Chapter Nine #4
Despite a valiant effort, we end up losing the match.
But just seeing how happy Elio is, with his flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, I feel like I won.
Guilia tells Elio she’d love to play with him again sometime, and he looks flattered.
After the match Elio and I sit at a shaded table on the veranda and enjoy a cocktail.
Despite the fact that we lost the match, people congratulate us as if we’ve won Wimbledon.
They drift over in twos and threes saying things like excellent effort and you had them worried there at the end, none of which is remotely true.
Elio looks baffled the first time it happens.
Then suspicious. Then, gradually, amused.
The fresh air and exercise have loosened something in him.
Two hours ago, he would have gone stiff under all that attention, guarding every word as if one wrong answer might cost him his soul.
Now he smiles and politely thanks them. He even plays along when one man compliments his “natural form,” despite the fact that Elio spent half the match trying not to trip over his own feet.
After a while, anytime one of the kiss-ups walks away, he catches my eye. It’s a private little look between us that makes my chest tight. The look seems to say it’s us against them. I like that. I fucking love it, in fact.
We’re having such a nice time, I order another round.
Elio leans back in his chair, cheeks pink from the booze. He lets out a long sigh. “This is so surreal.”
“What is?” I frown.
“This life. Taking time to just enjoy things.” He laughs, running his fingers through his damp hair. “Just a few weeks ago I was serving drinks in a dive bar, and now I’m being served lemon drop martinis at a fancy country club.”
“Do you like this life?”
He shrugs. “I mean, it’s nice to be pampered.”
There’s a but buried in there somewhere. “It’s not enough for you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” His expression is instantly guarded.
I don’t let it bother me. One tennis match isn’t going to knock down all his walls. “Do you miss working?”
He avoids my gaze. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
He slides his gaze back to mine. “Why? If I say yes, will you let me go back to my old job in Philadelphia?”
“No.” I study him. “But I don’t think being a bartender was ever your dream. I think you took that job to survive.”
He pokes his finger at the sugar on the rim of his empty glass. “You’re right. When my parents died, I wasn’t able to go to college like I planned. I had to take whatever job I could get.”
“That’s what I figured.” I smile politely at the waiter who delivers our next round of lemon drop martinis. “So, what was it you wanted to do? Before your parents died, I assume you had hopes and dreams like any other nineteen-year-old.”
“Yeah, I did,” he says softly.
“So, tell me what those dreams were.”
He grimaces. “You don’t really want to hear that crap.”
I lean toward him. “Bullshit. I’m asking, aren’t I?”
“I don’t want to bore you.”
“Elio,” I rumble. “Nothing about you bores me. Now tell me what you wanted to be when you grew up.”
He hesitates. “Well, I… I guess when I was younger, I thought I might go into consulting.”
“What kind of consulting?”
“I don’t know.” He looks embarrassed.
“Yes you do,” I coax. “What kind of consulting interested you?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure what it’s called. I was always good at seeing why some restaurants weren’t working well.”
“You wanted to go into restaurants and fix their problems?”
“I guess.”
I smile. “So, you’re secretly a control freak?”
“Maybe.” He laughs. “It’s amazing to me how many places look great, but are run poorly. The worst ones always seem to have either bad managers or a horrible layout. Sometimes both.”
I frown. “Can a layout really be so bad the staff can’t do their job?”
“Absolutely. I’ve worked in a few bars where whoever wrote up the plans put the blender sink twenty feet from the damn bar area. That’s a real problem when you’re having a busy night.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him. “It sounds like whoever drew up the plans had never worked in hospitality.”
“I suspect you’re right.” He sips his martini, then says, “I don’t know what a job like that is even called. Maybe hospitality consultant or something?”
“Not sure,” I murmur.
His mouth twists. “Anyway, that ship has sailed.”
I frown. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t able to go to college to get a degree. Without a degree in restaurant management, I’m not qualified to be anything but a bartender.”
“Maybe you don’t have a degree, but that doesn’t have to be the end of your dream.”
He squints at me like I’m crazy. “Yes it does.”
“I don’t agree,” I say softly as an idea begins to form. “Your interest seems to lie in managing the operation. You don’t sound like you’re interested in the construction side of things.”
“No. That side wasn’t interesting to me.”
“You could still be a restaurant consultant of some kind.”
He laughs. “Yeah, and while I’m at it I’ll be an astronaut.”
“I’m serious, Elio. You could consult.”
He scowls. “No I can’t. I don’t have a degree.”
