Page 453 of Rosetti Family New York
Omar takes my phone, scrolling through dozens of timestamped photos. His eyebrows climb incrementally higher.
"You've been stalking our gallery?"
"Studying," I correct cheerfully. "There's a thirteen-minute window around sunset where the light is absolutely perfect for viewing the bronze sculptures. I was thinking we could schedule private viewings then—charge a premium for 'golden hour exhibitions.'"
"That's…" Omar pauses, visibly wrestling with himself. "Actually brilliant."
"See?" Rebecca says smugly. "I told you she was special."
Omar hands back my phone with the air of someone surrendering. "Fine. You can start tomorrow. But I don't tolerate tardiness, excessive cheerfulness before coffee, or anyone who says 'vibes' unironically."
"Deal!" I practically bounce. "Though I should warn you, I hum when I'm happy. It's involuntary."
"Of course you do." Omar sighs deeply, but I catch him exchanging a look with Rebecca that might almost be approval. "Try to keep it to jazz standards. None of that pop nonsense."
"I make no promises," I say, grinning. "But I'll bring you coffee. Black, no sugar, probably in a mug that says something pessimistic about life?"
"How did you—"
"Lucky guess." I wink at Rebecca. "Grumpy people are predictable. It's what makes them so endearing."
Omar mutters something that sounds like "I'm not endearing," but he's already pulling out new-hire paperwork.
I practically float out of the gallery, employed and elated. The job is mine—earned through knowledge and charm, not connections. The afternoon sun warms my face as I head toward the grocery store, ready to celebrate with my first self-shopped meal.
The supermarket is overwhelming in the best way. I've been in stores before, obviously, but never alone, never making every choice myself. I grab a cart and wander the aisles like they're galleries, each shelf a revelation.
"Twelve types of pasta sauce," I murmur in wonder, reading labels like they're poetry. "How does anyone choose?"
"You look lost, honey."
The voice belongs to a store employee whose name tag reads "Rick" and whose expression suggests he'd rather be anywhere else. He's approximately a thousand years old, with the kind of permanent frown that's etched into his DNA.
"Oh, I'm not lost!" I beam at him. "I'm just amazed. Do you know how incredible this is? I can buy any sauce I want. Any pasta shape. I could have linguine with arrabiata or penne with vodka sauce or—"
"It's pasta, not the Sistine Chapel," Rick interrupts, already shuffling away.
I follow him, pushing my cart alongside his restocking trolley. "But that's the thing! Michelangelo had to paint what the Pope commissioned. I can choose my own dinner. That's its own kind of art, don't you think?"
Rick stops, turns, and stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Are you on drugs?"
"No! Just excited about groceries."
"Nobody's excited about groceries."
"I am!" I grab a box of cereal with cartoon characters on it—the kind my nutritionist would have fainted over. "I've never picked my own cereal before. This one has marshmallows. Marshmallows, Rick!"
Despite himself, Rick's permanent frown softens slightly. "You never picked cereal before? What are you, royalty?"
"Something like that," I admit, then quickly add, "But I'm retired. Now I'm just Carmela who needs help finding normal people groceries."
Rick sighs—a deep, world-weary sound that suggests he's reconsidering all his life choices. "Fine. Rule one: generic brand pasta is identical to the fancy stuff. Save your money."
"Really?"
"Would I lie about pasta?" He starts shuffling down the aisle, apparently resigned to his fate. "Rule two: never shop hungry. You'll buy stupid things."
"Like marshmallow cereal?"
