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Prologue
They always say you can’t go home again, but let me add to that advice. If you do return home to live with your stoic, lawyer father and meddling mother, make sure you’re not thirty with a bankrupt business and a failed romance.
These were the TED Talk-like thoughts running through my mind as I hunched over boxes in the mildewy basement of Tino’s Italian restaurant, thankful there wasn’t a mirror for me to peruse the assuredly disastrous state of my hair. I rolled my eyes at my senseless inner monologue as the wind howled outside, threatening to send the ancient boardwalk restaurant crumbling.
“Let’s face it,” I said aloud, admittedly like someone who was one incident shy from a complete meltdown. “No one’s calling your disastrous self for a TED Talk anytime soon.”
My shirt covered in food and my mood as low as it gets from what happened before retreating to the basement, I moved box after box, looking for the mysterious serving dish. Plumes of dust and probably death-inducing mold wafted into the air, but I was a bit thankful for the escape. The Italian music blasted up above, and there were footsteps dashing about as the dinner rush was on. My own feet ached from waitressing all night–and not well if I was to be honest. Still, it felt good to have a moment away from the hustle and bustle of Tino’s, of spilled drinks, and of the constant reminder that everything had fallen apart.
I finally found the box I was looking for, the single bare bulb in the basement illuminating the scrawled words “Serving Dishes.” Apparently, there was a wedding scheduled the next day, and Tino wanted to “class it up.” Semi-microwaved Italian dishes needed more than a silver platter, in my opinion, to even hint at anything classy.
I stood for a moment holding the box, sighing dramatically. I needed to get it together. This cranky, salty woman wasn’t who I was, not really. Still, after a failed business that left me crawling back to my oceanside hometown and to my parents’ condo at the age of thirty to hear “I told you so,” it was no wonder the sparkle had lost its shine a little bit. Add to that the situation with Brad and Scarlet—I shuddered, my stomach dropping at the mere thought of it—and it was no wonder all the motivational podcasts in the world weren’t really helping. I was stuck in a deep hole and couldn’t see the sunshine anymore. I was broke, alone, and living in my childhood bedroom my mother had maintained as a mausoleum for the pretty-in-pink girl she’d raised. In short, my life was messier than the basement of Tino’s.
I heard the familiar 6:00 p.m. blast of a trumpet and rolled my eyes again. It was free margarita time, and the mariachi music alerted the guests. Clapping and cheers ensued. I could picture Grace, stone faced, passing out the tray of margaritas, wondering where I was. I felt a little bad about not being up there, but not enough to rush back for the most nonsensical part of the Italian restaurant. No one really understood why “Margarita Hour” was a tradition at all, let alone the bizarre line dance that accompanied it. No one dared question Tino, though. Except sometimes Grace.
Thinking about Grace made me consider how before I came down to the filth-blanketed basement, she’d wanted to tell me something. She looked excited, but in fairness, the twenty-two-year-old was typically happy, the foil to who I’d become. I decided to face the literal music and head back out there, if for no other reason than to see what she wanted to reveal.
I marched to the top of the basement steps, the bulky box precariously balancing on my hip. I was trying to sort out exactly how, uncoordinated on a good day, I was going to pull off holding the box and twisting the rusty doorknob on the basement door. But I didn’t have to worry, at least not about that.
Because just as I was sorting out how to make it work, the door burst open. A tall figure blasted through, dashing over the small landing at the top of the stairs where I was standing. I instinctively stepped backward—except there wasn’t enough room on the landing to do that.
And just as I had told myself life couldn’t possibly get any worse, it did.
Because as I stepped backward, I lost my balance. The bare bulb shined brightly, now illuminating what I imagined was a horrific face as I tumbled down the stairs, the box and heavy silver platters clanging on top of me. I crumpled down, down, down, thinking this was where it all ended—on the dingy steps of Tino’s basement. Maybe they could use the silver platters at my funeral.
When I finally landed at the bottom of the stairs, time warping back to normal speed, everything was fuzzy and fading. My entire body hurt, and I felt myself slipping away. But before it all went black, I heard what I thought was a distinctively British voice yell out a punctuated and startled, “Oh no.”
Oh no, indeed, I mused as everything turned inky.
Chapter One
Three days before the fall that changed everything
I took off my black apron, which was splattered with the remnants of spaghetti sauce and congealed bits of chicken parmesan. I’d managed to only drop two plates during my shift, which sadly was an improvement. If Tino didn’t know my dad, he probably would have fired me already for lackluster performance. Waitressing wasn’t exactly turning out to be my strong suit, at least not in Tino’s restaurant, which was annoying. Tino’s wasn’t my dream job anyway. It was frustrating to be bad at something you didn’t even like. Still, with my finances in their current state, I wasn’t in a position to let pride get in the way.
“Doing anything tonight?” Grace Baylor asked, swiping her short blond hair she’d just had cut out of her eyes. With bright blue eyes, a nose ring, and tattoos up her arms, she had such a fun vibe going. At twenty-two, she was just back for the summer now that college had left out. I was glad for it, though, because out of all Tino’s staff, she was the most fun to talk to.
