8. Gia

eight

Gia

As the sous chef of the resort's five-star restaurant, I take my desserts very seriously. I had my perfect round cakes cooling in the pans, and I'm starting work on my famous chocolate ganache to coat the layers. I drop the vat of butter in the pan and turn on the stove, taking a moment to adjust the temperature just right.

"Wow, Gia!" Grace exclaims as she returns to the kitchen with a matte black folder in her hands. Even with her blonde ponytail tussled under her hairnet, and one single wispy strand of hair dangling next to her face, she still looks like a model. "Someone is blackmailing you. They dropped off all these photos, and there's no note." She yanks a glossy 8 by 10 out of the packet, flashing it at me. "It's scathing."

Churning my stomach into knots, I advance towards her while frantically wiping my fingers on my apron. "Give me those." I tug the packet out of her hands, but my stomach loop easily relaxes. "These aren't embarrassing photos. These are my new headshots. I paid a lot of money to have them done." I flip through the pile of 8 by 10s. Sure, my glasses are bigger than average, and I've sprouted more than a freckle or two since moving near the beach, but there's nothing scathing about these.

She perks a feather brow at me. "Headshots?"

Half embarrassed, I lower my gaze. "I'm thinking of going on this new dating app called, Your Last First Date . My dad got a free match card the other day while he was standing outside his shop. He clearly isn't going to use it, so he gave it to me. I looked it up, and it has really good reviews, and frankly, I must be doing something wrong." I shake, the hopelessness of being forever single seeping in. "I'm not having any luck with the available dating pool."

"What?" Grace's perfectly pink-stained lips part into a gasp. "When were you going to tell me this secret?"

"It's not a secret." I drop my voice, remembering we're still at work. "I didn't think I needed to advertise it everywhere."

"I totally understand." She asserts with a giant supportive nod, and whispers, "Did your date last weekend not go well?"

"There wasn't anything wrong with him, but there wasn't anything right either," I continue in a hushed voice, hoping our manager, Marcie, doesn't overhear my personal life saga. "He was so distracted by everything. If he wasn't looking at his phone, he was ogling the table of women next to us. It's my pattern that I get men who don't care to spend quality time with me."

"I had no idea you were feeling so overwhelmed you were looking online." Grace's lips grow into a full smile. "Online dating is going to be so much fun. What else do you have up your sleeve?"

A chuckle falls from my lips. "Well, this morning it was a sock left over from the dryer." Before I can crack another joke about my lackluster life, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, and my breath hitches in my throat.

North Newson.

His name sears a trail right to my heart. I hadn't spoken to him in years. Not that I ever forgot about him. He seems to be that one "what if" in my life that never resolved itself. If I'm honest, he's one of the main reasons I don't care to go home much. It's torture to my heart to see him over the fence. I'm instantly transported back to high school when I was head over heels for him.

Or maybe I'm not remembering the past feelings as much as I'm unable to push down current ones.

Either way, it's immobilizing.

"I'm going to step out back and take this," my voice floats out, while my eyes hang onto North's name.

"Oh, more secret dates." Her voice drops into a sweet giggle.

I wave her off as I step out the kitchen backdoor and into the private loading dock. The phone's ringing, and I dig deep and suck back a chestful of fresh air before I press the phone to my ear. "North Newson. What a surprise."

"Gia Bella. Your voice sounds exactly the same."

"I would hope so. Last I checked, I'm still me."

Expecting him to chuckle at my witty banter, his silence tips me off that this call is serious. I clear my throat. "How have you been?"

"I'm well, but that's not why I'm calling. I'm calling about your father."

Ice frosts my veins, stilling me. "Is he okay?"

"Oh, yeah," He rushes in a calming tone that soothes my nerves. "He's fine. Not in any trouble at all. Except, he's stuck in his garage."

"Oh." I nod even though no one is here to see me. This news isn't anything shocking, as my dad's hoarding situation has slowly gotten out of hand. I joked it would only be a matter of time before his stuff would swallow him up. "How bad is it?"

"His garage is a sea of boxes. I can hear him bellowing back there, but can't see him. I'm going to call some of my football players to help, or it will take me all night."

"I'm a couple hours away at work." I let out a sigh as I add the hours on the clock. "It'll take me a while to get there, but let me make some calls. I'll get a hold of someone who can help you. I'm so sorry he's bothering you."

"Oh, he's no bother. No need to send more help. I have it under control. I just felt like his family should know."

"Well, thank you. I appreciate it." Blinking my eyes, I push back the smallest tear as his thoughtfulness is so touching. North always was the most kind-hearted man. "I, ah, I'll figure something out with work and get back to you."

"No problem. I'll be busy digging him out."

