Page 100 of Cruelest Contract
But honestly, that’s probably the end of the list.
An indeterminate amount of time passes when the bathroom door whispers open.
“Cecilia?” says Tye, as timid and forlorn as I’ve ever heard him.
“Leave me alone,” I mutter and tear off a segment of toilet paper to deal with my running nose.
He sighs and walks all the way inside. I see the tips of his boots under the stall. “The food is on the table. Please come out. I really need to tell you something.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Tye. Just let me be for a few minutes.”
His boots don’t move. I can hear him breathing and I’m sure he’s wracking his brain for something appropriate to say.
He shouldn’t waste his time. Nothing will make me feel better right now.
“Please,” I beg. “I’ll be out of here soon. And then I don’t want to talk about this at all. I mean it. Okay?”
“Okay,” he finally says.
In a few seconds the door opens and closes again. I unclench the fists balled up in my lap and try to force my breathing to slow down.
Hiding out in a steakhouse bathroom isn’t a permanent solution. Eventually, I’ll need to go out there and confront the pity of Julian’s brothers. Even if Tye honors my request not to mention any of this again, the unspoken humiliation will still sit heavily in the air.
But I have no one else one to blame, not really.
This is a consequence of a contract marriage to a man you hardly know.
After it’s done, you just might find out something that crushes you.
Like how you weren’t even his first choice.
20
JULIAN
“You cowboys really suck in the kitchen,” my cousin Monte observes and casually extracts a finished pizza from the oven.
I examine the uneven lump of dough I’ve been trying to roll into a pie. “Cut me some slack. Not all of us have been trained on Italian cuisine since birth.”
“You’re doing fine,” says Uncle Sal, strolling in with a dishtowel flung over his shoulder. He peers down at my work. “Add some flour.”
I sprinkle some flour on the dough. I don’t see an improvement.
Uncle Sal smacks my back with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, kid. Pizza runs in your veins. Like your mother and your grandfather. You’ll get the hang of it.”
Monte smirks at me. I throw some flour on his Gino’s Pizzeria t-shirt.
Frankly, I don’t share my uncle’s optimism that I’ll ever be a pizza chef but I do enjoy being here. My mother must have stood in this very spot, doing the exact same thing I’m doing. Gino’s has been a staple in Manhattan’s Lower East Side for decades.My mother and Uncle Sal were raised here. They grew up in an apartment right upstairs.
“What have you done with Fort?” I ask my uncle.
Uncle Sal snorts. “He’s downstairs helping Nico clean out the basement.”
“We’re all safer that way,” Monte adds.
No argument from me. I’m guilty of possessing few kitchen skills but Fortunato is an outright disaster. The rough and tumble qualities that serve him well on a ranch don’t really translate to this environment and he hates being cooped up indoors. He has already destroyed a stack of plates, accidentally set fire to a work apron and spilled a can of tomatoes all over the counter.
The only reason why I forced Fort to come along on this trip is because he’s been the least involved in the family business and that needs to change. It’s time for him to catch up on the learning curve.
