CHAPTER18
Icontinue walking with my head held up high. Liam and all of the other assholes won’t drag me down.
The scent of delicious Italian food has me walking right up to a place that looks family-owned. Inside, the workers appear to be rushing about, working hard.
There's no help wanted sign out front, but I take a chance and walk in. The scent of buttery garlic assaults me, and I almost lick my lips.
The hostess tells a party of four that the wait is thirty minutes, and then she smiles at me. "Hello? Just one, or will someone be joining you?"
“Actually, I was hoping that there might be a job opening. Any position.”
“Can you cook?”
I nod.
“Are you Italian?”
I nod again.
"Qual è il tuo piatto italiano preferito da cucinare?"
Now, I don’t know Italian, but that’s pretty easy enough to figure out. Too bad I don’t know what I can say to answer as far as my favorite Italian dish to cook.
“Ah… spaghetti and meatballs,” I say lamely. “My meatballs have three kinds of meat in them—”
“You don’t know Italian?”
I shake my head.
“Being Italian isn’t enough. You have tobe Italian.” She says this with much gusto.
"Right. Just because I don't know the language—"
“If you can’t appreciate Italian culture, then you can’t work here.”
“I’m willing to take a class to learn Italian,” I say desperately. “If you can just give me a chance—”
An older man who looks like he just stepped off a ship from Italy approaches. “What is going on here, Mia?”
“This woman would like to be a cook here, but she can’t speak Italian.”
“No Italian? No work here. Almost every employee here is related to me, and I will not tolerate having a non-Italian—”
“I am Italian,” I protest.
It’s the truth.
“You aren’t,” he says with a shake of his head.
“I’m not a poser,” I grumble as I turn around and walk out of there. There’s a line behind me of people waiting to be seated. I’m sure the food there is amazing, but I’ll make do by swallowing my pride.
Not too much farther down the block, the scent of delicious food is replaced by oil and grease. There’s a mechanic’s shop, and I linger at the opening. A motorcycle is there, being worked on.
A man is working on the bike. It's a cool bike, a bit flashy. Doesn't have the power mine does. I can zoom around at high speeds, and my bike responds as soon as I lean one way or the other. This one won't stop on a dime. It's the kind of bike that rich people buy to show off to their friends, but it's not the most fun to drive. At least, in my opinion.
My gaze shifts over to the sign on the open door, and I grin and stroll on inside.
“Hello,” I say pleasantly.