Page 2 of Broken Innocence
“We’re having roast for Sunday dinner. Don’t forget to lint roll your clothes before coming over. Last week, your mother couldn’t stop sneezing for hours after you left.”
“I won’t forget. Love you.” Our call ends with an electronic beep. I lay the phone face down on the empty cushion beside me and focus on the purring feline in my lap.
Without my mother’s allergies to worry about, I had adopted the cat I’d always wanted, yet my parents still try to manage me from afar.
Petting Beanie’s orange fur, I sigh and relax into the couch cushions, enjoying the silence while staring at the small stained-glass light catcher hanging by the window, mesmerized by the flash of colors. The butterfly wings twinkle in shades of blue, but the body is an amalgamation of yellows and oranges.
It appeared in my mailbox wrapped in plain brown paper the day after I moved in. A nice surprise that I assumed camefrom the apartment complex as a welcome gift, although it was strange that they didn’t include a note.
Of course, there’s a slim chance it was meant for the previous tenant, but…
“Finders keepers. Right, Beanie?”
My new furry friend meows in agreement.
***
“Shoot!” I shake my hand out to alleviate the pain from the kitchen drawer slamming my finger. Growing up in a strict household meant curbing curse words. It’s a habit that serves me well at a daycare full of children, but it doesn’t quite hit the spot at home.
Shit, I mentally correct myself, practicing one of the New Year’s resolutions I made to cuss more as a way to express my feelings rather than bottling them up.
Beanie watches me from her perch on the counter. No matter how many times I’ve spritzed her with a water bottle to deter her from hopping onto the counters, she refuses to be disciplined. She does what she wants and doesn’t care what I think about it.
Honestly, I could probably learn something from the stubborn feline. How to live life on my own terms. How to ignore the things that don’t serve my best interests.
Because I care too much about how others view me—a difficult pattern to break when I’m not used to being seen. So, when someonedoesactually notice me? I feel the pressure to be absolutely perfect.
I don’t want to be a disappointment.
I need toearntheir attention.
“God, that’s some messed-up thinking, huh?” Beanie blinks in response. “Thanks for the words of encouragement,” I joke, scratching under her chin. She may not say much, and she may be a little rebellious terror, but that doesn’t stop my obsession with her fluffy butt.
“Okay, let’s figure out why the dishwasher isn’t working.” Leaning against the counter, I skim the pages of the appliance manual I pulled from a bottom drawer. I’ve been getting by with hand washing the dishes, but I feel stupid for not knowing how to get water to fill the dishwasher, so it’s time to figure it out.
The darn—damn—thing can’t be broken since it’s supposed to be new, which means it’s a user error. This user just has to learn how to correct whatever I’m doing wrong. Something the manual doesn’t help with.
“No worries… This is why the internet was invented.” Multiple searches later, though, all the suggestions land me no closer to a working dishwasher, and the next round of potential fixes requires a handyman.
“I’m sure they handle tons of dumb requests,” I murmur in a vain attempt to boost my confidence. Spring Falls Apartments has a tab on their website where residents can submit maintenance requests, so it shouldn’t be a big deal, but a wave of embarrassment hits me as I fill out the short online form.
Who can’t figure out their own dishwasher? It’s not freaking—fucking—rocket science.
I press the ‘submit’ button before chickening out.
Most people would probably call their dad or boyfriend to fix the problem, but Danny Marino is not very handy, and we’ve already established that I’m not the kind of girl who grabs men’s attention.
I’m used to being on the sidelines. Overshadowed by the more outspoken, the more beautiful, the moreeverything. And in a huge Italian family like Don D’Amora’s branch of the Boston mafia, that’s a lot of people.
Leaving the kitchen to settle on the sofa, I open the reading app on my phone. It’s times like these—when I’m reminded of how lonely and unseen I feel—that a good old-fashioned romance novel becomes an absolute necessity.
A glimmer of hope in an imaginary world where women like me find true love.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCA
The Blackchapel Bastards.
