I wish she weren’t a fucking alcoholic. Why do I feel so remorseful for hating that she puts me through this? More than anything else, I feel guilty, like her being so unhappy is all my fault.
The place I saw on the drive to the house, Valetti’s Italian Bistro, is just another block away. Hopefully they’ll have some booth in the back that’s empty. And alcohol. I could really use a drink. It’s a little late for dinner, so maybe it’ll be deserted and I can get my studying done in peace. I walk up the brick paved walkway and admire how rustic the place looks before opening the front door. This entire area has a small-town feel. I like it.
I’d like it more if I wasn’t forced to be here though. As soon as I’m done with graduate school, I’m gone. I’ll give Mom an allowance, maybe, and leave to find a place like this that isn’t tainted. A nice, small town with family-owned restaurants just like this. I smile and let out an easy sigh. Everything’s going to be alright. I just have to push through everything and work a little harder. And figure out a way to stop being a freaking enabler.
I take a quick glance around the place. It’s dark for a restaurant, with a few dim lights placed symmetrically around the dining area. The walls are a soft cream, and the chairs and booths are a deep red. It’s just my style. A little grin forms on my face as I spot an empty booth in the back on the right. It’s directly across from another booth in the narrow room, almost like they belong to each other, but there’s an obvious separation. I take quick strides to claim it.
I scoot into the seat and let the back of my tote hit the cushion before sliding the straps off my arm. Holy hell, that feels so much better. I rub my shoulder and look down to see two angry red marks from the straps. My lips purse. Next time I’m just bringing the laptop and my notes. And my car.
I lick my lips and pull out my laptop to bring up the syllabus. I downloaded it before I left, but I’m hoping this place has Wi-Fi. I breathe in deep and click to see. It’s password protected. Damn. I don’t like that. That means I have to talk to someone. And I really don't like that. I prefer to keep to myself. My eyes look past the brightly lit screen and search the place for a waitress, but there isn’t one readily apparent. My shoulders sag with disappointment. Where the hell is the waitress? My eyes drift to directly in front of me and catch the gaze of one of the men sitting across the aisle in the opposite booth.
I quickly break eye contact, but I got a good enough look at him that heat and moisture pool in my core. He’s fucking hot. Dark hair that’s long enough to grab, and dark, piercing eyes to match. His tanned skin and high cheekbones are emphasized by the dim lighting.
I swallow thickly and hope the heat in my cheeks isn’t showing as a violent red blush on my face. My eyes hesitantly look back at the man in question, and judging from the smirk on his face, he did see. Shit! I rest my left elbow on the table and attempt to casually cover my face while searching again for a waitress. I’m gonna need a drink to calm these nerves and focus on my work.
“Would you like a menu?” I turn to see a young man, very Italian-looking, with olive skin and bright green eyes waiting for my response. He seems nice enough and obviously still in high school.
“No thanks, just a drink please?”
“What can I get you?” he asks, and then gives me a forced smile. Well, damn. I’m sorry me being here has rained on your parade. I shake off the snide inner remark. Maybe he’s just had a rough day. Like me.
“Citrus vodka and Sprite, please.” My favorite. I smile brightly at him, hoping maybe a little sunshine will rub off on him, but it’s a no-go. He gives me the same tight smile with a short nod, and leaves.
This place is odd. I never would’ve guessed that guy was a waiter. He was only wearing black jeans and a black tee. It’s not the uniform I’d expect from a nice place