by Sophia Henry
“Okay, see you over there.”
I hung up with Drew and tapped the phone icon next to the number I had stored for Joey, hoping it was his. As the oldest in our family, you’d think he’d be the most responsible and connected. Nope.
He’d packed a few bags and moved to Colorado a few years ago to be a ski instructor. I have no problems with anyone leaving home to make a life for themselves doing what they love. He would’ve probably been an awesome instructor, if he’d actually applied at any resorts. Instead, he’d been sleeping on one of his friends’ floors, smoking pot, and playing videogames. At least that’s what he was doing according to his Instagram account. He never called any of us to let us know what he was really up to.
As expected, Joey didn’t answer. An automated voice told me what number I’d reached and instructed me to leave a message at the beep. Why couldn’t he have a personal voicemail message so that I’d know I’d reached his phone?
“Hey, Joey, it’s Gaby. Papa had a heart attack and he’s in the hospital. Call me when”—I paused, since I wasn’t sure if I’d called the correct number—”or if, you get this.”
Finally, I called my uncle Sal, Papa’s brother, to see if he could come down to watch the store. Uncle Sal managed the produce store in Grosse Pointe and couldn’t leave, but he promised he’d send Sammy, my cousin.
The bell above the door chimed as I walked back into the store, feeling scared, helpless, and rejected.
Landon looked up from his phone. “Gaby, what are you doing here?”
“My father just kicked me out of the ambulance.”
“He what?” Landon stuffed his phone into his pocket and crossed the room to meet me.
“He told me to get my ass back in the store and to have my mom meet him at the hospital.”
It had been only a few minutes since I spoke with Mom. Though I knew she had barely had time to back out of our driveway, let alone reach the hospital yet, it didn’t stop me from checking my phone, waiting for it to ring or buzz with an update.
“I can’t just stand here.” I spun around, glancing at every wall of the store. “I can’t work. I can’t think. What if they can’t save him? What if—”
Landon grabbed my shoulders as he had earlier, squaring my body to his. “He’s gonna be okay, Gaby.” Landon didn’t blink as he reinforced the mantra that kept me strong until Papa was in the ambulance. “He spoke to you. He was alert. That’s a good thing, right?”
The way Landon’s eyes held mine reminded me of when I’d taken figure-skating lessons as a kid. My coach taught me spotting; picking a focal point so that I wouldn’t get dizzy in my spin. Landon’s mocha-colored eyes served as my focal point so I wouldn’t get dizzy. For a moment, he was my spot. My safety.
“Yeah.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I think that’s something good.”
Landon let me go and dug into the front pocket of his jeans. “So, I just searched ‘heart attack’ on my phone. I watched this video that says ninety minutes is the key.”
“The key?”
I missed the warmth of his hands on my shoulders. I missed the safety I felt standing close to him. I missed the focal point I had staring into his eyes.
“Yeah. If he gets treatment within ninety minutes, he has a better chance of recovery.”
I swallowed my tears, reached up to rub my neck with my hands and took a deep breath. I exhaled as I whispered, “You can do this, Gabriella.”
“You can,” Landon confirmed. “Now get in your car and go to the hospital. I’ll wait here for whoever is coming to take care of the store.”
“Papa would kill me if I left right now.” I glanced at the door, the register, and finally back at Landon.
“You make decisions every day for this store. You’ve got to trust yourself.”
Still, I stalled, because I usually had more time to analyze the pros and cons of my decisions and how they’d impact the store, and, most important, what Papa would think of the choices I’d made. To me, going to the hospital was a no-brainer, but Papa made it clear he didn’t approve of my leaving the store in Landon’s hands.
Who was Landon Taylor, anyway? A longtime customer, sure. A hockey player. A nice guy, as far as any interaction I’d had with him. A crush. An infatuation. A friend? Could I call someone I’d made small talk with for years, but didn’t really know anything about, a friend? Could I trust our store to a person I barely knew?
No. Papa would have a heart attack if I left a stranger at our store by himself.
