Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Ben
Today has been surprisingly good. Avril and I haven’t done anything except read and watch TV and a movie.
The odd snippets of conversation between the reading and TV have been the most shocking parts of my day.
The way I’ve gotten to know Avril so much better in these last twelve hours is wild.
Not because we’ve been actively talking and sharing things, but just because we’re in close physical proximity to each other and have spent the entire day together.
I know that it’s quite hard to make her laugh, but just because she’s not laughing doesn’t mean she’s not amused.
I know that she doesn’t like me to know when she’s embarrassed.
I also think that sometimes she can read my mind.
She seems to know what I’m thinking almost before I’m thinking it.
It’s a little unnerving, when I’m so used to keeping so much of myself to myself.
It’s almost impossible to hide anything when I’m with Avril.
“I think we should go out,” I say at around six.
“What?” she says. She puts down her book and reveals a horrified look on her face at the thought of feeling the semi-fresh air of New York’s streets, which is adorable.
“Out. Of this apartment.”
“We’re bed rotting,” she says, as if that’s all the answer I’m going to get.
“I know. But we need to eat.”
“You’re a Cordon Bleu chef and you make a mean omelet. We don’t need to go out to eat.”
She’s right of course, but I want to take her somewhere. “Come on,” I say. “Throw me a bone. I have to get the opportunity to wine and dine you.”
She narrows her eyes at me like I’m asking her to dance naked in the snow. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
I thought that might be an excuse she used to avoid spending time with me. “Funny you should mention that.” I leap out of bed and head into one of the other guest bedrooms. I come back pulling the rack of clothes I had delivered the morning she moved in.
“What is that?”
“Things for you to wear.”
She scans the rack. “That’s not for me.”
“You left your dress here, so I know your size. Plus Bergdorf’s is good at its job. So now you have no excuses. You have plenty to wear.”
She turns back to the television. “I’m not wearing any of that.”
“Well, that’s not very polite.”
“Ben, I’m a fully grown woman. I don’t need you to dress me like I’m a child.”
I wince. Shit, this is her thing with her brother. She’s trying to prove to him that she can succeed on her own, stand on her own two feet and I’ve just treated her like she’s incapable of buying her own clothes. This is going to be a tricky line to walk.
“I’m sorry. That’s not how this was intended. It was thoughtless when I was trying to be anything but. I know you can buy your own clothes. And I know you’re not a child and have your own mind. I was trying to do something nice. Nothing more.”
Slowly, she turns her head to look at me. “I’m sorry. I know you were being nice. It’s just…”
“I get it.” I reach out and squeeze her arm.
“Worth is being nice too. He’s honestly the best brother and I love him, and without him, I wouldn’t have the life I do now.
He protected me from so much. He’s given me so many opportunities.
Sometimes when I think about wanting to prove myself on my own, wanting to have Boston to succeed or fail because of me, I feel so ungrateful. I don’t mean to be.”
“Does Worth know how you feel?”
She shakes her head. “I could never tell him that sometimes I feel incapable around him and Poppy.”
“You’re anything but incapable. You’re so independent. Clever. Ball-busting.”
She pulls in a breath and gives me a small smile. She’s trying to placate me, but she doesn’t believe a single word I’m saying.
“Let’s go like this,” I say.
“You really want to go out to dinner, huh?” she asks.
“I want to show you my favorite place in New York.”
She nods. “Okay. But I’m not turning up in shorts and a top knot to your favorite place in New York.”
“It’s not fancy,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure.” She clearly doesn’t believe me.
“If we’re changing, I’m wearing jeans.”
She pauses, before she says, “Really?”
“Really. And I need to shower because the rot is beginning to smell.”
She grins, and it’s like I’m snowboarding down a mountain, the high is so intense.
“You do not smell,” she says.
If, when I come out of the shower, she still doesn’t want to go out, then we’ll order in or I’ll cook, but I’d really like to take her to Serenissima. It would be a perfect end to the day.
When I come out of my bedroom, Avril is waiting for me, dressed in jeans and a black top that’s kind of a vest underneath but a see-through poofy black blouse over the top.
She looks incredible. Her hair is down and damp at the ends.
She looks relaxed and happy. And somehow that makes me relaxed and happy.
“For reference, a typical bed-rotting day doesn’t involve showers or restaurants.”
“Noted,” I say. “I appreciate your flexibility.”
Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside Serenissima, just a little south of Little Italy.
“I’ve never heard of this place,” she says, as she takes my hand to step out of the car.
“The food is excellent,” I say.
“I feel a little overdressed.”
She’s wearing the same shoes that she wore to Aurora and Deacon’s engagement party, but in red.
It was one of the pairs that I had delivered to her with her replacement dress, and a warmth swirls in my chest at the idea that she accepted those shoes.
And the shirt she’s wearing was on the rail of clothes I had delivered for her.
I don’t know what changed her mind about those clothes, I just know I’m pleased she knows I wasn’t trying to infantilize her or that I don’t see her as incapable.
