Sex Hair beamed up at me, all faux charm. “Welcome to George’s Village Pizza. Dining alone tonight, I presume?”
“That was a work call,” I said icily.
“Isn’t that nice that you can hold down a job and be that rude?”
It had been too long since I’d squashed a disrespectful underling. I itched to do it now. She looked not only like she could take it but that she might even enjoy it.
“Dominic.”
I glanced over Sex Hair’s shoulder and spotted my mother waving from a green vinyl booth in the corner. She looked amused.
Sex Hair looked back and forth between me and my mother. “Oh, she’s way too good for you,” she announced, slapping a menu to my chest and walking away.
“Mom,” I greeted her, leaning in to kiss her on one flawless cheek before I slid into the booth opposite her.
“That was quite the entrance,” she said, resting her chin on her palm.
She was the picture of confidence in an off-the-shoulder ivory sweater and red leather skirt. Her hair was its natural sterling silver, cut in a short, hip cap. The haircut—and the chunky emerald on her right middle finger—had been her gift to herself the day after she’d kicked my father out of their Upper East Side townhouse a few decades too late.
My mother was a beautiful woman. She always had been. She’d begun her career at fifteen as a doe-eyed, long-legged socialite-turned-model before deciding she preferred the business side of fashion. Now sixty-nine, she’d long ago abandoned doe eyes in favor of wielding her sharp mind and tongue. She was comfortable being both loved and feared in the industry.
“She was incredibly rude,” I insisted, watching as Sex Hair made small talk with a table across the skinny restaurant.
“You were incredibly rude,” my mother countered.
“It’s what I do,” I said, snapping open the menu and scanning. I tried to ignore the temper that was bubbling up inside me like a sleeping dragon awakened. I’d spent thirteen months locked down, on my best behavior, and I was starting to crack.
“Don’t start the ‘I’m an asshole’ spiel again.” She sighed and slid her reading glasses back on.
“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to give up on the hope that I’m a human being with a heart of gold underneath it all.”
“Never,” she insisted with a saucy smile.
I gave up. “Why are we here?”
“Because I wanted to spend time with my only son—the light of my life—away from the office.”
Our working relationship was as old as her new haircut.
It wasn’t a coincidence.
“Sorry,” I said and meant it. “I’ve been busy.”
“Darling.” She said it wryly, and it was warranted.
No one was busier than Dalessandra Russo, former model and current editor-in-chief of Label, a fashion magazine that had not only survived the onset of the digital age but spearheaded the transition. Every month, my mother oversaw hundreds of pages of fashion, advertising, interviews, and advice, not to mention online content, and delivered it all to readers around the world.
If she were photographed in a pair of shoes or sunglasses, they sold out within hours. If she sat front and center at a show, the designer’s collection was picked up by every buyer in attendance. She made designers, models, writers, and photographers important, successful. She built careers. Or destroyed them when necessary.
And she hadn’t asked for or earned the chaos of the past year.
For that I had to atone as well.
“Sorry,” I said again, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. The emerald winked at me under the fluorescent lights.
“Can I get you a drink?” Rude Sex Hair was back.
“I don’t know. Can you?” I shot back.
“We’re fresh out of the blood of children, Satan. How about something that matches your personality?” She was saying the words nicely. Sweetly even.
“I’ll have a—”
“Unsweetened iced tea,” she filled in for me.
Bitter. Boring. Bland.
“Is this one of those places where you pay people to be assholes to you?” I asked my mother.
“Oh, honey. I’m doing this for free.” Sex Hair batted thick lashes in my direction.
I opened my mouth to destroy her.
“He’ll have water. Tap is fine,” my mother cut in.
“Absolutely. Now, how about dinner?” Sex Hair flashed my mother a genuine grin.
“I’ve heard rumors of your pizza crusts far and wide,” Mom said coyly.
Sex Hair leaned in, a friend sharing secrets. “Every word is true,” she said. “It’s perfection.”
I smelled lemons again.
“In that case, I’ll have the personal with green onions and black olives.”
“You are a woman of excellent taste,” the mouthy server announced. “How about for you, Prince Charming?” she asked.
“Pepperoni. Personal.” I closed the menu and held it out without looking at her.
“Very creative,” she quipped.
So maybe it wasn’t fair of me. She obviously didn’t know she was pushing a button. That I still wasn’t confident in my ability to be creative, to be good at the job my mother needed me to do. But she said it. And I reacted.
“Shouldn’t someone your age have a real job by now, Maleficent? Because obviously you’re not good at this one.”
The entire place went silent. The other patrons froze, gazes fixed on our table. Sex Hair met my eyes for one long beat. God, it felt good to let out some of the fight I’d been bottling up for so long.
“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll be sure to give your order extra special attention,” she promised. The wink she gave me was so insolent, I almost got out of the booth to chase her into the kitchen.
“Don’t you dare,” Mom said, grabbing my hand before I bolted.
“She can’t get away with that. We’re paying customers,” I told her.
“You are to sit there. Be polite. And eat whatever she sees fit to bring you,” Mom ordered.
“Fine. But if she poisons me, I’ll sue her and her entire family. Her great-grandchildren will feel my wrath.”
My mother sighed theatrically. “Who hurt you, darling?”
It was a joke. But we both knew the answer wasn’t funny.
2
Ally
Decorating Charming’s pizza was the most fun I’d had in… Ugh. Never mind.
Let’s just say life had been a shit show lately. And messing with a grumpy guy—what was it with assholes today anyway?—who looked like he’d waltzed right off the pages of some men’s magazine was definitely a highlight. Which said a lot about my current situation.
I didn’t have time to worry about the consequences of being stretched too thin. This was the kind of life crisis that you muscled through.
When it was all over, I would book myself a vacation on a beach where the only thing I had to worry about was if my straw was long enough to reach the bottom of my frozen cocktail.
“Table Twelve wants their check, Ollie.” George, my boss and the grumpiest Italian grandpa I’d ever met in my life, announced brusquely as if I’d spent the last four hours ignoring diners instead of waiting on them. He hadn’t bothered to learn my name when I started three weeks ago. I hadn’t bothered to teach him. The guy went through servers like new parents went through baby wipes.