His voice ticks up at the end as he is ready to sign off, but in a freak moment of bravery I cut him off. "It's great to hear your voice again." He immediately hushes, and the silence drags on for the longest beat before I tack on, "Anyway."

"Same," he softly quips.

A moment later and the line goes dead, and I'm running my hand through my needing-some-fresh-highlights hair.

Who am I going to call?

It's Friday night. Not that it would matter if it was Monday morning, I still wouldn't have more friends. I'm sure not calling Rocco. We'd had a falling out last year after his NFL career imploded amidst a cheating scandal, and he cut me out of his life.

North said not to bother sending help, but this is my dad. Someone needs to talk to him about the bigger issue. He got lucky this time, but what happens when he gets hurt? I can't put this off any longer.

I turn back toward the hotel, knowing I don't have anyone to call. This was a me problem. "Grace!" I call out, as I tiptoe back inside, ready to bargain with my future first born child. "Can you cover for me? I need to leave."

"Dad!" I call into the open overhead garage door, peering through the narrow pass in between the stacked-to-the-ceiling boxes. An echo ricochets back, but no answer from him. He's only lived here a couple of decades, but his garage is so jam-packed, it looks as if he's lived here a hundred years. Being a collector of all things, he hates to toss anything out if they might be useful. His thriftiness has gotten out of hand. My brows pin together as I turn back toward the house and continue up the broken steppingstones leading to the side door.

I forgo a traditional knock and open the side door. It creaks with the exact same squeal it did when I lived here. It's not that Dad is lazy, because he's not. He still works nearly every day at the pizzeria, but it's becoming clearer he's in some sort of funk, letting things go. "Dad!" I call out, "you alive in here?"

"Umph." His old man sigh wafts from the living room and I pad forward to find him sitting on his favorite recliner, watching ESPN, with an open jar of honey roasted peanuts on his lap. "You didn't have to come over," he grumbles.

"Yes, I did. I was worried. Are you okay?" Scanning his physique for any signs of physical damage, I find nothing out of place except for his unibrow pinned together in a lowered position, hinting at a bruised ego.

"It was nothing. I slipped on my vintage fly paper. I think it is defective because it really didn't need to be so sticky. You should have seen it, stuck on me like cement and tangling me up until I knocked over boxes that trapped me."

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes at his lack of accountability, I instead scan the lone box in the corner of the room. "Did you get a recent delivery?"

Dad's gaze follows mine to the box. "Oh, that." He shakes his head, tacking on, "That's some of your brother's old high school football trophies. After he got kicked off the team, he wanted to throw them out. I'm saving them in case he ever wants to look at them some day."

I roll my bottom lip in and survey the rest of the house. Except for the box of stuff, it's actually pretty neat. There are no dishes in the sink, and his throw blankets are neatly folded. Maybe the hoarding is not really that bad if everything is in the garage. I mean, he can always close the door and not look at all his junk. "Well." I tsk, and stride toward the box, scooping it up. "Do you think we should tuck it away in Rocco's old room, so we don't have to look at it?" I'm already walking down the hall to Rocco's door. Dad's reply muffles as I turn the knob and immediately startle, taking a giant step back.

A mountain of stuff is about to crash into me!

"Aaggh!" I scream, and slam the door shut, ducking against it as crashing noises sound like a fireworks finale. Who was I kidding? It isn't just in the garage. I'm pretty sure every room, drawer, nook and cranny is stuffed, and dangerous! My eyes grow wide as I frantically search for my dad. "Dad, this is serious. You need help cleaning your house out."

"Nah, it's not an issue." He waves his hand dismissively. "It doesn't bother me."

"Dad, you almost died today because you have an insurmountable amount of clutter. It's a life-threatening issue. We're cleaning this out, starting now, with this room." I press my ear against the closed door, all the crashing noises have died off.

It should be fine. I swallow, and twist the knob slowly, pushing the door open.

Piles!

The stacks are not even neat like in the garage. There are mounds of clothes, and most don't even look worn. On Rocco's old desk, there're stacks of opened bills that I assume are paid, and for no reason I can think of—other than Dad hates to throw things away—they've been allowed to accumulate. There are boxes of old Christmas decorations I don't remember ever seeing in the house, and so many collections! He must have a collection of everything! Old books, model cars, footballs with every team logo on them, and so much sports memorabilia he could start a museum.

I inhale a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I'm going to need some coffee for this."

It's Saturday night, and I spent all day cleaning out Rocco's old room. Dad and I only had one minor argument about a stack of 1970's newspapers. Dad insisted we needed to save them. I offered to clip out the articles he wanted to save and make him a scrapbook, but he couldn't tell me which articles were even in there. At that point, I girl bossed those papers into the recycling. You'd think that would be the end of that, but no. Later when I was using the restroom and went on a hunt for some toilet paper, I found the newspapers had somehow escaped from the recycling bin and stuffed themselves underneath the bathroom sink. I can't fathom what's so special about them.

