Chapter 7 Melanie
MELANIE
Then one glass turned into four. Then the whole bottle was gone. Party over. Now I’m wrecked.
My shift at the restaurant doesn’t start until four, but I’ve been dragging all day. Head thick, stomach sour. It’s not just a hangover—it’s something else. My skin feels tight, like it doesn’t fit right. My joints ache. My thoughts keep glitching out.
Am I dying? Is this it? Some cosmic punishment for all the garbage I’ve put into my body over the years?
“You’re up, princess.”
Nick’s voice slices through the fog in my head. I blink. Two tables have been seated. I didn’t even notice.
Shit.
“Okay,” I say, stepping forward. But he grabs my arm.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?
“Is that code for ‘you look like shit’?” I pull my arm free, ready for him to snap back—but he doesn’t. Just gives me a look. Not angry. Just… tired. Disappointed. I feel it burn into the back of my neck as I walk away.
This night’s gonna suck.
“Linguini with clams and Calamari Zitti is up!” I hear one of the cooks say.
I felt sweat drip down my back from how hot it was in here.
At the beginning of my shift, Nick walked me through the online process of getting my liquor license.
He warned me how busy Fridays and Saturdays were, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this busy.
I grabbed the plates at the same time; I felt a panic attack coming on.
Breathe, Mel, breathe. I
I take a few breaths before walking out to the main floor.
Anxiety rushes through me as I try to figure out what was wrong with me.
Was it all the people? Was it because I drank too much last night, again?
I needed help. Abigail was right. And I didn’t even deserve to be offered any help from her since I’m already fucking up when I told her I wouldn’t drink if she let me stay a little longer at the rehab lakehouse, at least until I can put a down payment somewhere.
I silently tell my mind to shut the fuck when I approached my table with a plastered on smile. “Linguini with clams and Calamari Zitti is up!” one of the cooks shouts.
I jerk at the sound, nerves already threadbare. Sweat trails down my spine, soaking the back of my shirt. The heat in the kitchen is suffocating, like breathing through a wool blanket. My fingers feel slippery as I grab the plates, right as the tight band around my chest starts to cinch tighter.
Panic. No, not now. Breathe, Mel. Breathe.
I force a breath in through my nose, hold it. Let it out slow. My hands are shaking. I try again. Another breath. Then another. I’m not okay, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the crowd. Maybe it’s the hangover crawling out of my bones. Or perhaps it’s guilt—Abigail’s voice echoing in my skull.
You promised.
And here I am. Lying again and screwing it all up, again. I glue on a smile that feels stapled to my face and walk out onto the floor.
“Linguini with clams and a calamari ziti,” I say, setting down the plates with practiced care, even though my hands are trembling.
“Looks delicious,” one of the girls says.
“I don’t know how you eat that. It’s so chewy,” the other one says, cringing like she bit into a slug. She shimmies her shoulders dramatically, and they both laugh, glittered up in their cocktail dresses, flawless makeup. On their second margarita.
I force a laugh that dies before it reaches my eyes. It’s surreal—being on this side of the table. I used to be them. Now I’m wiping crumbs off their plates. The twist of irony hits harder than the hangover.
“Can I get you two anything else?”
“Another margarita,” the girl says, raising her empty glass.
“You got it.” I spin around, but the second I do, I see the hostess seating another table in my section. My gut knots.
“Excuse me,” a voice calls as I pass another table. “I ordered mashed potatoes with this and I only got the Caesar salad.”
I wanted to say, You’re welcome since the woman looked like she could use less calories, but I swallow it.
“So sorry, I’ll bring those out right away.”
The new table is looking around, waiting. I rush over, heart pounding, and ask what they’d like to drink.
Just water. Thank God.
Back in the kitchen, it’s chaos. Steam fogs the air, metal clangs, oil pops like gunfire. Garlic, butter, sweat—it all hits me at once, making my stomach roll. I grab the water and call out to the line.
“Can I have a side of mashed potatoes, please?”
“It’ll have to wait,” Leroy grunts without looking up.
“What do you mean? Don’t you have some ready? She’s been waiting—”
“I said it’ll have to wait.”
Where the hell did Nick find this guy? He’s like a cartoon of some greasy, pizza-slinging New Yorker who talks to calzones in his sleep.
“What’s your problem? Haven’t gotten laid in a while so you’re taking it out on the new girl?”
“Fuck you.”
“Nah, I’d rather suck on a donkey’s dick than let you touch me with a ten-foot pole.”
I turn—and there he is. Nick. Watching. Again. His stare feels like a drill to the temple.
“I told you not to cause trouble in my kitchen.”
