6. Attention
ATTENTION
PRESENT
“Where are we going?” Maggie asks me as she jumps into the driver’s seat.
“I don’t care. Just drive, please .” I damn near choke on the last word, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they threaten to run down my cheeks with the next blink.
“Ali?” The Range Rover rolls to a stop at the end of the street, and Maggie extends her hand to me. “You okay?”
My whole body trembles, and it takes everything in me to shake my head.
“Birdie?” she asks, still clearly confused.
The very name causes a pathetic sound to escape my lips, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
I hate myself.
I promised I’d never waste another tear on this, and yet here I am—in the same place, with the same old scars being torn back open into festering wounds.
A light bulb must turn on in Maggie’s brain, because her hands fly to her mouth. “Wait, you’re not the girl from…?”
She can’t even finish the thought.
Since the upper echelon of Ravenswood’s social circles would never stoop so low as to talk with the commoners of neighboring towns, school gossip wouldn’t normally reach Maggie’s ears… But nothing about what happened to me had been normal.
“But your last name’s Moretti—”
“I changed it this past summer after I graduated,” I say. “Moretti is my mom’s maiden name. I was born Alexandria Sharpe.”
After the “incident,” I didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted a fresh start at college. All it would take was one person Googling my name to find out what happened. Or, at least, what the public was made to believe happened.
I fill Maggie in on the basics of what actually went down, and it’s no surprise that she puts the car in park and reaches over, wrapping her arms around me despite the awkward angle.
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”
“That’s what I hoped, that no one would know.” The laugh I rasp out is painful at best.
I thought I’d be able to bury the past, but oh boy, does it enjoy unearthing itself to humiliate you.
“I guess I just wasn’t quite prepared for that.
I knew coming back here would be tough, but to see Jase…
” I put any and all thoughts of him in the rearview mirror long ago.
And like a hideous Jack-in-the-box, the bastard pops up at the worst possible moment.
“I just want people to forget. But with him around, it’ll only stir things up again. ”
“So, to say that you’re in need of a distraction would probably be the ultimate understatement, huh?”
“Something like that.”
Thankfully, Maggie has a plan for that.
Sadly, the plan isn’t a very good one.
“Well, this officially sucks.” Maggie drags herself out through the automatic doors of the grocery store, looking comically deflated. “We’re never gonna find a decent place to work at this rate.”
“What are you talking about? They just said they had two positions available.”
“Yeah, as cart collectors .” She says the last two words slowly, as if the communication issue is from my end. “That’s a negatory there, Captain. No way in hell am I going to spend my days frying in this heat.”
“Coming from the girl who was just looking up dog-walking gigs on her phone?” I can’t help but laugh. “Hate to burst your bubble here, but you wouldn’t be walking Fido at three in the morning.
Maggie mock-glares at me. “Two totally different scenarios. If I’m ‘walking Fido,’ I can do so in a bikini top.
If I’m a cart pusher, I’ll be subjected to wearing those hideous yellow vests, thus giving me the worst redneck tan known to New England.
Not to mention, they don’t even have one of those retriever machines.
We’d be doing it all by hand. Do you really think our little noodle arms have that kind of strength behind them? ”
She isn’t wrong.
As we enter the parking lot, we pass by a kid who barely looks fifteen.
He’s currently wearing said vest as he struggles to guide a row of at least twenty carts towards the front of the building.
His arms are beat red, but with his maneuvering, we both glimpse the milky white skin below his shoulders.
I couldn’t give a crap about tan lines, but it’s apparently a hill Maggie is willing to die on. “I don’t know what to tell you. We’ve already exhausted our options.”
Since we attend school over three hours away, coming in for interviews here had been impossible when we had already looked into getting summer jobs months ago.
High schoolers and community college students had snatched up any cushy jobs for lifeguards and hostesses long ago…
save for the handful of positions available at the country club.
They had a rigorous hiring process, and let’s just say we aren’t up to snuff.
My hair color might pass their guidelines, but Maggie’s pink locks definitely won’t.
And I can’t look past the clientele. Having to regularly cater to people like my sister and the “Untouchables” sounds about as appealing as sticking my head in a truck-stop toilet.
