We’d open the window on nights when it was cool enough to watch movies away from the crowd. No one could tell me I wasn’t royalty with my own VIP section and unlimited access to the kitchen. Vince didn’t stick around to watch, but he lingered long enough to make his presence known.
A heated breeze strokes the air, drifting through the window I pushed open. The flare from the sun finally receded toward the Harbor, where it can stay with the tourists. Judging by the standing room only space below, they’ve found their way into the neighborhood.
I smile at the Milk Duds on top of a stack of papers next to a closed laptop. Two photos rest on his desk. The first is a black-and-white photo of Vince in Brooklyn when he was younger, standing next to two men in long coats and hats. I swear he was in the mob. There’s no proof, but he looks at people like he only needs to make one phone call.
The second photo is of me, Vince, and Mama Vee. I’m on his shoulders, my small hands splayed across his temples, a grin stretching from one pigtail to the other. Two of my front teeth are missing and I’m mid-laughter. Vince’s face would be expressionless if it weren’t for the smirk creeping up the corner of his mouth. Mama Vee’s wide smile lifts her cheekbones, smoothed in caramel, as her low stare touches the camera.
She was bad without effort and never veered from the curly pixie cut that required statement earrings.
“Carmine made you lasagna. He wants to see you before you leave.”
Vince stands in the doorway, a hand tucked into his dress pants, the other holding a takeout container. Gray has settled into his once black hair. I’ve tried to get him to dress up as Pino fromDo the Right Thingfor Halloween. With the salt-and-pepper action, Mauricio is the better option—though Vince doesn’t have aReal Housewifefor an ex or a real estate business.
“Thanks.” I meet him in front of his desk to take the food. “Do you know what they’re playing?” My happy shimmy activates at the corner piece of the best baked lasagna blowing kisses at me. I don’t give a damn how old I get. When I’m in the presence of good food, my shoulders shake.
“Some Tuscan shit.”
I snicker and drop into the office chair that still dips to the left. “Under the Tuscan Sun. Those people did not name that movie ‘Tuscan Shit.’”
Vince takes the seat across from his desk. He folds his hands in his lap, bending the compass rose tattoo stretching up the inside of his forearm. “How you doin’ for real? You need money, or for me to blow out your old boss’s knees? The scumbag.”
“I’m alright, no, and whatchu you gonna do at your age?” I laugh at the last part. Vince is sixty-three with a bad hip, depending on when it rains.
A crease burrows between the thick brows that took convincing to get waxed. He cracks his neck. “One phone call, princess. He got a lotta shit witchu, treating you so bad after all these years.”
“And you wonder why I think you’re in the mafia?” I smile at his eye roll.
He waves me away. “I didn’t know you were putting up with that shit for so long. You should come home. I ain’t telling you what to do. You got a good head on your shoulders. Think about it, Bianca. You got a house down here and don’t gotta worry about no rent. Everybody needs an HR director. Work in the White House for all I care.”
I huff. “Pass.” I’ve been called a miracle worker, but my powers and tolerance for bullshit only go so far. If there’s one thing Hamilton Capital taught me, it’s not to waste time or energy on people who don’t deserve it.
Tom Cruise got more attention inJerry Maguirewith his goldfish in a bag than I did the day I quit. My lone cardboard box and I walked to the elevator without one “Where are you going?” or”All the best!“ Just lotion-less and focused on themselves. No one cared that the internal advocate for wellness and raises was leaving. Except for Jim, who asked if I was taking my snack cart.
It was the wake-up call I needed from Corporate America. I’m never going back.
“I’ll find my way.” The reminder is more for me than for Vince. Thirty-nine and unemployed isn’t the end of my story; it’s a new beginning.
“I never doubt what you’ll do,” Vince says, his smooth tenor the calming balm of a stand-in father. “I’m happy you’re back for however long you’re staying.”
I smile. “Miss you too, Vin.”
The crowd outside quiets as the movie projector comes to life.
Diane Lane’s life flipped on its head before she got the chance to finish the glass of wine in her hand. Five minutes was all it took to reveal a cheating spouse, his demand for alimony, and the level of fucked up he and her spineless attorney had her.
Vince left the office when I started having a one-sided conversation with the screen because ain’t no way!
Women are always expected to take it on the chin; smile through disrespect with understanding to be the “bigger person.” Any reaction outside of appeasement isn’t tolerated.
Had I dealt with a cheating partner and not an unappreciative boss, I’d be serving hard time after skipping to the “until death do us part.” That or be on the first plane to Italy, without my best friend gifting me a ticket a year later.
Just go.
The two words tug and pull in my chest, demanding that I not push them away like I have every vacation while working at Hamilton Capital.
Just go.
I don’t need a Tuscan villa, but I do speak the language.
