Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Why would he want to?
Happy endings aren’t for a girl like me.
Leah
On the way back from class, my boots are soggy again. I really need to replace them, but I also have to pay my phone bill and rent. Then I have college tuition, which is way more than a hundred and seventeen dollars a credit.
Why am I even bothering with college? At this point it’ll take me seventy-five years to graduate, and several lifetimes to pay off the debt.
When the pale pink store front is in view, I try to shake my sadness. Why am I feeling like this? It's not because I'm single. It's not because I'm working at a bakery. It's because when I add up the pieces of my life, the total sum equals pathetic.
Is this what my life is going to be like?
I'm so caught up in thoughts, I’m almost at the bakery when I realize the Closed sign is flipped and the lights are off, but the door is half cracked.
That's odd. Maybe Mrs. Rossi took a turn for the worse and Mr. Rossi didn't want to have to deal with any customers.
I walk in and carefully close the door behind me so as not to let the heat out. Something crunches under my cheap boots. Glass.
I turn and gasp. The front cases are smashed. Broken glass covers the floor and countertop. Glinting shards coat the remaining cupcakes and muffins. Big Bernadette is lying on her side on the floor, dented. Coffee’s pooled on the floor, looking like black blood.
“Mr. Rossi,” I cry. There’s a faint groan from the kitchen area. I fly over the shattered glass to the back.
Mr. Rossi is crumpled in a corner, surrounded by the pots, pans, and whisks littering the floor. I race through the piles of spilled flour to crouch at his side.
“Leah, he groans. The skin around his eyes is bruised. His cheek is red and swelling. “I tried to call you,” he mumbles through swollen lips. “Tell you not to come in.”
“Easy.” I take his arm gingerly, wincing when he does, and help him sit up. We both stare at the wreckage of the bakery. “What happened?”
“Stefanos came.”
“Stefanos? Who is Stefanos?” Where have I heard that name before?
“Said I owed him.”
“What? I thought you owned the place.”
“Not rent. Protection.”
“Protection,” I repeat. “From whom?”
“From him. Told him I didn’t have the money. They didn't take no for an answer.”
“Shhh,” I murmur, patting his bruised hand. He winces and I feel like an idiot. “It’ll be okay. I’ll get you to the hospital and then call the police—”
“No.” Mr. Rossi grabs my hand and squeezes, despite his bruises. “No hospital. No police.”
“But…”
“No. They’re coming back.”
A chill spreads through the pit of my stomach. I ignore it and say briskly, “Let’s get you up and into a chair. I can get you some ice for your head—”
“No. No time. They know that she’s upstairs.” She. Mrs. Rossi. Bedridden. This Stefanos guy and his men just trashed the place and beat up Mr. Rossi. They’re coming back.
Mr. Rossi coughs and clutches my hand harder. “I need a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Go to the safe.” He points to the cupboard tucked behind the washing machine. “Now.” He pushes me. “Go.”
I resist. “You need a doctor.”
“Don't want her to know.”
“She's going to find out,” I snap. This is a mess. This is a nightmare. “Fine.” I rise and go to the cupboard, opening it to the safe. “What now?”
“The combination is June 21st, 1989.”
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi’s wedding date. I suck in a breath and turn the dial, starting with zero, six…
It clicks open, revealing stacks of cash.
“Take it all.” Mr. Rossi’s breath whistles a little. Did he break a rib?
“But this is your savings,” I cry. “This was for her treatment.” There are tears in my eyes. “You can't do this.”
“I have to.” Mr. Rossi chokes. More blood trickles out of his nose. “Please, Leah,” he says. “You must take it to them. And be quick. I wouldn’t ask you—”
“No, no, I’ll do it.” I stuff the money into one of our white paper bakery bags, and tuck it under my coat.
I stop at the sink on my way to the door. I can’t just leave Mr. Rossi like this.
“Here.” I press the wet tissue to his nose.
He raises a shaking hand to hold it. “Go now, Leah. Do you know the office building on the other side of the fountain?”
“Yes.”
“Look for number eighteen-oh-four. That is the office.” His eyes are wide, the whites flashing. “Don't linger. Tell them it's for the Rossi account. Tell them it's for Stefanos.”
“Stefanos. Got it.”
“Leah… I’m sorry.” For a moment, he looks ashamed. “I shouldn't ask you—"
“It’ll be fine,” I lie.
My breaths fog in my face as I stumble out of the bakery. The bell jingles, but the sound is muted against my frantic panting. Mr. Rossi’s in there, mopping up his own blood. Can he move? Can he walk? I should go back and help him. Instead, I scurry past the bus stop and cross the road, maneuvering around piles of slush.