Not to mention, I’m pretty sure Blythe would have an aneurysm if she found out I was working there.
I had been hoping for a position at the library, especially since I’d worked there my senior year, but they had hired full-time help since I left.
Maggie punches in some stuff on her phone and makes several inquiry calls as I drive us around, all ending in a bust. “Can you think of anywhere else we could try? The only other thing I can find is a pet sitter, and my mom’s apartment doesn’t allow animals.”
And my stepmom is allergic to cats…and hates dogs…and pretty much anything else with four legs, fur, scales, or claws.
Heaving an exhausted sigh, I give up the goods. “There’s still one place we can go.”
Maggie’s face lights up as I double back and take us down Main Street. “Is it a boutique?”
“Afraid not,” I say, pulling us off onto a side street.
I park in a back lot and direct her to the front of the building.
“Castelli’s,” she reads above the entrance, her expression still cheerful as she peers through the window to see the restaurant’s interior. “You didn’t forget I can’t cook for shit, right?”
“Trust me, the last thing I’d do is subject the general public to your cooking,” I laugh, yanking open the front door and gesturing her inside.
Seriously, the girl nearly set the dorm room on fire when she “tried” to make toast using a lighter. And let’s not forget a certain tomato soup disaster from last Christmas, or when she somehow got pancake batter all over her mom’s kitchen ceiling…when she hadn’t even been making pancakes.
Maggie gives me a light shove, but nevertheless grins as she takes in the unobstructed view.
The interior had been designed to reflect Chicago during the Roaring Twenties.
, mostly playing up a black, white, and red color scheme.
Checkered floors, checkered tablecloths, checkered aprons and all.
The floor plan is long and narrow, leaving it with the layout of a classic diner.
It even has a counter that runs the length of the joint, with bar stools positioned along it for patrons to occupy.
Prohibition placards and lawman posters with the likes of Al Capone and John Dillinger decorate the brick-patterned walls, brewery items and old-fashioned advertising signs line the space behind the counter, red and white striped cushioned booths fill the left side of the restaurant, and vintage wooden chairs and tables occupy the main floor space.
As expected, the restaurant is exactly as I left it.
Maggie outright moans as she inhales the sweet, umami scent of baking bread, cooked cheese, jus, giardiniera, and roasted beef. Castelli’s most popular item on its menu is the signature Chicago-style deep-dish pizza, but its Italian beef and sausage are equally to die for.
Anytime the owner, Giorgia, is in, you can be sure to hear 1920s jazz tunes playing through the sound system, but we’re introduced to Led Zepplin, indicating it’s only the regular staff that’s in today.
I motion Maggie over to the register stationed at the bar counter to our right.
A familiar face greets us, his short-cropped hair shielded by the same worn White Sox hat he’s always donned, rain or shine. “Table for two?”
“Actually, we were wondering if you guys were hiring,” I say sweetly, going so far as to bat my eyelashes.
He grimaces for a hot second but quickly recovers with a casual smile. “Sorry. I can check with the boss, but I doubt it.”
“You won’t even make an exception for an old friend?”
Nico exchanges a glance between Mags and me, clearly confused. “And who might that be?”
My face falls, along with my voice, to provide a deadpan delivery. “Seriously? I know you’re getting up there in years, but I didn’t think your memory would be this bad.”
In truth, Nico is only thirty-two. But being the oldest of the staff, apart from his mom, Giorgia, the guys always enjoy ribbing him with grandpa jokes.
His gaze narrows on me, finally taking in the details, past my hair color and makeup.
I see when it finally clicks with him, because his eyes go wide to reveal a plethora of white.
“Alley Cat? Holy shit!” He hops over the bar and mauls me with a more-than-welcomed hug. “I didn’t even recognize you.”
“And I see you’ve somehow managed to keep up the business despite my absence,” I laugh.
“We’re turning a decent profit. And I have a feeling with you here now, business will only pick up,” he teases right back, thumping a knuckle under my chin. “Customers can’t resist a pretty face.”
“What? I’m not pretty enough?” laughs another voice from the kitchen. Not a second later, a certain seventeen year old emerges with a couple serving dishes in hand, and I smile at his increasing “peculiarities,” especially the piercings.