Chapter 1: Mr. Andretti

May 2005

I’d been imagining dying since 1999, when my mind turned against me for the first time. Some thoughts, once you have them, don’t let go. They moved in extremes, an exhausting ping-pong between chemical urgency and bone-deep exhaustion. I didn’t have a name for it then, sensing my inner world never matched the one around me.

By college graduation, I was begging for salvation from a different kind of poison. Grasping, with shaky hands, a piece of paper and no vision for my future, I swallowed hard to fight the waves of nausea pounding in time with each throb in my head. After the ceremony, I swapped my itchy black polyester cap and gown for ripped corduroy bell-bottoms, my favorite threadbare Skidmore hoodie, and sole-worn Birkenstocks. My battered 2001 Corolla was one of the last cars left in the parking lot. The rest had taken off for their bright and shiny futures in the Big Apple.

Acid stung the back of my tongue until a silent burp escaped with the unmistakable smell of Esperanto’s 2:30 a.m. spicy chicken doughboy. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shook the sour taste off, focusing on the mission ahead—jamming the last suitcase stuffed with clothes and a few boxes of random room décor, mostly patterned tapestries and Bob Marley posters, into the trunk.

By 3:00 p.m., Rusted Root’s “Send Me on My Way” blared through the speakers. A pack of yellow American Spirits smoked, and one joint burned to the nub, the end of my 200-mile drive home to Providence, Rhode Island, was in sight. I didn’t know where this was all leading, but I knew I couldn’t repeat the past four years.

The exit off of I-95 spat me onto Atwells Avenue, the famous La Pigna, a massive bronze pinecone, suspended above me at the intersection. This was Federal Hill, a place where you could taste Italy without ever leaving Rhode Island. The smell of rosemary and freshly baked bread seeped through the cracked window. Restaurants and shops lined the street, with strings of twinkle lights crisscrossing above. I used to love walking beneath them at night, their glow turning the sky into magic. But in daylight, everything was a touch too open.

Driving slowly, I scanned the long line of restaurants, searching for parking. Just past a small fountain surrounded by café chairs, I pulled into a rare spot right in front of a popular restaurant, then killed the engine.

I reached across the center console to the passenger seat, brushing Cool Ranch Doritos crumbs off the blue folder, which held six nearly blank sheets of paper masquerading as my resume. Right as I went to grab it, I adjusted the rearview mirror until my reflection stared back.

“You look like shit!” she spat at me.

So, I spent the next five minutes giving myself a quick car makeover. I ripped off the worn-out Skidmore sweatshirt, revealing a simple, slightly too form-fitting black pocket V-neck T. I removed the elastic from my messy bun and shook out my long, wavy, dark brown hair, running my fingers between each tangle. Reaching into the center console, I rummaged around old gum wrappers and half-full—but expired—translucent orange prescription bottles until I found my strawberry-tinted Burt’s Bees lip balm. With a quick swipe, I glanced at the mirror.

“Not bad,” I quipped, a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. I’d painted on plenty of masks.

I stepped onto the curb and glanced out at DePasquale Plaza. The central fountain glistened in the late afternoon sun. Outdoor tables were filled with early dinner crowds, and servers in crisp black aprons weaved between them, balancing plates of steaming pasta and carafes of red wine.

Starting up the street, I caught sight of the gold-and-baby-blue lettering of the Pastiche sign affixed to the matching blue colonial home. With eyes closed, I paused to breathe in the delicate sweetness: vanilla bean custard cradled in their signature butter tart shell, crowned with a glistening layer of fresh, glazed fruit. Even after I left for college, I was always home on January 8th for Christmas break, so every year I bought it for my mom on her birthday. It was a tradition, a small certainty in a life that often felt anything but. Though this year, I’d missed it.

Turning toward the restaurant, the Andretti sign, swinging from its black awning, came into view. Washed stone and terracotta planters overflowing with herbs and flowers framed the entrance. The brass handle was cool beneath my fingers as I pulled the door open. The restaurant seemed unexpectedly quiet, except for the soft hum of dim lighting hanging over the black-and-white checkered tiles and the music—my best guess was Andrea Bocelli—playing softly from the speakers. Each table, neatly draped in white linen, was set with a garlic-infused, hand-pressed olive oil and cobalt blue water glasses, Andretti’s signature hue. The tables stretched down a long aisle opening to another room I couldn’t make out, its entrance guarded by a thick, black curtain.

