Wren shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. Enzo, go get your shoes on.”
Chauncey’s pizzeria is situated halfway between Midtown and the Upper East Side. From the outside, it looks like an Irish Pub, complete with an emerald green awning with Finnegan’s Pizzeria scrolled across it in gold lettering. Irish bagpipe music plays on a loop inside, and the menu consists of the most ridiculous pizza offerings like Bram’s Corned Beef and Cabbage, Quinn’s Potato Leek and Bacon, and Mrs. O’Flannery’s Shepherd’s Pie.
He said when he first opened this place, fusion restaurants were all the rage, and he’d never seen an Irish-Italian fusion done quite like this before, so he took a chance. And he got lucky. Because this place is never not busy.
“Hey babe.” Chauncey comes out from the back room dressed in khaki slacks and a gray button down. He wraps his arms around Wren, his face lit like the Griswold’s house at Christmastime. He never kisses her in front of Enzo out of respect, which is yet another thing I love about Chauncey. “What a surprise. My favorite girl. My favorite guy.”
He reaches down, ruffling Enzo’s thick, dark mop.
“And my favorite future sister-in-law,” he adds, giving me a wink.
“Your only future sister-in-law.” I’ve heard this joke a million times, and for some reason it never gets old to him, so I punch his arm playfully and do my part because he’s Chauncey and he means well.
“Saved you guys a table in the back.” He motions for us to follow him, and I spot a “reserved” sign at the edge of our favorite booth in the corner. “Best seat in the house.”
We slide into the booth, the green, waxy seats still wet from their fresh wipe down, and I grab a drink menu from behind a parmesan shaker.
“You’re drinking tonight?” Wren asks.
“Is that a problem?” I arch an eyebrow.
“It’s just not like you to drink on a Monday night,” she says.
“Still a little rattled from that asshole earlier,” I say.
“Why’d you let him get to you? Screw him.” Wren’s face pinches.
“I told myself I wouldn’t,” I say, flipping through the drink selection. “I know people like him aren’t worth it. It’s just like, when you try to do something nice for somebody and they’re a giant ass, it’s hard to shake that off.”
“Nothing you can do about it. Can’t control the way other people act, Aidy. All that matters is you had good intentions.”
“Damn right, I did.”
“What happened?” Chauncey asks.
“You know that journal she found last week?” Wren asks, pointing at me but looking at her fiancé. “She went to return it today and the guy was a total you-know-what. Said he’d never seen it in his life. Accused her of stalking him and wanting an autograph.”
Chauncey laughs. “Probably some Internet-famous, delusional jerkwad. City’s full of ‘em. Don’t let it ruin your day, Aidy.”
“Can we get pepperoni?” Enzo asks Chauncey.
“Would you like your very own Enzo-sized pepperoni pizza?” Chauncey asks.
My nephew nods, wagging his tongue like a dog.
“You girls want the usual?” Chauncey asks.
“Yes, sir,” I say, pointing to the drink menu. “And bring me an Irish Rose, pretty please with sugar on top?”
Chauncey leaves, flagging down a server to handle our orders, and then returns to the back, disappearing behind two swinging doors.
“He’s a hard worker, that guy.” I say to Wren.
She smiles, head tilted as she spins a red pepper shaker in front of her. “He’s a good guy. I think I’ll keep him. Enzo, should I keep Chauncey?”
Enzo nods enthusiastically.
“Hey, you never told me how your interview went with that reality star.” I reach across the table and tap the top of her hand.
She shrugs, lips flat. “It was okay. She was a bit of a snot. One of those who think they’re more famous than they are, you know?”
“Aren’t they all like that?”
“She had me take off her makeup and redo it,” Wren says. “It took a good fifteen minutes to get everything off. I mean, her face was spackled with caked-on makeup. When I took it off, honestly, I hardly recognized her. Most of the time, these women look so much better natural, you know? But it’s like she became a completely different person. She got quiet. Wouldn’t look at her reflection in the mirror until I’d at least covered up her acne scars, and then she sort of exhaled and joked that makeup artists are the poor man’s plastic surgeon.”
“That’s a compliment, right?”
Wren rolls her eyes. “Backhanded.”
“You think you’ll get the job?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. I didn’t leave there feeling like she was that impressed.”
“What kind of look did you give her?”
“Something natural and tasteful, but still camera-ready,” she says. “I contoured her nose and cheekbones, gave her a bright red lip, and went easy on the eyes. We did strip lashes, the toned-down ones. I thought she looked fresh and vibrant. She just sort of stared at herself in the mirror and asked her assistant to show me out.”
“She kicked you out?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t bad. It was just . . . weird.”
“You don’t want to work with someone like that anyway.”
She huffs, glancing up at me from her side of the table. “I’m a single mom. I’ll work for anyone if they can afford my rates and pay me on time.”
Poor Wren. Lorenzo does a lot of freelance work in the entertainment industry, working mostly in TV show production, and often times his child support payments are late. When work is slow for Lorenzo, Wren feels the pinch and Enzo suffers. It’s partly why I moved in with her a few years back when the two of them split up. Manhattan’s cost of living is exorbitant, and she wanted to live in a nice neighborhood close to St. Anthony’s so Enzo wouldn’t be far from school. We found an updated three-bedroom apartment about four blocks away and pooled our money together for the deposit.
We’ve made it work since then, and we haven’t been without our lean months, but it’s been worth it.
“Mom! Mom!” Enzo tugs on his mom’s arm, pulling her out of our conversation.
“What is it, buddy?” she asks.
Enzo seems trapped in a rare instance of speechlessness, his eyes focused on something behind me, clear across the crowded restaurant.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Enzo’s jaw hangs and then the corners of his mouth inch up. His maple brown eyes are lit, glowing. “That’s . . . Alessio Amato, one of the greatest starting pitchers in the history of major league baseball.”
He speaks slowly, as if he’s entranced, and he hasn’t removed his gaze from that corner of the room for one second.
“Can I get his autograph, Mom?” His hands meet in prayer position and he bounces in his seat.
“Who is this again?” Wren speaks my mind. She and I have never cared much for sports, and the first time we’d ever been to a ball game was when she and Lorenzo first started dating. He was a huge Yankees fan and dragged her to every home game for an entire season one year. I tagged along once. To be nice. But Enzo definitely gets his baseball-loving genes from Lorenzo’s side of the family.