holding up a single basin sink. Next to it, is a white refrigerator so small, it’s borderline a mini-fridge.
The place is kept clean, but unfortunately it doesn’t change the fact it still looks like shit.
I kick off my shoes, flinging them against the wall, set the box of sad work shit down on the counter, and then plop down onto the torn-up couch. Thankfully, I put a black couch slip over to make it slightly less dreadful.
I switch on my laptop and take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.
Okay, job search. Give me something good. Within walking distance—one mile radius because winter’s harsh . Granted, I can work remotely for what I qualify for.
And…
Nothing— although .
Barista Wanted Immediately.
“Hmm.” I tap my chin. “This can hold me over to make rent.” I click on the apply button. Thank God for the instant apply and how it auto-uploads résumés. Now, the waiting game. I grab my phone and text my best friend, Audrina, about the chaos of today.
Got fired from my job, but two hot guys talked to me.
Audie
Look at you, seeing the positives ;) Sorry about your job! You okay?
Hell no
Comfort food 3 Ti voglio bene
Ti voglio tanto bene!
She’s right. Movies and comfort food. I scroll through a movie streaming service, looking for one of those cheesy romantic comedy movies to drown out the wallowing-in-despair going on in here. I select one, not caring what it’s about.
Did it help?
No .
In fact, my despair becomes worse knowing I probably won’t have a love so magnificent in my lifetime. But what if? Those two men seemed into me.
“Ha! As if…” I snort.
An hour and a half of my time I’ll never get back—and a whole empty carton of chocolate ice cream later, I switch off the TV.
Glaring at the blurred, sad, reflection of myself in the TV, I hop up and take a quiet, soul-searching, skin-sizzling shower. How I managed to pull through it, I’m not sure. Usually, I’m putting on a shower concert with a shampoo bottle microphone. Singing away to one of the latest, trending pop songs.
Also, distracting myself from the fact today happened to be the first time I put my hands on a man in well over three years—not even in a sexual way. Shivers flow throughout my entire body. The scent of his cologne wafts across my nose—drool-worthy— sandalwood .
When I finally pull myself out of the warm, steaming shower. I throw my hair up in a towel wrap, put my white fuzzy robe back on, and languidly pad into my small bedroom. My phone vibrates from an unsaved number calling. Ew, calling?
I answer, “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Antonella?” an unknown, female voice asks.
“Yes?”
“Sorry for the fast call, my name is Michelle and I read your application for the barista position. The one you submitted a little bit ago. We could really use the help.”
“I don’t know much about making coffee… However, I learn quickly,” I state honestly.
“That’s all we ask. Come in tomorrow at five in the morning?”
“I’ll be there. Thank you for this opportunity.” A beaming grin spreads across my face as I end the call. Beginner’s luck . Not exactly the job I’m qualified for in the slightest, but it’s a job.
What a day.