Or…another heart attack?
“I’m going to stay until Sammy gets here,” I said, my voice firm.
“Are you sure, Gaby?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly, Landon. I couldn’t possibly ask you to take care of the store. I barely know you.”
Landon’s slight wince caught me by surprise. But he recovered quickly, catching my eyes and holding them, as if searching for a fissure to pounce on. He wouldn’t find any cracks in my shell though. The hurt expression that crossed his face when I’d refused his help was minuscule compared to Papa’s wrath if I’d leave the store in the hands of a customer we barely even knew.
“Please let me help, Gaby.”
“I appreciate your offer, I really do. But leaving the store in the hands of a stranger wouldn’t be a smart decision.”
“ ‘Stranger’?” Landon’s voice squeaked with genuine surprise. “We’ve known each other our whole lives, Gaby. My parents wheeled me to the Bertucci Produce stand in a stroller before you were even born.”
“Where did I go to school?” I asked. Stumping him would prove my point.
“St. Paul’s. Then that all-girls high school. I forget the name.”
How the hell did he know that? The only reason I knew where Landon had gone to school was because I’d practically memorized every word written about him in local newspaper features. I knew he had real talent and would go far. It might sound lame, but I liked the thought of being able to brag about knowing a professional hockey player before he was famous.
“When’s my birthday?”
That was sure to stump him.
“July thirteenth.”
Damn.
“Favorite hobby?”
“Reading.”
Easy guess.
“Favorite band.”
“Twenty One Pilots.”
Aha!
“They aren’t my favorite.” I gloated in his defeat.
“But you like them. You’re going to their concert in a few weeks.”
WTF, kid?
“How did you know that?” I glanced past him. A slight movement outside the door had caught my eye, but no customers walked through.
“Told you we weren’t strangers.”
“You’re creeping me out. Seriously.” I thought I held the championship belt for scary stalker. At least I had a reason: Landon Taylor, my vote for sexiest man alive and hottest hockey player in the AHL. But there was no reason for him to remember random facts about me. “I’m not—anything.”
“Or maybe you’re everything.”
“What?” My brain didn’t have the capacity to wrap itself around everything going on right now. My dad had a heart attack. My crush alludes to me being everything—whatever that means. Can’t think. Storage limit maxed out.
“I pay attention when it comes to you, Gaby.”
“But why?” Surreal couldn’t even begin to describe this moment.
“You were my first kiss.” After sprinkling that confusing seed in my head, Landon spun around and walked out. Through the front window, I watched him thread his fingers together behind his head and raise them toward the clouds in a stretch as he disappeared from my line of sight.
So calm. So self-assured. He probably dropped bombs on unsuspecting fan girls all the time.
Meanwhile, I scoured my brain for the memory of kissing Landon.
How had I been Landon’s first kiss? We’d never kissed. I would have remembered kissing
him. I never would have washed my lips.
A dust bunny rolled past me, a reminder that I hadn’t swept today, or yesterday for that matter. I retrieved the broom from the closet in the office in back.
As I swept, I thought about my life in kisses. There had been only a few and they were all with the same guy, Zack, the math geek I took to homecoming during my sophomore year of high school.
Zack had a chance to be my first boyfriend, until Papa made a horrifying comment about how we Italians knew the best places to hide bodies, especially in Detroit, where no one really cares or questions.
Mafia jokes had never been Papa’s style. Must have been something about his little girl going to her first dance with a boy instead of a group of girlfriends that brought on the dash of dark humor. He was usually full of life. Full of love. Full of making decisions for the good of his family.
And all of that came with stress. The kind of stress that caused a heart attack.
I stopped sweeping the stupid floor and rested my forehead on the tip of the broom handle.
He’ll be fine.
He’ll be fine.
He’ll be yelling at me again soon.
I straightened and resumed my manic cleaning. Every time I swept the stiff bristles across the painted concrete floors, the dust bunnies bounced and flurried to areas just out of my reach. Out of my control.