“So? Who cares whether you have a degree or not?”
He leans forward. “Employers care.”
“Depends on the employer.”
He opens his mouth as if to argue, but then closes it. A cynical expression descends. “I forgot who I’m talking to. Of course you’re not overly concerned with doing things legally. You probably pay all your consultants under the table.”
I bristle at the dig. “I do not.”
He arches one brow but says nothing.
I laugh. “I’m serious. Yeah, I do plenty of illegal things, but that’s only because too many things are illegal that shouldn’t be.”
“Yeah, those poor hitmen and drug dealers shouldn’t have so many restrictions on them.” He rolls his eyes and grabs his drink.
His insolence should piss me off, but for some reason I find it more amusing than anything. “Granted, I do bad shit, Elio. But when it comes to hiring consultants or designers or gardeners or regular things, I do that all legally.”
He narrows his eyes. “Why? Because you have to have some legal enterprises to hide your crooked ones behind?”
I grin. “Well, yeah, actually.”
“I knew it.” He shakes his head.
I sigh, trying not to let him get to me. “Look, we’re getting off track. I’m trying to tell you that you can still have a career in the field you’re interested in without a degree. You didn’t go to college, but you have on-the-job experience.”
“Serving drinks, not consulting for restaurants.”
“I would argue your on-the-job training is more valuable to the right employer than some dumb degree.”
He looks skeptical. “I don’t know about that.”
“You’re wrong.”
He laughs gruffly. “I don’t think I am.”
I study him, tapping my finger distractedly against the tabletop. “I suppose it should come as no surprise to me that you undervalue yourself. You might have the lowest self-esteem of any omega I’ve ever met.”
“This isn’t about my self-esteem. I’m being realistic,” he snaps. “No one is going to hire me without a degree.”
“I’d hire you.”
He bugs his eyes. “What?”
“You heard me.” I hold his gaze.
He curls his lip. “Under the table?”
“No. I’d hire you legitimately.”
“Bullshit,” he grates out.
I laugh. “I’m serious, Elio. With all the on-the-job experience you have, I’ll bet you’d know exactly how to lay out a restaurant, so that the service doesn’t get fucked up because a bartender has to cross the room for ice during a dinner rush.
You have practical, hands-on experience. You don’t learn that shit in school.”
“Nobody cares about that.”
“I care,” I rasp. “I value hands-on experience in my employees far more than people with no experience who have a degree.”
His eyes flicker. “Well, you’re a rarity.”
I ignore that pessimistic response. “You didn’t just work at Duffy’s, right? You must have worked at other places.”
“Yes. I… I worked at some really nice bars over the years. But Duffy’s was the only one that could give me fulltime. It was a dive and it was depressing to work there, but it was also a godsend in a way.”
“You did what you had to do to survive. That’s fine. But if you’ve worked at different types of bars that means you’ve experienced all different types of restaurant and bar designs and management. You have experience on what works well and what doesn’t.”
“Even if everything you’re saying is true, and I highly doubt it is, it doesn’t matter.” He exhales tiredly. “It’s too late for me to try anything new. I’m twenty-eight.”
“So?” I frown. “You’re acting like your life is over. You know, when your three years is up with me, you’ll be rich, Elio. You can be anything you want to be.”
“Sure. Whatever you say, Marcello.” He shakes his head.
“If you’d stop being hard-headed, you’d realize I’m right. In three years, you’ll be rich and able to do whatever you want. But you don’t even have to wait three years to do that. I could use your help right now.”
He scowls at me. “Doing what? Rearranging the furniture in your bedroom?”
I grit my teeth, holding onto my patience. “No, smartass, I mean consulting for me on a project I have going.”
He hesitates. “What kind of project?”
“There’s a waterfront development I’m working on,” I say. “Hotel, restaurants, event spaces. It’s not built yet, but the architects have already started sending over concepts. If you want to be involved, I could use your help.”
Elio stares at me as if I’ve suddenly begun speaking another language. “You want me to help you on a project for real?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m saying.” I grimace. “I’m really good at a lot of things, but reading floorplans isn’t one of them. I looked at one of the restaurant layouts yesterday. It’s beautiful on paper, but something about the layout feels wrong.”
“Can’t you just tell whoever drew up the plans you want them changed?”
“Sure, but I don’t know what I want changed. You could probably look at them and tell me what it is I’m seeing that’s bothering me.” He doesn’t argue, which I take as a positive sign. “If I had you on my team, you could help me with stuff like that.”