A narrow gap revealed two men at a table. One was old enough to be my grandfather—presumably Mr. Andretti—with thinning gray hair and suspenders straining across a round belly, proof of an indulgent life. A sparkling watch caught the light on his wrist, which was resting on the table beside his neatly folded suit jacket. It must be a Rolex, I thought, unbuckling my F-91 black Casio and slipping it into my back pocket. I didn’t belong here, with my knockoff resume and garage-sale watch. This kind of success lived in a world I’d merely glimpsed through restaurant windows.

I’ll never catch up.

The other man, seated with his back to me, had a full head of slick, jet-black hair. One hand massaged his neck, kneading tension. The other gripped the kind of pen meant for display, lending him an air of authority, even as his knee bounced furiously, hidden beneath the white linen tablecloth. Papers littered the space between them, contracts, perhaps, or secrets, and whatever they were discussing held their attention like one wrong move could detonate the entire building.

A small drop of sweat slid from my palm. I hadn’t even realized I was clenching my fists. Ensuring I was alone, I glanced around, wiping my sweaty palms on my pockets, the rugged ribs in the corduroy alerting me to how ridiculously underprepared I was. I couldn’t afford to blow this. Tiptoeing two steps, then turning around, I reached for the brass handle to push open the heavy glass door leading out onto the plaza when a voice trapped me, breaking the silence.

“Can I help you?” The question hit more as an accusation than a gesture of hospitality.

Startled, I twisted around, noticing the bar area up to the right, something I had missed entirely while transfixed by the men in the secret room. Two other men in tailored suits, one dark blue, the other slate, not unlike the one worn by Mystery Grandpa, sat at the bar, each nursing a tumbler of golden liquid.

Blue Suit looked up and found me, offering a nod paired with a practiced wink. Embarrassed, I snapped my attention to the woman behind the bar. She appeared younger but was likely the same age as the suited men, wearing a purple cashmere V-neck that dipped a bit lower than appropriate, her frizzy hair pulled into a messy bun with a half-chewed blue BIC pen, and two gold hoops completing the look.

“I said, can I help you?” Her Rhode Island accent softened slightly.

“Oh . . . um,” I stammered. Could she smell my desperation? Tucking a rogue strand of hair behind my ear, I opened my blue folder and slid out a copy of my resume, trying not to spill the other five pages onto the floor. “I was wondering if you were hiring?”

Her face deadpan, she scanned me up and down. Frantically, I straightened my T-shirt, regretting wearing this outfit for the third time that day.

With a sidelong glance, she asked, “You ever worked in a restaurant before?”

I rushed to her and slid the flimsy piece of paper on the bar. “Yeah, I worked at the Z Bar on Wickenden Street for the past couple of years. Well, I worked there during summer breaks and holidays.” Her eyes shot up.

“But,” I interjected, “I’m home now, just graduated, and really need a steady job.”

I need to stop being a walking disaster and learn how to be an adult, I added silently, biting hard on my lower lip.

Her shoulders relaxed. “My availability’s wide open. I can work as many hours as you need.” Unconsciously mirroring hers, my shoulders dropped in response, and she sighed quietly.

“How’s Betty doing? Is she still running that place?”

Damnit, Rhode Island is too small, I thought as heat rose to my cheeks. Betty was wild; she snorted more lines than Tony Montana. Her fiery personality, with hair to match, was an equal rival to his M16.

“You know Betty?” The words left me grimacing, unsure whether this mutual connection would land me a job or a one-way ticket out onto Atwells Avenue.

The bartender grabbed an olive from the bar caddy and lobbed it, hitting Blue Suit in the forearm.

“Hey!” she called out. “You guys know who Betty is?”

Both men cackled, slapping their knees and rolling their eyes in guilty recognition.“

“Thanks, Chanelle. I’m Louise. Nice to meet you.” I inhaled a sigh of relief and smiled. I didn’t belong here, but maybe by tomorrow, I could. “See you tomorrow,” I called, turning to the door.

“Yeah, sounds good. Oh!” she called out urgently, trying to catch me. “The shorter, the better.”

I stopped, confused. “Excuse me?”