“I’m not. He’s the one who started it,” I snap, jabbing a finger at Leroy.
“What are you, twelve? Leroy’s my best cook. If he says you’ll get the potatoes, you’ll get them. It’s not his fault you forgot them in the first place.”
“I didn’t f—”
“Yes, you did.” He cuts me off hard. “I checked on the table myself. She said everything was fine except that her waitress took too long to greet them, brought the wrong wine, and forgot the mashed potatoes.”
My jaw locks. “You trying to find something to bitch about, or write me up on my fourth day?”
“No. I do this with all new hires. And you should be glad I did—because I fixed it. Complimentary cocktail. Fifty-dollar gift card. And I told them you won’t be their waitress next time.”
“Wow. Real morale booster there. Pretty sure that’s not something a boss should say to an employee.”
“Take your waters out. The mashed potatoes will be ready when you’re back.”
I clamp my mouth shut and do what he says. My blood is boiling, but under that, something’s wrong. Off. My body’s buzzing, but not in a good way. My vision flickers at the edges. I’m lightheaded. Empty.
I call to Alexa, “Two more margaritas.”
“Don’t worry, the girl came up and said she’s been waiting ten minutes, so I made her one.”
“You’re kidding. She asked me five minutes ago.”
“You might want to start wearing a watch. We’re not on princess time, Melanie. This is real time. People don’t care if you’re busy—they want their shit now.”
Her words hit like slaps. I glare, but stay quiet. Not now. Not her. Not again. The next time she pulls this, I’m not holding back.
Back in the kitchen, Nick hands me a bowl of mashed potatoes.
“Who orders mashed potatoes at an Italian restaurant?” I mutter.
“Not everyone likes pasta or risotto. So we offer it,” he says, already annoyed.
“Then they should go to a steakhouse.” I drop off the potatoes, take the new table’s order, and head back.
“Is it okay if I take a break?” I ask.
“What? No. You can’t take a break because you’re tired or your feet hurt. It’s been two hours.”
Two hours that feel like five.
“I just need some fresh air.”
He steps closer. “You can go smell the steam off the boiling water. Now get your ass out there.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Niccolo.” Bianca. Her voice slices through the air. I turn to see her standing there, calm but firm.
“Smettila di essere così duro. Posso coprirla e portare il cibo.” Stop being so harsh. I’ll cover for her.
“Mamma, no, lavori già abbastanza qui. Può assorbirlo e affrontarlo. Può prendersi una pausa dopo la fretta.” Mom, no. You work hard enough. She can suck it up and deal. She can take a break after the rush.
As they argue, I slip away.
I head for the restroom, legs shaky. I haven’t eaten.
My stomach is a hollow pit. One granola bar.
That’s all I had. Maybe I can sneak some bread.
I need a second. A sip of water. Just something.
I push through the double doors. Alexa glares at me from the bar.
I pretend I don’t see her. My legs feel heavy.
My arms float. I can’t feel my fingers—one more step.
You’re almost there. Just sit down. The hallway warps around me.
I reach for the restroom door. My hand touches the handle, then the floor rushes up.
And everything goes black.
My eyelids flutter open, slow and reluctant, like my body’s trying to shield me from whatever comes next. The light is blinding, sterile, and unforgiving. Shapes move in my periphery. My heart starts pounding.
Someone is pacing.
I squint, vision swimming, and for a moment, I can only see a silhouette—tall, rigid, restless.
Something deep inside me stirs, not fear, but something close.
I blink hard, once, twice, and then I see him—his back broad and tense, that skull tattoo crawling up his arm like a warning sign.
My stomach flips, and something bitter and warm twists in my gut.
Nick.
The knot in my chest tightens. I keep blinking, and the rest of him comes into painful clarity.
Black pants. Black shirt. All that ink, coiled and sprawled across his arms like a second skin.
He’s on the phone, his voice low and tight, and he speaks in rapid Italian. It sounds like gravel wrapped in silk.
“No, sta ancora dormendo. Le hanno fatto degli esami ma i risultati non sono ancora arrivati.” No, she’s still asleep. They ran tests on her, but the results haven’t come back yet.
His voice has an edge to it—protective, maybe even anxious. My breath catches.
“Ho detto ad Abigail che avevo gestito la cosa.”I told Abigail I had it handled.
A beat of silence. My pulse thumps in my ears.
“Non lo so, non l’ha detto. Tutto quello che so è che i suoi genitori vivono in California.” I don’t know, she didn’t say. All I know is her parents live in California.
His jaw tightens with each word, his shoulders rigid. He’s holding something in.