Reports. The idea came to me so suddenly, the broom slipped out of my hands, making a loud thunk when it hit the ground.
I’d take over the reports so Papa would never have to worry about them again. I’d figure out what we needed to do to make 313 Artisans profitable and able to stand on its own feet. If I could take the stress of this place away, Papa could focus on Bertucci Produce again and everything would be fine.
I stooped down and picked up the broom, running through problem-solving scenarios while I swept. All right. How do I make this place profitable?
Get customers in the door. How?
Advertising. Marketing. Word of mouth. Spokespeople?
Too busy brainstorming ideas and sweeping like a maniac, I didn’t even hear the chime to alert me that a customer had entered the store. When someone tapped me on the shoulder, I spun around and raised the broom in self-defense. We hadn’t had any problems at this store, but this was still Detroit and I had to be vigilant. On a normal day I’d never be working alone. My family rarely let me be alone.
“It’s just me, Gaby.” My cousin Sammy lifted his hands in front of his face, shielding himself from being knocked upside the head with a broomstick. “Sorry about Uncle Joe.”
I let out a breath and lowered the broom, relieved that I’d almost assaulted my cousin instead of a customer.
Sammy surveyed the store like a policeman scanning a scene he’d been called to. “Were you here alone?”
“Yeah.” I’d been so wrapped up worrying about Papa, I’d forgotten to enjoy my first time as a free woman in three years. “Just for a few minutes though,” I added quickly.
Seems silly to defend my being alone in the store. Though we try to have two people working most shifts, there are times when one person manages the store on their own. It’s never been me though.
“Thanks for getting here so fast,” I continued, leaning the broom against the wall. “I’m so sorry to take you away from the store.”
“Don’t even waste your words. We’re family, Gaby. Family.” Sammy pounded his chest over his heart with a fist. The Italian horn charm dangling from the thick gold rope chain around his substantial neck bounced with the vibration.
Sammy exemplified one of the many reasons I loved my family. Always there. No questions. No hesitation.
Well, except Joey, my estranged older brother.
Chapter 3
“Joey’s flying home. He’ll be here tomorrow.” Mom never looked up from scrolling through her texts, as if she didn’t want us to see her red-rimmed eyes we knew she was hiding. I felt as if she needed permission to show emotion and I wanted to give it to her. She didn’t have to be strong for us. We’d get through it together, as a family, like we always did.
Drew lowered the waiting-room copy of Sports Illustrated he’d been reading. “Who paid for that?”
I pinched his bicep. Sure, I wondered the same thing, but I would never say it out loud. It wasn’t the time to talk about our slacker older brother. At least he was coming home. I hadn’t expected him to drop his life in Colorado.
“If you can’t be civil, why don’t you go sit in your car, Andrew?” Mom snapped.
Drew lifted the magazine back up, hiding his scowl.
“Gaby, Papa will be counting on you to help Joey while he’s out.”
“What’s he going to be doing?”
“He’ll be taking over for Dad.”
“At the shed or at one of the stores?” I asked.
More than eighty years ago, my great-grandfather, Salvador Bertucci, and his best friend, Ben Mitchell (who started his life as Blaise Mangiaracina, but changed his name at Ellis Island because he didn’t think he’d be able to get work with such an Italian name) began selling produce in Shed One at Eastern Market, Detroit’s historic public market. Mitchell and his family started a farm south of Detroit when they first arrived, which is where they grew the produce to sell. Their stand quickly became one of the busiest produce stands in the market, and continues to be today, thanks to loyal, long-term customers. The success of the stand allowed my Nonno (grandfather) Sal to expand Bertucci Produce into two freestanding grocery stores, which were currently run by Uncle Sal and Papa. It also allowed Mitchell Family Farms to relocate to Monroe, Michigan, and grow into one of the largest farms in the state. The Bertucci and Mitchell clans had been like one family for years.
Until three years ago. When one of the Mitchell boys I considered family raped me at a college party.