“Your skirt.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Got it.” I didn’t argue, blinking hard as I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I can’t wait to impress a pervy old man. Hugging my blue folder, I pushed open the heavy door, stepping out onto Federal Hill.

In desperate need of a shower, my heart flared, a sadness settling in as I drove home. Home. Where, on the third floor of the perfect yellow Victorian gingerbread house, on the perfect street with ocean views, I asked myself the same question: Do you ever feel like dying?

~ ~ ~

Twenty-four hours later, my trusty Corolla turned onto Atwells Avenue. Luckily, I found parking two blocks from Andretti’s, sandwiched between two matching sleek black Mercedes. The short walk let me collect my thoughts for my meeting with “Grandpa.” As I passed the restaurants lining the block, I reminded myself that if this one didn’t work out, there were plenty of others. Something would stick. It always did.

This time, there was no need for an impromptu car makeover. My hair was freshly washed and styled, and I’d added a light touch of makeup, finishing with a blush rose lipstick, a step up from my tinted Burt’s Bees balm. That morning, after Chanelle’s not-so-subtle suggestion, I stopped by Forever 21 at the Providence Place Mall to try on a few black skirts, settling on the high-waisted miniskirt with an asymmetric front slit. I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off, but the label promised to flatter, lift, and smooth for an added sexy touch, and I couldn’t argue with the upgrade in the mirror.

With a deep, grounding breath, I gave my reflection one last pep talk. This could be your normal, don’t fuck this up. Then, wrapping my fingers around the brass handle, I slipped inside. The restaurant was livelier, with several patrons scattered across the dining room. I swept over the waitstaff, girls my age, all strikingly pretty and impossibly thin, with slick ponytails and identical variations of the same black miniskirt. I glanced at my dry and pale legs, silently cursing myself for not thinking to buy nylons like the rest of them. To compensate, I ran my fingers through my long brown waves and straightened my spine, letting my cleavage peek out a tiny bit. I tugged at my shirt and sucked in my stomach, wondering if I’d be able to hold it to the end of the interview.

“Betty’s girl is back!” a man hollered across the bar. My attention followed the sound until it landed on Blue Suit, though today he was dressed in charcoal gray, surrounded by three sharply dressed men. Our eyes met, and he winked, taking me in head to toe.

Goosebumps crept up my bare legs. Part of me wanted to crawl out of my skin, but I was also flushed with flattery. What the hell was I getting into? It didn’t matter. The audition had begun. For what part? I wasn’t sure, so I rolled my eyes, flashed a half-smile, and gave him my best beauty queen wave.

“Hey!” he shouted, catching Chanelle’s attention. “She cleans up nice!”

Busy counting bills at the register, Chanelle closed it with a snap and turned around. I was standing at the front entrance, apparently on display for the entire restaurant. Chanelle gave me a once-over, masking a flicker of resentment, then glanced to Blue Suit, nodding in agreement.

“Thanks, man, I know what I’m doing.”

Chanelle turned to me and pointed to a table in the corner, near the bar and right next to the servers’ station, hidden behind the counter.

“Come up here. You can sit there while you wait for him.”

Taking the cue, I stood by the high top, tugging at the hem of my skirt, too unsettled to sit. The table, more of a mini booth encased in padded black leather, wasn’t set with olive oil bottles or cobalt blue. Instead, a half-finished espresso sat abandoned amidst a clutter of menus, scribbled notes, and scattered printouts.

The aroma of garlic butter and white wine wafted over me, intoxicating and overwhelming. I followed the scent to the servers’ station, then to the kitchen window, where chaos clashed with the serene elegance of the polished dining room. Men in crisp white chef coats darted around, and the rhythmic clang of pans and the pop and sizzle of the grill filled the dining room. A booming “Order up!” shook me as a large hand emerged to place a pristine white porcelain plate onto the pass.

Looking to the source of the commanding voice, I caught the glint of gold as his fingers withdrew. His spotless black chef’s coat, trimmed with their signature hue, bore the scripted embroidery of “Andretti’s” on his left breast pocket, naming him Chef. “Dai, sbrigati!” he barked louder, his smoldering eyes scanning the empty servers’ station.

