21. The Godfather
TWENTY-ONE
THE GODFATHER
? Falling For You - Colbie Caillat
CLIO
I slump into a chair near the window at Catalano’s Deli, surrounded by the glorious scent of freshly baked bread. My stomach rumbles in anticipation of the best grilled cheese in Kentucky.
Literally. There’s a plaque on the wall and everything.
I prop my elbows on the table and eye the display case full of beautiful sourdough and focaccia as a stunning blonde with two braids down her back swipes a cloth over the menu board, wiping away the old illustration of the day’s specials.
I think her name is Catherine. I’ve seen her around town a few times, but we’ve never been formally introduced.
Once the board is dry, she reaches for a piece of white chalk and outlines the general shape of an Italian sub, complete with steam lines wafting off the top.
Ben steps out of the kitchen in his apron, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s Tuesday,” he says, as if she should understand what that means.
Apparently, she does, because she throws her head back and whines. “I quit. Stick a fork in me. I’m done.”
Ben’s mouth tips up at one corner, highlighting a dimple in his right cheek. “You say that at least once a week.”
“I mean it this time, Ben Catalano.”
“Sure, Caity bug. I believe you.”
“Ugh. You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“Order up,” a voice says from the kitchen.
Ben disappears, and Catherine swipes her hand over the board, starting the drawing from scratch.
The bell chimes above the door, and Callie appears, slumping into the seat across from me. She takes a dramatic inhale and blows it out again. “Ahh. I love the smell of carbohydrates in the afternoon.”
I giggle. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” she practically growls the word. “Did you order already?”
“Mhm. Grilled cheese, extra pickles as requested.”
The kitchen doors make that telltale swooshing sound as they swing closed behind Ben.
Catherine watches him as he strides toward our table holding a tray of food.
Front and center is a pair of red baskets lined with parchment and the most gorgeous-looking sandwiches I’ve ever seen in my life.
The cheese is oozing out of the sides of golden brown sourdough, garnished with parsley, and there’s a heap of fresh-cut fries beside it.
On the edge of Callie’s basket is a trio of large, juicy pickles. She reaches for one and takes a bite, mumbling a muffled, “Thank you.”
Ben sets down our drinks and a couple of straws. “Can I get you anything else while I’m here?”
“Nope. I think we’re good. Thanks, Ben.”
I expect him to walk away. Instead, he drags a chair from the next table over and spins it around, sitting with his arms propped on the seatback.
“Can we help you, Benjamin?” Callie waves a pickle in his face.
He dismisses her with a wave. “Just eat your pickles. I’m more interested in talking to your sister.”
She props her head on her hand, her eyes wide. “Say more.”
Ben spears me with a look. “Noah’s a good guy.”
“I know.”
“But he’s got a lot of fucked up shit he’s dealing with.”
I grab a fry and swirl it in the cup of ranch. “I know that, too.”
“Just… be patient with him, yeah? He’s a real pain in the ass, and he’s going to fuck up at some point, but he’s worth it.”
“Did you want to date him or?” Callie deadpans.
For the briefest moment, his eyes cut to Catherine, who’s adding shadows to what appears to be a tuna melt. “No. Just looking out for my friend.”
I rest my hand on his forearm and squeeze. “I have no intention of hurting him.”
If anybody’s going to get hurt in this situation, it’s going to be me, but that’s a can of worms I’m not eager to open right now, lest we forget that this whole thing is fake.
But lately it doesn’t feel so fake.
Ben stays quiet for a long moment, letting me get a few bites of my food. “Noah cares about you.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “He doesn’t usually care about anyone, except Emma and Auggie. And Jonah… not that he’ll admit it.”
He isn’t telling me anything I hadn’t already deduced on my own, but I get the feeling Ben’s worry runs deeper than looking out for his friend.
I can’t tell him Noah’s already starting to open up to me because I’m not sure how to explain what’s happening between us, so I stay silent and let him continue.
“Is there a point to this?” Callie asks.
He glares at her like an irritated big brother.
As Jaxon’s best friend, they’ve gotten close over the last couple of years.
Ben is the twins’ godfather, which seems fitting since we’re in a deli that looks like it could be the set of a mob movie.
It’s more of a symbolic title than anything—a way for Jax to honor their lifelong friendship.
“What?” Callie says sardonically. “Clio’s not going to break his fragile little ego if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He shakes his head and turns back to me. “As I was saying. Noah might look tough, but he’s been through some shit. If anyone can get him to open up, it’ll be you. When he does, just be ready to listen.”
Ben stands, returning the chair to its rightful place. “I’ll be in the back if you need anything.”
“That was weird, right?” Callie watches the molten cheese ooze out of her sandwich as she squishes it between her hands.
“He’s just being a good friend. When did you get to be so cynical?”
“When I was ten, and my sister jumped out our bedroom window.”
I grimace.
She laughs. “I’m kidding.”
I’m glad we’ve gotten to the point where we can joke about what happened in our childhood. Some parts are still off limits, but we’re healing, and I can’t ask for more than that. I’m just happy to have my sister back in my life.
“I take it Ben doesn’t know this whole thing with Noah is fake?”
“Shh. Keep your voice down.” I widen my eyes, glancing around the restaurant. Catherine’s still working diligently on her sign, and I don’t think she heard anything.
While I’m distracted, Callie reaches for my pickle. Before she can get there, I swat her hand, and she retreats.
“That was uncalled for,” she mutters, looking highly offended.
“Keep your eyes on your own plate or else.” The threat is half-hearted at best, my mind still whirring after the words Noah and Fake were used in the same sentence. It shouldn’t bother me to hear the truth of our situation, but the sentiment is working in direct opposition to my lovelorn heart.
“Clio…”
“Hm?”
“It is still fake, isn’t it?” She leans halfway across the table.
“Yeah. Totally.” I pop a fry into my mouth.
Callie’s not buying it.
Neither am I.
“What are you doing Friday night? You need to get out.”
I shrug. “I’m finishing up some knitting projects, and I have a hot date with Richard Gere circa 1990.”
“Pretty Woman? Again?”
“You don’t get to judge my hyper fixations, Pickle Queen.”
“Touché.” She crumples her napkin and tosses it into the now empty basket. “Come to The Ridge. It’s karaoke night.”
I wrinkle my nose.
“I’ll let you be Scary Spice,” she sings-songs.
“Sold.”