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Lily, whenever I spoke to her, said I should come back. What she didn’t understand was that no matter how rough things were here in NYC, I just knew it would be worse back in Bluehaven Beach.
I needed to move forward with my life, not backward.
I dressed smartly in a simple blouse and skirt, paired up with sensible black kitten heels. Glancing in the mirror, I took a deep breath. "You got this, Elara," I whispered to my reflection.
I made my way through the bustling streets of Manhattan. The honking taxis, the steady stream of people, the overpowering aroma of street food—it was a chaotic symphony that somehow all just felt too much. The subway car was packed with people lost in their own worlds, faces illuminated by the harsh glow of smartphones. Here we were, in the city, but was anyone truly living in it?
Before long, I was at Cut and Dry, a modest pizzeria tucked away on a corner street. The red brick exterior and faded wooden sign gave it a certain charm. I could almost see myself working here. It wasn’t my dream, granted, but it could easily be my reality.
The moment I stepped inside, the warmth and aroma of fresh dough and bubbling cheese struck me, transporting me back to Cole's yard, to the evening he set up the pizza oven. I wished I could go back to that day now. I’d been too on edge to fully get into it after my pastry school interview. It had been so kind of Cole to do it for me. God, I missed his kindness.
And his touch.
His voice.
His everything.
"Elara O'Neil?"
I turned to see a man wearing a t-shirt saying “FRANKIE SAYS RELAX” on it.
"That's me," I said with a smile, shaking his hand.
"I'm Dom, the manager. Let's get started." He ushered me into the cramped office, overflowing with unsorted papers and bills.
"'Scuse the chaos," Dominic said, gesturing to a beat-up old chair.
I sat down.
Dominic pulled out a vape and took a deep drag. There was a Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar on the wall behind him. Wow. Miss September was kinda intimidating. And very busty. I flicked my eyes back to Dom, keeping my expression even.
"So, you worked at The Tortoise? Fancy.” He whistled. “Kind of a step down coming to a place like this."
"The Tortoise wasn’t for me," I said tightly.
"Right. So, tell me about your experience with pizza," Dominic said, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at my resume.
"I've eaten a lot of pizza!" I said with a dumb laugh.
"That's a good start."
"And I've always loved making pizza from scratch—experimenting with different types of crusts and toppings," I said, trying to sound enthusiastic without revealing how desperate I was for this job.
"You tried our pie?"
"Of course."
"What did you think?"
"I thought it was a good New York-style pizza. Almost Neapolitan."
He raised his eyebrows. "Right."
I paused a moment. "Have you ever considered using sourdough as your raising agent?"
Dominic scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Nah, we like to keep things simple here. Just good, affordable pizza for the community."
"Sourdough doesn't need to be expensive! It takes a little longer bu—"
