“‘All in all, Lily Rosewood, perhaps the last person one might expect, was an unlikely and unfortunate ruination to an otherwise perfect evening.’”
Miles’s blond brows shoot up as he sets today’s copy of the Rosetown Chronicle down on the counter. We both wear the same grubby white apron with the words DiVincenzi’s Deli embroidered in red script across the front. Mine also sports drying tearstains thanks to opening the deli this morning to see the paper on the front stoop, an image of me plastered on the cover with chunks of cake in my hair and my expression frozen with horror.
“Damn, they didn’t pull any punches, huh?” Miles says.
“It was a disaster,” I groan. For a few blissful seconds when I first woke this morning, I forgot all about it. But then I realized where I woke up, in one of the spare bedrooms at my uncle’s house. And then, all it took was opening Instagram, and Snapchat, and TikTok to see myself everywhere. One video even went viral. I had to turn my phone off just to escape the notifications.
Despite wanting to hide under my covers all day, I had to wake Uncle Arbor to get a ride to work, where so far every customer has either given me a pity smile or saucer eyes. If one more gaze burns into me while slicing provolone, I’m gonna lose it.
“It’ll blow over,” Miles assures me in an easy way that’s his trademark. Things rarely bother him, even the fact that he just graduated and has to take a gap year before college to work and save up. “You know how this town is. People just want things to talk about.”
“I hope your night ended better than mine. How was the mystery guy?”
He reaches over me to grab a fresh-baked loaf from the rack, looking down at me coyly. “Mystery guy has a name—Caleb Johnson.”
He slices the loaf. I already know he’s making himself his usual turkey on sourdough with Swiss, which I’ll eat half of even though it’s barely ten. It’s slow today thanks to the party, just like I expected.
“He’s cute. Smart as hell,” he continues. “We bailed before the cake thing and talked literally all night. I know he seemed nervous at the manor, but once we left, he opened up more. We just drove around town for a while before I took him home. He’s from Creekson.”
“Creekson?” I ask, picturing the town on the other side of the train tracks that separate it from Rosetown. “People from there hate us and think we’re snobby. What was he doing at a Rosetown party?”
He shrugs. “He got an invitation.”
“Gram must have sent that one. Will you see him again?”
“Tonight. I’m meeting him at the movies in Creekson.”
I pass a few slices of Swiss to him. “Romance king. I’m glad you and Caleb from Creekson had a good night.”
He grins, a smile full of slightly crooked bottom teeth and front ones that jut over them. “How ’bout you? Meet anyone nice last night before cake gate?”
“As if. I was busy.” Getting frosting in my eyes.
He gives me a slightly exasperated look. “Too busy for what? Flirting? Friends?”
“Both.” I straighten the cannoli in the case so he doesn’t see my face. Friends are a sore subject for me. My sophomore year, I rivaled Daisy as the “it girl.” While she was surrounded by every athlete in school, I had my own crew of people, the AP elites. At least, I thought they were my friends.
And then Dad died, and I had to leave my big-ass house. My “friends” skipped the funeral. A lot of their parents had made investments advised by Dad and lost money. I got booted from our group chat. Junior year started, and my golden spot in the booth closest to the drinking fountain in the cafeteria was taken. Gram insisted on still inviting them to the party yesterday, but thankfully, only their parents came.
It doesn’t hurt as much since I started this job and got to know Miles last fall. He invited me to eat in the art room with him, and it became our regular thing. He’d work on yearbook stuff and draw since he was trying to build a portfolio to get into animation school, and I’d use the time to create new dress designs in my sketchbook and bring thrift finds to school to work on alterations. Sometimes, he’d even drive me to the nearest thrift store in Creekson. And he never once asked me why I was thrifting in the first place.
“It’s just—” He’s suddenly so focused on the turkey sandwich you’d think it was a flashy art piece in the museum. I know what he’s going to say because we’ve already had this talk. “Since I graduated, you should try to open yourself up more.”
So you’re not alone for your senior year.
He doesn’t say the last part, but it’s in the silence. It’s not like I want to be alone, because I don’t, and it hurts seeing everyone else have friends stop by their lockers to laugh over memes or cry in the bathroom together over shitty relationship drama. But what he doesn’t understand is I’d rather be alone than feel alone with friends who only care about my last name and how much money is in my bank account. Which is currently, like, none.
The bell above the door chimes, saving me from more of that conversation. Miles sighs, slipping into the back as I step up to the counter to greet our next customer. From the large sun hat blocking her face, I know exactly who it is and start pulling ingredients.
“Hi, Mrs. Capolli,” I greet my third-grade teacher. She’s a regular. “Here for your usual pastrami on rye?”
“Yes, dear,” she says, eyes on her phone. “Don’t forget the . . .”
A few seconds pass as I add the pastrami and slather on some mustard. When she doesn’t go on, I look up.
“Don’t forget the what?” I ask.
She stares at her screen, lips parted.
“Mrs. Capolli?” Her head jerks up, brown eyes wide. “Everything okay?”
Her lips move, but no sound comes out. That’s when I realize there’s no sound at all.
The chatter from the few patrons having their morning coffee at the mismatched tables in the corner has ceased, their shocked gazes turned to me. A chill sweeps up my spine, and I glance helplessly behind me for Miles, but he’s still in the back.
“Are you okay?” I ask Mrs. Capolli again, because she’s just staring at me, and it’s getting weird. “Mrs. Capolli?”
“Oh, Lily—”
The bell rings again, stealing her words. “Miss Rosewood!” Mr. Hayworth exclaims, the lead reporter for the Rosetown Chronicle and likely the culprit who snapped me covered in cake last night. “If I could have a brief word—”
“You leave her alone!” Angeline Murphy jumps up from where she was sipping her latte that Miles always makes extra sweet.