Frustration deepened the lines of his hard-cut features as his gaze swept further out and locked onto mine. My fingers tightened around the table’s edge, the rest of me frozen, pulse pounding in my ears. He epitomized the classic Italian: dark, brooding, exuding an aura of undeniable power, and his slick, jet-black hair glistened under the kitchen lights. “What, you need it in English? HURRY UP!!” he barked again, this time directly at me, the words hitting me like an unexpected slap.

Releasing my grip on the table, my body responded, desperate to meet the stranger’s expectations. One step from the steaming shrimp scampi, I stretched out my arm, trying to hold steady, eager to take the plate from his. His fingers lingered, close enough to brush mine.

Take it from him.

“Chef!” Chanelle cut in, startling us, and our arms recoiled.

“Jesus, she doesn’t even work here yet! She’s your three o’clock.”

The three of us exchanged awkward glances, a silent triangle of realization.

Chanelle sighed and grabbed the plate herself, shooting him a disapproving look. “I’ll take it. She’ll be at 52 when you’re ready.”

She nodded for me to head back and disappeared into the dining room with the scampi.

I stood at the table, anxiously picking at my cuticles, mentally prepping: a firm handshake, direct eye contact, don’t fuck it up. The kitchen door swung open, followed by the clatter of dishes behind him. Seconds later, Chef emerged, drying his hands on a kitchen towel, then callously tossing it to the nearest girl in a short skirt. With an urgency, he came straight for me.

I swallowed hard.

He took the two steps up to the bar level and abruptly stopped. About six feet and with a decade’s worth more experience, he towered above my five-foot frame, my view perfectly aligned with the chef’s coat stretched snug across his muscular chest. My focus drifted, intrigued by the tattoos on his forearm peeking out from beneath his sleeve: a simple black skull outlined with precision, intertwined with a geometric design crawling up his arm.

“Sit,” he commanded, motioning to the booth.

At his command, I placed a palm on the padded leather to hoist myself up. The seat let out a small, awkward squeak beneath me as I settled in. I frantically adjusted the skirt, riding up my thighs, and allowed my legs to dangle several inches from the floor.

He eased into the seat across from me, his attention landing on the abandoned coffee in front of him. “Merda . . . il mio espresso,” he muttered, glancing briefly past his shoulder to the servers’ station.

“Do me a favor, sweetheart. Grab that coffee for me?” He pointed to the station, where a freshly brewed espresso steamed beneath the portafilter of a gleaming silver La Marzocco machine.

Sweetheart. The word dripped from his tongue too casually, but the slight tilt of his head said otherwise.

My cheeks flushed. A single word was about to tilt my whole axis. Did he call everyone that? Should he be calling me that? It didn’t matter; I had felt words and acted on them with an intensity long before I had time to question them.

Pausing to take in the color of his velvet brown eyes, I broke our connection and slid out of the booth, rounding the corner to the servers’ station. Just out of sight, I leaned against the wall and inhaled deeply because, suddenly, not a single other restaurant in Rhode Island existed.

Am I going to do this again?

Frantically, I searched around the machine until I spotted the tiny saucer meant to hold his espresso. I scanned up, down, left, and right, landing on a mini refrigerator stocked with bright yellow lemons and various milk options.

Frozen for a moment, tension crawled up my spine as I stared at the choices. Peeking out from behind the station, I caught sight of him. His jet-black hair shone under the lights, and he cradled his head in his palms while his left knee bounced furiously. Shit, I needed to move faster.

I grabbed a tray and balanced it on the counter and stole a sugar caddy from the shelf above. Swiping a lemon from the fridge, I found the zester near the machine, and expertly peeled an elegant twist, ensuring each detail was perfect. I finished the look, placing a single white cocktail napkin on the tray alongside the steaming espresso. I was about to nail my performance.

Keeping the tray steady, I inhaled and returned to Table 52. He must have sensed my approach; his bouncing knee stilled, his head lifted, darting between me and the espresso masterpiece. I’d caught him off guard, and he was curious, in a way that made me want to be seen.

“Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. . . .?” The words hung in the air as I paused, offering a silent invitation.

“Marco,” he said, clearing his throat. “Marco Andretti.”

© 2026 Louise Barnett. All rights reserved.
Tainted Love: A Bipolar Memoir (forthcoming October 2026).
This is an excerpt and may not be reproduced without permission.