“He’ll be at Three-one-three.”
“Wait. What?” The horror in my voice slipped out. I’d just warned Drew to shut it and I couldn’t rein it in myself.
Mom lifted her eyes to me. “He’ll be at the new store.”
Papa chose Joey to take over for him at 313 Artisans? Joey? The new store opened only six months ago. Joey had never set foot in it. Why would my parents think letting him run it would be a good idea? Drew had a better chance at running it than Joey had.
“I’m the one who’s started the store with Papa. I know every inch of that store.”
Mom toyed with the string of colorful, chunky beads at her neck. “He’ll figure it out. I’m sure it’s what your father wants.”
“Figure it out? We don’t—”
Drew stood up and kicked my leg. Hard. I doubled over and grabbed my shin, rubbing the bone as if that would ease the pain. “Let’s go get some drinks. Need a water, Mom?”
“Grab me a coffee, please.”
Drew nodded. When I rose from my chair and took a step, my kicked leg buckled under me. Drew threw his arm out and caught me, propping me up until I could walk on my own.
“Jerk,” I said, but didn’t refuse leaning on his shoulder for the next few steps until the pain subsided.
“You deserved it. You were going to get into a huge fight with Mom and get her more upset than she already is. Plus, you know there’s no way in hell Papa’s gonna let Joey run the new store. Just let it all play out.”
Drew had a good point. Mom and Papa would never trust the store to Joey. Firstborn son or not, Papa would never put our family’s brand-new, faltering business in the hands of an irresponsible, pot-smoking wannabe ski instructor.
Joey, being Joey, didn’t answer any texts from me or Drew. He didn’t tell either of us when his flight was getting in. Nor did he tell either of us if he needed a ride from the airport to the hospital. So we were surprised when he sauntered into Papa’s room just after noon the next day.
“Joey!” Mom cried. She threw her arms around him as if he were Mighty Mouse, here to save the day.
“Hey, Mom.” Joey returned her hu
g. He gave me a slight nod over Mom’s shoulder.
I would’ve nodded back, but my brain was murky from the contact high I received when he’d walked in the door. I swear I could see a cloud around him, like Pig-Pen from Peanuts, except he emitted a haze of smoke rather than dust. The stench was so powerful, he must’ve smoked a bowl behind one of the massive bushes near the entrance to the hospital, or something. Couldn’t Mom smell it? It overtook her signature Chanel No. 5 scent. Marijuana might make people happy and mellow, but the pungent pot odor mixed with the classic Chanel made me want to vomit.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-weed. Do what you want. I’m fed up with my older brother and his inability to grasp the reality of adulthood. I’m nineteen and I have a full-time job. I could afford to buy the pot I smoked.
If I smoked it.
“Hey, man,” Joey said to Drew.
Drew reached an arm out, offering Joey his knuckles instead of a hug. Joey knocked his fist against it.
The birth order stereotypes in our family were completely messed up. As the oldest, Joey should be the reliable and structured one on the path to the NHL, and Drew should be the screwed-up middle child acting out for attention by smoking pot and moving to Colorado to be a ski instructor. But Joey had always been a calm kid, into reading and hanging out and my parents started Drew, their high-energy middle son, in a hockey program at an early age and he loved it. Drew had been focused on the game ever since. I don’t even think he drank. Well, he didn’t drink around us. Not even the ever-present glass of wine that the Bertuccis drank with every dinner.
Joey, on the other hand, had always been more of a gamer—something that irked Papa to no end. Papa didn’t want us kids to sit around in the house with eyes glued to the TV all day. He wanted to lock us outside from sunup until sundown. (Though he never did actually lock us out of the safety of our home, since we lived in an unpredictable neighborhood.)
Joey didn’t like playing hockey, or rather, he didn’t like the ice-skating part of it. Mom loves to tell the story of his first—and last—skating lesson, where he’d told my mom that the ice was “too slippery.” He tried a few other sports, but never found one he enjoyed enough to stick with long term.
