Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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It doesn't matter that it's three in the afternoon: I crave my tea, my comfy PJs, and my snuggly bed. Being alone is safe. At home I lie staring at the ceiling, with angry music blasting from my phone. The pain pills will hopefully my headache. I need the inside of my skull to hurt a little less when my thoughts jump between the rage at Xavier cheating and at Ben for convincing me to let down my guard. I trusted him, and he was lying to me from the beginning. No, before the beginning. My eyes remain dry—I'm out of tears for boys and their dumb actions.
How is it four already? When I try to meditate, the five minutes drag and I'm sure it must've been at least twenty. It's been an hour, and I remember nothing of it. The bed offers some comfort, but my tea is cold on the bedside table, and my chest is still full of sorrow trying to scratch its way out, unable to sneak past my clenched teeth. Damn it. I plant my feet on the floor and leave the bed. I need to do something. What though? Something. Something to make it stop.
"Ahhh!" I cry into the doorway. The loud music covers up my voice, and the neighbors aren't likely to call the police. Why do I keep letting people in? All they do is leave me or lie to me. I hit the pillows and the bed with my powerless fists. They hurt me time and time again, and I should've learned by now. I throw everything off my bed. It's my damn fault for trusting someone again. Nothing helps. I circle every piece of furniture until I get dizzy. At least there's a legitimate reason for the spinning in my head.
Before, when they were alive, Nonna and Dad were my rocks. My support system dwindled to Angie, which is downright pitiful. And I might be overestimating my confidence in Angie because her leaving me is inevitable. Soon, she'd fly the coop and move on with her plan of worldwide music domination.
Since Dad's death, I've relied on Angie more than I care to admit, and it might be too much neediness even for the best of best friends. No matter how much she says she's here to talk, she's rarely in Chicago for longer than a couple of days at a time. She and I are close, but the whole feelings side of life used to be Dad's domain. Dad is who I need today. A parent who listens, gives out sage advice, says he loves me, and reminds me that everything will be alright. 'I miss you, Dad.' Saying it outloud does not shrink the ragged wound of his absence. The loud music can't cover up the emptiness. For a mad minute I consider calling Mom. Calling Mom? I definitely lost my marbles. I can't be that lonely.
I go to my closet and reach out into the very back until my hand closes around something soft.
When I cleared out his apartment, I had to sell or donate most of the things both for the money and because I had no space to put them, but I couldn't part with some of it. I rented the cheapest storage space I could afford and locked away Nonna's heirloom items, boxes of some of her restaurant's menus and recipes, stacks of family photo albums, and Dad's stuff I didn't make up my mind about. I couldn't bear the reminders of what it was like to be surrounded by his love.
One thing was the exception. It was too precious for me to stuff into the impersonal cavity of the storage unit, so I brought it to my place and hid it away. I pull out a well-worn kitschy red plaid robe Dad donned every Christmas morning and on many cold Chicago evenings.
