Chapter 7 - Interruption at Bellucci’s
Bellucci’s was everything I expected it to be:
dimly lit,
overpriced,
and smelling of pretension.
I walked through the glass doors,
still wearing my work shirt and jeans,
ignoring the raised eyebrows of the host at the podium.
“Can I help you,
sir?”
he asked,
his voice dripping with a subtle disdain.
“I’m looking for the Coleman party,”
I said,
my voice steady and cold.
“They’re in the private dining suite,”
he replied,
pointing toward a set of heavy velvet curtains.
I walked past the tables of wealthy diners,
the coffee can clutched in my hand like a weapon.
I pushed through the curtains to find Tiffany,
Kevin,
Kayla,
and their guests sitting around a long,
sleek table.
They were picking at tiny portions of food that looked like they belonged in a dollhouse.
The conversation was muted,
punctuated only by the clinking of expensive crystal.
Tiffany looked up,
her eyes widening in horror as she saw me standing there.
“Hank?
What are you doing here?”
she hissed,
half-rising from her chair.
“The party is over here,”
she whispered,
as if I were a stray dog that had wandered onto the stage.
I didn't say a word to her.
I walked to the head of the table and set the Maxwell House coffee can down with a heavy thud.
The noise echoed in the quiet room.
Kevin looked at me,
his face turning a deep shade of red.
“Dad,
please,
not now.”
“Now is exactly the time,
Kevin,”
I said,
my voice carrying to every person in the room.
I reached into the can and pulled out the stack of receipts.
“Five hundred and eighty-six dollars and forty-two cents,”
I announced,
reading the total from the top slip.
“That’s just for the groceries.”
“That doesn't include the forty hours your mother spent on her feet.”
“It doesn't include the second-degree burn she has on her wrist right now because she wanted Kayla’s favorite casserole to be perfect.”
I looked at Kayla.
She looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor,
her eyes filling with tears of shame.
“Grandpa,
I didn't know...”
“I know you didn't,
sweetheart,”
I said,
my voice softening for her.
“But your mother did.”
“She knew,
and she told everyone to leave because this place looks better in a photo.”
I turned back to Tiffany,
who was looking at me with pure,
unadulterated hatred.
“Your reservation at Bellucci’s might be luxury,
Tiffany,”
I said,
dropping the receipts onto her plate,
right on top of her tiny piece of overpriced fish.
“But our dining room is currently filled with people who actually know how to say thank you.”
May you like
“People who are eating the food you threw away as if it’s the greatest gift they’ve ever received.”
“Because it is.”
