Guess he didn’t have much to leave behind.
I did.
“We need to iron out our backstories,” I tell him gruffly.
He nods. “Over lunch? I could eat.”
We’re far enough from New York that we can stop for good, but where? Kansas City, Columbia, and Springfield form a triangle, and we’re driving somewhere in the middle of it. I zoom in on myphone’s GPS and a plethora of tiny towns appear as dots on the map.
When I search for “lunch,” the first place that pops up—Frostbite Tavern—is in a nearby town called Darkwater Hollow. In the photos, it looks like the kind of bar-slash-restaurant-slash-coffee shop you find in places that don’t have enough demand for any of those businesses to exist on their own.
“There’s a spot ten minutes away.” I type the address into the car’s navigation system. “Let’s stop there.”
“Works for me.” Sandro turns up the stereo, and I see a falcon circling the field next to us as it hunts for prey.
For a moment back in New York, I was prey. Gino Ferraro’s prey. Maybe I still am. I’m playing dead, aren’t I? Pretending to be someone I’m not just so the fucking Ferraros don’t come after me.
I clench my jaw. Over the last three days while driving in this car, sleeping in raggedy hotel rooms, and eating shitty gas-station food, I’ve been going through the five stages of grief.
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
I’m stuck in between the last two.
Yeah, I’ve accepted that I’m a nobody now, but it’s still depressing as fuck. I can never go back home. Sandro’s the only person left in my life who knows who I really am.
My life’s work—my legacy—was destroyed in one day. I spent my life following my don’s orders, and this is where I ended up.
No wonder every time I swallow, there’s a bitter aftertaste.
It’spast noon when we get to Frostbite Tavern—a log cabin with a big front porch, square windows, and a sloping roof. Its name is written in cursive lettering on a hanging sign just above the entrance. The parking lot’s nearly full.
“It’s busy,” Sandro says.
“It’s probably the only place to eat around here.”
Inside, something smells really good. I glance around the bustling dining room, taking in the black-and-white photographs on wood-paneled walls and the bar at the back. The atmosphere is cheerful. Welcoming.
So is the thirty-something-year-old hostess. She gives me a wide smile as she leads us to a table in the corner, her eyes skating down my body with a flicker of interest.
I smile back. At least some things never change.
“Your waitress will be with you in a minute.” Two plastic-covered menus appear on the table in front of us. She taps against them once with red nails and walks away.
Sandro picks up one of the menus and sighs. “You know, it’s not fair.”
“What?”
He tips his head in the direction of the hostess. “That. The way you just exist, and they can’t get enough of it.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say just to annoy him.
“I guess I get it. You look like a super-sized version of one of those Greek statues. What are you, six-four?”
“Six-five.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course you are. If I ever want to get laid, no fucking way am I bringing you as my wingman.”
I chuckle. “Get laid? Aren’t you too young for that?”
