AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m not selfish, Colton. I just don’t want to be like you. I’m going to enjoy life and screw everyone else. I don’t need anybody.”
“I think what you need is to cool down. One day, you’re going to want someone at your games.”
“You’re wrong,” I shouted as he left my room.
Except that he wasn’t.
A year later, I asked Grace to watch two of my games, and both times I looked for her the whole night—but like my uncle, she never showed up for me.
*
Colton lived up to his promise. When he inherited his portion of our parent’s wealth on his eighteenth birthday, he purchased a home close to the high school for us to live in. The following year, the three of us, with court-ordered documents in hand, kicked my uncle and aunt from our family home. They didn’t leave quietly, shouting about how ungrateful we were and such. It was nearly laughable. I had wanted to move in right away, but Colton didn’t want to go back there. He said he wanted to start new memories. But not me. No, I had wanted to fix what my uncle had done. So, three years ago, when I was twenty-five, I bought the home from my brothers, becoming the sole owner, and remodeled the place. The first thing I did was push that brown leather recliner into the backyard and set that sucker on fire. I fucking hated it.
While I didn’t tear down any walls, I removed every piece of furniture, appliance, and carpet from the house and filled it with my personal style. I bought a soft cream couch that didn’t recline, a huge king-size bed, and, of course, restaurant-quality stainless-steel appliances. Although I didn’t cook for many people, only for Ryan and Colton.
When we were kids, Colton would buy us dinner every Friday night until I started cooking. They had agreed my version of the veal sandwiches was better than the store-bought ones and I’d tried a new recipe out on them every week. As we grew older, those weekly meals turned into monthly ones, but we still maintained them even today.
Despite walking in the same direction as my house, I didn’t want to go home yet. The scent of sauteed garlic, onions, and something I couldn’t quite place awakened my nose. Inhaling deeply, I realized the aroma came from an open window a few feet ahead but down four steps below the main street level. The writing on the glass door read Mario’s Restaurant. A bell chimed as I opened the door and my eyes adjusted to the darkness within. Dark brown leather booths framed the room and the black carpet and red walls didn’t add any brightness.
“Hello,” I called when no one greeted me.
Nothing.
I stepped further into the restaurant, then closer to the back room, when I heard someone bang a pot. I pushed the white swinging door open and squinted at the bright lights.
“Who are you?” a voice asked, surprised.
I squinted and rubbed my eyes until a large man with a bald head but a dark, bushy mustache came into focus. “I’m Luke Crawford,” I said. “I smelled something delicious and had to come in.”
He resumed adding anchovies to a pizza. “And my daughter sent you back here?”
“What daughter?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder.
He huffed. “Is she still on break? I told her to be back in ten minutes. That was thirty minutes ago,” he mumbled something else under his breath, but I didn’t catch it.
He clapped his hands and flour sprinkled across the counter. “What can I get you? Would you like a personal pizza? We have fettuccine tonight or the sea bass is excellent quality, or—”
“The pizza sounds great,” I said, eyeing the various ingredients next to the flattened dough. “Is that pepperoni?”
“Pepperoni?” he repeated, slightly affronted. “No, no, no. This is not pepperoni.” He picked it up and offered me a piece. “This is hot soppressata made from my mother’s hands. It’s a family tradition.”
I popped the piece of meat into my mouth and my tongue immediately exploded. I tasted the hot chili pepper flakes first, but then a more subtle flavor started coming through. It was a mix of cured meat, but something oddly sweet. “Is that red pepper I taste?”
He smiled. “Very good,” he said. “My mother adds just a hint of red pepper and tomato paste to her recipe.”
“It works really well,” I said.
“Perfetto,” he said. “I’ll make you a soppressata and olive pizza. How does that sound?”
“It sounds perfetto,” I smiled and watched him as he prepared my meal.
In no time, he shimmied the pizza into a large wood oven, and in less than two minutes it was ready. “That’s impressive.”
“Ninety seconds,” he said. “That’s all it takes.”
The mozzarella sizzled when he passed me the pizza and oozed when I picked up a slice. I could smell the spice and the hint of garlic he used in the tomato sauce. It all worked really well together. After blowing on the end, I took my first bite. Mmm, all the flavors circled my taste buds at once and made me smile. Delicious.
“This is the best pizza I’ve ever had,” I said before taking another bite.