We ended up bargaining. He keeps the papers, and I get one single box with some of Rocco's football memorabilia: trophies, medals, photos, even old jerseys. It seems like everything football he'd ever owned from the time he was a little kid is in his old room, and I promised that I wasn't going to throw it away.

I wanted to. I certainly had to chew the inside of my cheek, to get through that conversation. I might have fibbed that first time I sternly said I wasn't throwing it out, but then there was a tiny tear in the corner of his eye, and I had to come up with a better plan.

He suggested donating the junk to the high school where Rocco played. Rocco is still a local legend. They will surely love to put this stuff in their glass display cases in the hall. Or at least that's what I need dad to think they are doing with it. It's just too painful in so many ways for us to keep this stuff around. Besides the fact that Rocco created one of the biggest NFL scandals and cut out his entire family, there isn't any room for it.

As I drive over to the school, my mind races with all the signs I overlooked about this hoarding issue. Clearly, I looked the other way when I shouldn't have, but I'm doing my best to right the situation now.

I smile nostalgically as I see the school. Some things never change. A sigh falls from my lips as Dad's old Ford putters forward over the rocky-road parking lot. Even after all these years, there's still the giant pothole near the entrance, and thankfully, I remember to slow for it. There must be something going on tonight as I can hardly find a parking spot. I jump out of the truck and grab the box. It would be better if I waited until Monday to call the principal and drop by, but I have to work next week. Surely there are some teachers here I can talk to, and they can pass my stuff to the right person.

I tuck my face down to keep warm and out of the chilly fall breeze. I should have grabbed a thicker jacket, as I had dressed to clean in old knee-ripped jeans and a faded sweatshirt, not considering I'd be making deliveries. Racing to the entrance, I'm easily able to enter the unlocked door.

I scan the lobby. It had been almost ten years since I was here, but boy am I instantly transported back, feeling as if it is my first day of school. The same blue carpet and white lockers. A ticket table is set up near the auditorium entrance next to a sign that announces a band concert. Even the not-quite-desirable smell is still the same. Like old buildings mixed with teenage drama.

I never thought much about high school after I left. I wasn't one of those kids who pined for those years. I had fun. I did the things and attended the events, but I was glad to move on. I slow my steps as I near the office. The lights are off, but this is the hall where all the cheerleading memorabilia is hung, and I have to see my old photo.

All the varsity squads for the last twenty years have a 5 by 7 framed photo. I quickly find my squad, cringing when I see my bangs. At the time, I remember quite clearly my plan was to hide my giant forehead, but this photo is evidence of the fact that it did quite the opposite. I turn on my heel, as my cheeks burn, and I'm glad I'm alone. Down the hall, the band door is open. I heard everything in their room is updated, and they finally got some fancy tiered seating. I stroll down the hall, curious to peek inside.

"Ahem!" A stern, deep phlegmy throat clears from behind me, startling me to stand up straight and pivot toward it. A stout man wearing a dark button-down shirt with a badge on it glares at me with lowered eyebrows. "Excuse me, ma'am. What are you doing here?"

I eye his badge, concluding he must be some sort of rental cop for the concert. "Sorry." I pull up one side of my lips into a half smile. "I don't have my hall pass."

Rent-a-cop has no sense of humor and doesn't even twitch a lip. "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

"Now, is that any way to ask a girl out on a date?" I'm not trying to be annoying, but this guy is too serious about his rented badge. I'm clearly not doing anything wrong. I'm standing in the hallway with a box of antiques.

"I see you have confiscated school jerseys in that box." Shortie rises to his toes, peering down into the box.

"I didn't steal this!" My jaw dramatically flops open. "I brought it here to donate. These are my brother's, Rocco Bella's, jerseys." As much as I didn't care to talk to Rocco anymore, it felt good to name drop him because he is famous. "He played quarterback here and holds all the school records—"

"Ma'am, I'm going to ask you one more time to come with me, or I will be calling the cops—"

"Gia! There you are." A familiar voice wafts from behind me as an adjacent classroom door sweeps open. As I pivot, the voice carries on, "Glen, she's fine. You can let her go. I asked her to come visit and bring that stuff."

I know that voice!

My heart thumps against my ribcage as I raise my gaze.

North Newson.

He hasn't aged at all, with his dark-chocolate-espresso-brown eyes, still as dreamy as ever, in addition to his full mop of hair that falls to frame his eyes, drawing all the more attention to them. He looks better than a walking deep fried donut, and he's coming this way.