Mrs. Capolli is still in front of me, but Angeline nudges her out of the way. She grabs my hand with both of hers, always overly touchy and eccentric, pulling me close so we’re inches apart. The door chimes again, but she holds me fast so I can’t even pull away to look.
“You don’t need to say a word, Lily. In fact, you should go to your uncle’s. I can drive you, if you’d like.”
“I can drive her,” a voice says from behind. I nearly do a double take as Liz Zhao, the owner of the Ivy, steps beside Angeline. I didn’t think I’d ever catch her dead here, where the scent of sub sandwich oil is stronger than the cologne blasted throughout Abercrombie & Fitch.
But her eyes are bright, the liner rimming them smudged, tipping me off that she likely didn’t wash off her makeup after returning home last night. Angeline opens her mouth to protest, but Liz cuts her off.
“I will take her. She’s my daughter’s friend, after all.”
That spurs a shocked laugh. If Quinn’s middle-fingered salutation is anything to go by, I don’t think she holds me in much higher esteem than Daisy. “I’m sorry—what?”
The other patrons crowd the counter. Mr. Hayworth is holding his iPhone up like he’s filming.
“Lily,” he repeats. “I understand this is a highly emotional time. But please, give me a few words about your grandmother. Did she say anything to you before you left last night?”
Now that royally pisses me off. As if last night’s humiliation wasn’t enough, he’s looking for scraps of gossip?
“No.” I guard my tone so it doesn’t come out as frigid as I wish.
Mrs. Capolli has her eyes closed and is slowly shaking her head. My stomach drops.
I gesture to the back. “Um, I have to check on—”
Despite the glares the other patrons throw him, he plows on.
“She told you nothing?” he asks. “No last words or legacy? Nothing specific she wanted you to carry on?”
I blink at him. “Wanted?”
“Hey!” Miles shouts, suddenly beside me. “One at a time!”
But he sounds far away as Mrs. Capolli hands me her phone with a choked apology. I take it, our local news pulled up in her browser with a breaking article. As Miles argues with Mr. Hayworth, I scan the post, words jumping out at me like grenades. Fortune. Family. Iris. Rosewood.
Dead.
I drop the phone, barely aware of the screen shattering into pieces all over the tile floor. I lean over the counter, locking eyes with Mrs. Capolli. “What’s going on?” I rush out, a single frayed thread keeping my heart together, threatening to snap. “What’s happening?”
Mrs. Capolli’s gaze is horrified. “I’m so sorry,” she cries. “Your grandmother was found dead this morning at the manor.”
She says something else, but there’s a ringing in my ears. Or is it the door? Are more people coming? I can’t turn my head to look. Someone tugs me. My feet listen even though my brain can barely keep up. What does she mean, dead? Gram can’t be dead. She was completely fine yesterday. She can’t be dead. She just can’t.
The door to the kitchen shuts behind me. I look up to see the fingers pulling me aren’t Miles’s at all, but a weathered olive-toned hand. “Nonna?” I breathe.
The owner of the deli, Maria DiVincenzi, who insists the entire world calls her Nonna, stares at me with an expression that cracks my heart. It’s pity; it’s anger; it’s fear. It confirms that whatever’s going on out there, all the ludicrous things people are saying, aren’t a trick.
“She can’t be,” I gasp, stumbling against the oven. The heat coming from it is scalding, but I barely register it against my palms. “Tell me that’s not true. It can’t be true.”
Nonna gently pulls me away from the oven, guiding me toward the back door. “I just heard myself,” she grits out, her Italian accent thicker than usual due to the emotion in her voice. “Your uncle called. Said he couldn’t get ahold of you. He’s coming.”
My phone. I scrabble for it in the pocket of my apron but can’t bring myself to power it on. “I had it off,” I say, my voice small. “I never have it off.”
I can hear Miles trying to talk over everyone in the deli, a feeble attempt at crowd control. Nonna shoves the back door open, the warm summer air hitting us. I step outside, shaking despite the beating sun. Had Gram called me? Did she need help and I didn’t answer because I couldn’t bear to see a couple of dumb social media posts about myself?
“I don’t get it.” My voice wobbles. “Gram was fine. She is fine.”
Nonna grabs my hands, staring into my eyes. Hers are stone gray and sharp despite her age. She looks like she wants to say something but swallows thickly. I’ve never seen her speechless, always jokingly yelling in Italian over our subpar salami-slicing techniques or wistfully talking about her childhood growing up in Sicily and the ache to return.
There is nothing joking or wistful about right now, this moment that will surely be branded in my brain forever.
Tires scream against asphalt as a red Mercedes pulls into the lot. Nonna gives my hands one last squeeze, then nods toward Uncle Arbor’s car. I wrench open the car door and throw myself into the passenger seat, barely closing it before we take off. An awful, terrible silence hangs.
I turn to my uncle, trying to speak around the lump in my throat. My words come out strangled. “Those people said—”
“I know,” Uncle Arbor cuts me off. His grip tightens around the steering wheel, a muscle in his jaw popping out from how hard he’s clenching it.
When he turns to look at me, I recognize his expression. I saw it a year ago on myself, after coming home to find Dad unresponsive on the bathroom floor. I stared at the mirror, waiting for the paramedics to come, for my mom to pick up, for somebody to save him even though I knew it was too late.
I stared for so long, I memorized what my eyes looked like, blood vessels etched like spiderwebs. The tracks the tears made on my cheeks. The ruby sheen of my lips.
Now, my uncle wears the same face—that of someone who’s discovered a dead person.