“Sandy, are you lying to me or Deena right now?”
“Sometimes both options are viable,” she said.
“Has Dominic Russo visited my father?” I asked.
“Well, with HIPAA, I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” she said lamely.
“Oh my God.” I rolled my eyes. “Call me when Deena goes for her blood of children break.”
I put my head between my knees and tried not to barf everywhere.
“You okay back there?” the driver asked nervously.
“Fine,” I lied. “Absolutely fine.”
I sat back up and grabbed the sale paperwork out of my bag. The buyer’s entity was listed front and center.
Alominic Trust.
I made a half groan half whine.
The driver swerved to the side of the road. “Lady, please don’t barf in my car.”
73
Ally
“Hey, Als. Table Three just got here. You can grab his order,” Jorge said over the whoosh of the exhaust fan when I walked in the back door for my Saturday shift.
In my opinion, Jorge’s Wood-Fired Pizza was better than George’s. Jorge was a jolly kind of guy who actually liked both people and pizza. The tips were decent. The pizza was way better. And I got a free meal and as many bathroom breaks as I needed with every shift.
Plus, the pizzeria was located an easy walk from Dad’s nursing home.
“Sure,” I said, pasting a smile on my face. I was still reeling from yesterday’s revelations. In Mrs. Grosu’s pink and yellow guest room, I’d added up the cost of twelve months of long-term care.
If I was going to pay Dominic back, I would have to start selling internal organs.
I still didn’t know what I was going to do. I needed to talk to him. But I didn’t know if I could survive seeing him.
His email last night had been short and oh so sweet.
To: Ally
From: Dominic
Subject: Getting to know me
I’m never getting over you, Ally. And I’m not going to try. My heart was yours from the pepperoni on.
Love,
Dom
My mind on pepperoni, I clocked in and then pushed through the swinging door into the dining room. It was a busy Saturday afternoon. Half the booths were already full. The other server waved to me while she keyed in an order.
But I didn’t wave back.
Because I couldn’t stop staring at Table Three.
Those blue eyes pulled me across the checkered tile floor like an industrial magnet.
Dominic Russo, looking more casual than I’d ever seen him in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a ball cap, was staring at me. So sad, so hopeful.
My feet stopped in front of him, and my heart did its best to climb out of my throat.
I missed him. My body physically ached for him. The sound of his voice, the furrow of his brow, the smell of him after a shower, the heat from his body that always thawed me.
“Ally,” he rasped, then cleared his throat.
“Hi, Dom,” I said lamely. I wanted to break down and cry. I wanted to climb into his lap and let him hold me and convince me that everything was going to be fine now. I wanted him to make it all better. Somehow.
His gaze roamed me from head to toe as if he couldn’t quite believe I was here.
Remembering where I was, I pulled my notepad out of my apron and swallowed hard. “Do you know what you want?”
He glanced down at the unopened menu and then back up at me. “I was thinking I could go for a pepperoni pizza.”
Ouch. Direct hit on the ol’ ticker.
I put the pad back. “Sure. Is there anything else you want?”
He rested his hand on the edge of the green Formica table. His pinky was an inch from where my hand hung at my side. But sometimes an inch might as well be a mile. And I didn’t know how to cross it. I didn’t know how to ask him for what I needed. Because I didn’t know what I needed.
“There are a lot of things I want,” he said softly. His hopeful gaze found mine and held it. His pinky flexed, and for one glorious, perfect second, it brushed mine. My body lit up like a Christmas tree.
I loved him. So damn much. And he’d hurt me so damn badly. And I didn’t know what I needed from him.
I took a self-preserving step backward. “It’s so good to see you,” I said, addressing my sneakers. “I’ll put your order in.”
He was looking at me with so much feeling it was making me dizzy. His thumb tapped out a silent beat on the table. And the familiarity of it took my breath away. My heart squeezed like it did on days when my dad recognized me.
Maybe it was as simple as that. Loving someone, forgiving someone. Maybe it was about showing up and being strong enough to take the hurt.
He nodded and looked down at the table. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
I flew into the kitchen.
“Jorge, I need a pepperoni on the fly, and I need to put the toppings on myself,” I announced.
My boss shrugged and shoved a naked pie at me. “Suit yourself, Als.”
It was the longest three minutes of my life, waiting for the pizza oven to work its magic.
I almost burnt the shit out of my hand getting the pizza out of the oven and onto a tray.
“Calm down before you get hurt,” Jorge admonished.
“I already got hurt. But it’s okay because I love him!”
Jorge said something about “crazy women” under his breath. But I was too busy sprinting for the dining room.
Once again, I stopped in my tracks when I saw Table Three.
He was gone.
I did a quick scan of the restaurant, but my body already knew Dominic Russo was gone. In his place was a thick manilla envelope under a crisp twenty-dollar bill. I dumped the pizza on the table, sat, and tore open the envelope.
A certified check from one Dr. Claudia Morales fluttered out and onto my lap. My mother had written my father a check for the exact amount that she’d snuck out of his savings. There was a second check to me for an amount that made me blink. In the memo field, it said “for expenses incurred.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“Honey, are you okay over there?” A woman across the restaurant asked. “You look like you’re having a fit.”
I shook my head silently.
“You’re not okay, or you’re not having a fit?” she pressed. More customers were turning to stare at me.
“I’m not okay. It’s not a fit. It’s love.”
She nodded sagely. “You’re in love with that fine man who was sitting there all broody and beautiful?”
“Yeah.”
Next on the stack was the deed for dad’s house. Attached to it was a handwritten note.
Ally,
It’s yours. No one can ever take your memories from you.
Love, Dom.
“Damn you, Dom,” I whispered on a half sob.
Next came a report from what looked like some kind of private investigator.
Subject: Deena Smith, Goodwin Childers Nursing Home.
I turned the pages, skimming quickly. It looked like an investigation into unorthodox and illegal collection tactics. Attached was a formal complaint to the state accusing Front Desk Deena of using harassment and intimidation tactics to coerce families into paying the debts of loved ones even when there was no financial responsibility.