But Trey knows me better than anybody. “Why don’t you ever do anything for fun?”

I snort. “When?”

“Mom will give you nights off for stuff. You know that.”

“I . . . don’t have anything else to do.”

“You could go see a movie—”

“No,” I say.

Trey glances at me at a stoplight as we near our destination. I stare straight ahead. I can’t look at him or he’ll know something’s wrong. I focus on the construction crews along the side of the street hanging up banners for a spring flower show at the conservatory. In that instant, all the banners, as far ahead of us as I can see, change.

I suck in a breath. The banners now advertise dead Sawyer Angotti’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Trey asks. His voice is concerned.

“Nothing,” I say. I lean down and pretend to rummage around in my purse. “Seriously. I just need more sleep.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Besides, it’s time to park the balls and feed some hungry people.

Every time I hand food out the window to the customers, I catch the long line of banners out of the corner of my eye and see Sawyer’s dead face. “Go away,” I mutter.

A customer looks at me, taken aback.

“Oh, no—not you,” I say. “I’m so sorry.” Great, now I’m insulting customers and talking to the banners. No mental illness here.

I keep my eyes closed for the ride home.

Eight

Back at the restaurant for the dinner rush, Dad is in the kitchen with his chef jacket on, which is a good sign. Trey and I exchange a glance and Trey calls out, “Hey, Pops.”

Dad looks up and smiles. “How’s my boy?” His voice booms. It always has. He’s been startling innocent children for as long as I can remember. Luckily, Trey did not inherit that trait. “Did you have a good day? Where’d you end up? Any other trucks out in this weather?” He can never just ask one question when he’s feeling good.

I let Trey handle him and keep walking, grabbing a fresh apron and tying it around my waist on my way to the hostess stand.

“Hey, Aunt Mary,” I say. She’s my dad’s sister. She reaches for me and air-kisses my cheek, then squeezes my upper arm and shakes me like she’s been doing since I was a little girl.

“So beautiful!” she declares loudly. “You have your father’s face.”

Yeah . . . uh . . . thanks. That’s not, like, a weird thing to say to a girl or anything. I smile and ask, “Is it busy? Where’s Rowan?”

“Tables seven and eight—a ten-topper. Rowdy bunch of hooligans. Maybe Trey should help her.”

I try not to scowl. Aunt Mary still lives in the last century. “I’m sure she and I can handle it fine. Trey’s doing deliveries tonight. He’s talking to Dad.”

Aunt Mary gives me a knowing look.

We never discuss Dad’s little “problem” with anybody. It’s this huge secret everybody knows but nobody talks about. Nobody’s allowed in our apartment. Nobody who knows us personally asks why. Just invoking Dad’s name is enough to stop Aunt Mary from pressing the issue. Talk about power. The guy who does the weirdest shit has all the power.

I grab a pen and an order pad, head into the dining room, and catch Rowan’s eye. She gives me a stricken look and points with a sideways nod to the big group. I look, and my heart sinks. It’s a bunch of kids from school, looking like they’re all on one giant, icky date. With a glance I see three guys who have tortured Trey in one manner or another since middle school. Two of the girls, Roxie and Sarah, used to be my friends in elementary school, before the cliques formed. Roxie was even upstairs for my sixth birthday party, back before the formation of the psycho’s dump.

I get the status from Rowan and help her bring out the drink orders. I smile politely at anyone who catches my eye. I am not here to socialize. I am here to serve as their nanny and slave, clean up when they make a huge sticky mess of sodden sugar packets, hot-pepper water glasses, and clogged parm shakers, and smile gratefully as I watch them not leave a tip. And I will promptly dismiss it from memory the next time I see them, when they call out in the hallway, “Hey, Jules, how are the big balls treating you?” Because that is what we Demarcos do to survive and pay the bills. And we do it well.

“Oh, hey, Julia,” Roxie says. I don’t remind her that I’ve gone by Jules since third grade.

And I do not call her Roxanne in return. “What can I get for you, Roxie? Or do you guys need a few minutes to decide?”

Half of them haven’t acknowledged me at all, and the other half give each other that smirky, Hey, we should probably check out the menu look, and no one answers my question. I stand a moment more, and then say, “So, you need a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” a couple of them say.

“I’ll stop back. If you decide before I get here, just flag me down.”

Silence.

“Okay, great.” I walk away feeling like a big bucket of stupid. My face gets hot. I hear the order-up bell, so I make a beeline for the kitchen to grab food for Rowan.

Trey is headed my way. I put my hand out. “Don’t go out there,” I say, and that stops him. I give him a sympathetic smile.

“Who’s here?”

“Assholes. Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered for now. I’ll let you clean up after them.”