Page 14 of Falling for my Family's Rival

“That’s awesome!” Angelo says. “Can I come, too? Think of all the things we can do together.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Well, you know they’re responsible for the food poisoning,” Angelo says. “You could create a distraction, and I could do something crazy. Like… dump ghost pepper in their sauce or something.”

“We don’t have any proof that they’re responsible,” I say, not amused by my brother’s insinuations. “I don’t think that retaliation is the solution.”

“I don’t need proof,” Angelo says. His face darkens, and I can tell that he is amping himself up. “I don’t care. I think that I need to do something.”

“Look, Angelo,” I say. “Dad wants proof. I think we need to listen to him. Why don’t we wait until I come back from scoping things out, before we come up with any sort of plan? Besides, I don’t want to do anything that could hurt Little Italy.”

“Why?” Angelo asks, narrowing his eyes.

I back pedal. “I just don’t want to hurt Little Italy and then have the blow back on Venetian Dreams. Think about it, dude.”

Angelo considers this for a second. “Okay. You’re right,” he says. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m looking forward to hearing what you find out. But hey- if you find even a smidge of evidence that they’re the culprits- oh ho ho! We’re going to town on revenge, man!” He has my father’s wild look in his eyes, as he claps his hands together and rubs them back and forth, like he’s pumping himself up for battle. Oh brother.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I leave the restaurant. Pausing for a moment before I head to my car, I think about what I’m doing. Either way, it feels like I’m betraying a part of myself. That’s ridiculous though, right? I push aside my misgivings and focus on the most important thing at the moment: seeing Marissa. For this, I can’t wait.

Ten

MARISSA

Everything is going wrong tonight. At first it seemed like just a bad day, but now it feels like I'm being punished for something. I shove my order pad and pen into the pocket of my apron and head back into the kitchen, where I can hear my father yelling at someone. And if I can hear him, so can all of our customers. It’s not the best look.

“What’s going on?” I ask Shelly, another waitress, who’s been with us forever.

Shelly is standing with her hands on her hips, as she watches the chaos that ensues in the Little Italy kitchen right now. My father is standing at the back door, face bright red, screaming at someone out of my line of sight.

Shaking her head, Shelly says, “Your dad got the wrong produce order. He’s a little upset about it.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I say.

We watch as my father freaks out more. I’m worried that he’s going to have a stroke or something. Looking around for my mom, I don’t see her. It worries me that no one seems to be stepping in to calm my father down. I know that I’m not responsible for him, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to get him to stop. I have a whole host of concerns floating around in my head… I don’t want my dad to pass out; I don’t want people to hear him and bring the good name of the restaurant down; I don’t want to deal with this sort of stress for the rest of my life…

Deciding that I’m going to have to intercede, I take a deep breath and move toward my dad. “Hey, Pop,” I say. “What’s going on?”

My father looks at me as if he can’t see me. Then he blinks, and gestures toward an open delivery truck pulled up to the loading bay. The delivery driver is standing inside the truck, looking uncertainly at us. I don’t blame him. If my father was screaming at me, I would probably cry. He’s pretty scary when he’s mad.

“This idiot is trying to deliver me an entire order of jicama,” my father says. From the look he gives the delivery man, I worry about what he’ll do next. I step in between the two of them.

“I’m guessing we didn’t order jicama?” I ask, putting a hand on my father’s forearm.

He frowns. “No, we most certainly did not,” he says. “We are supposed to have a larger order of eggplant for our special tonight: Eggplant parmesan.”

“Okay,” I say. “But why are you screaming at him? It’s not his fault that the order is wrong. Do we know who put the order in?”

“No, but I bet this has something to do with Venetian Dreams,” my father says. He frowns again, but this time his expression turns thoughtful. “Mamma mia, you’re right; I should have checked that out.” He turns to the delivery driver. “I’m sorry. That was wrong and unkind of me.”

I leave him there to deal with the consequences of his over-reaction. As I pass Shelly, she nods at me in approval. Normally, that would make me feel good, but today it just makes me feel exhausted, even defeated. This kind of thing just cements the fact for me that I don’t want to work here anymore. I want to explore something else that will make me happy, that will be just mine.

My father raises his voice again. I glance over my shoulder at him, but I don’t stop walking. That’s when my foot hits a slippery patch. Before I can catch myself, I’m sliding and falling. I land with a thud on my back side. Pain shoots up my back. My teeth rattle. Shelly lets out a yelp as she sees me go down. My father stops shouting, and comes running into the kitchen.

The problem is that he comes in too fast, and he too slides and falls on the ground. He nearly collides with me, but manages to stop himself before he does. “Are you okay?” he asks me.

I nod, as I struggle to my feet. Looking down at the floor, I expect to see a patch of water or some other liquid substance, but instead all I see is an extra shiny floor. My father stands, too. He stares down at the floor, nearly apoplectic with rage.

“Who waxed the kitchen floor?” he roars.

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