For some reason, I like buying her shit.
It makes me feel more intwined with her. Closer. It’s a good feeling.
I internally cringe at my own pathetic reaction. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
“Did you book?” she asks me, as we get to the glass door.
The restaurant’s busy—which makes me happy. Beppe deserves people all over America knowing how good his food is.
“I didn’t. Hopefully they’ll squeeze us in.”
An idea starts to bloom. I pull out my phone, quickly drop a couple of words into my notes and then hold the door open for Avril.
“Benjamin!” Maria booms across the restaurant.
In seconds, the chef’s wife has my face in her hands. “Look at you. So skinny. We need to feed you up.”
She stops when she notices Avril beside me, and she breaks into a grin. “Why, who do we have here? A woman, Benjamin?”
I grin. “This is my friend Avril. Can you squeeze us in?”
“You know we always have room for you,” she says, looking Avril up and down.
“Lovely to meet you,” Avril says, a little more timid than she usually is. “I’m excited to be here.”
Maria nods. “It’s good to have you.” She turns to me. “She’s very beautiful.”
I chuckle. “She is.”
Maria glances between us again and smiles. “Follow me.”
I put my hand in the small of Avril’s back and guide her through the restaurant.
Some waiters get yelled at in Italian by Maria, some tables are shuffled around, and then Avril and I are shown to a table in the window. It’s the table where Maria normally seats me.
“The usual?” Maria says, as she brings over a basket of focaccia that Beppe will have baked this morning.
“The usual times two.”
“Of course. Like when you bring Bray. How is your brother?”
“He’s very good,” I say.
“You bring him in soon, yes?”
“Absolutely.”
Maria leaves us, and I turn back to Avril. “It’s really good food,” I say.
“And they seem to know you well.”
“I’ve been coming awhile.”
“It doesn’t strike me as a typical Ben East Date Night.”
I pull the napkin onto my lap. “Right.” I’ve never brought a date here. I usually come on my own, but Bray also comes sometimes.
“So what’s the deal?” Avril asks.
“What deal?” I shrug.
“This place. You’re not telling me everything, and I want to know everything.”
I grin. “Try some bread, it’s absolutely insane. And this balsamic vinegar is incredible. It’s been aged twenty-five years.”
Avril’s eyebrows pull together. “Twenty-five years?” She looks around and sees an abandoned menu on the next table, which she swipes and then scans. “These prices don’t justify a twenty-five-year-aged balsamic.”
She’s spot on.
“Beppe’s all about the ingredients. They come first. That’s why the décor looks like it could do with a facelift.”
“Yeah, it’s basic. But even without investment into front of house, how’s he justifying twenty-five-year-old balsamic?”
I’ve not seen this side of Avril before—the all-business side. But of course, she’s in the hospitality business, she’s going to know that the economics of Serenissima don’t work. Not even Bray picked up on that.
“And these prices for this location? That doesn’t make sense.
Yes, it’s busy. I bet the food’s great. But this place is small.
You have what? Forty covers? On this menu, I bet the average spend is…
” She pauses as she looks up and down the menu.
“It’s definitely less than a hundred dollars a head.
Even if you managed to churn tables to give you eighty percent table occupancy, which I’m pretty sure this place isn’t doing, the numbers don’t stack up.
Then thirty-two…say, six times a week at a hundred dollars a head…
” She squeezes her eyes shut as she does the mental math—and I realize I’m getting a hard-on.
Watching this woman do math is getting me hard. How did that happen?
“What?” she asks as she opens her eyes. “I can feel you looking at me.”
“You’re hot when you’re all business.”
“Stop it,” she snaps.
“I mean it. I’m getting hard listening to you.”
She looks me dead in the eye. “Do they launder money for the mob or something?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”
Maria appears at our table before we can continue our discussion. “Beppe wants to see you. Can you say hello?”
“Of course,” I say, pushing my chair out from the table. “You want to come?” I ask Avril. “Beppe’s Maria’s husband and the chef.”
She glances over to the open kitchen. “I’ll stay here. I’m sure he doesn’t need people crowding him.”
“I won’t be long,” I say.
I make my way to the kitchen. When Beppe spots me coming toward him, he grins, abandons the stove, and pulls me into a hug.
Beppe is twenty years older than me, and whenever he hugs me, it feels so fatherly that it makes me feel lonely.
It’s like I don’t remember what I’ve been missing until that moment.
“How are you, son?” he asks me.
“Very good. How’s business?”
“Grab an apron and dice that chili for me, will you?”
“Beppe, he’s got a girl he’s trying to impress,” Maria says. “You can’t put the boy to work.”
“It’s okay, Maria. Avril is unimpressible.” I glance at Avril, and she’s looking over, but she won’t be able to hear what I’m saying.
“Wow,” Beppe says. “She’s very beautiful. What did you do to deserve her?”
I laugh. “I’m not sure,” I tell him. I don’t bother to say how I’m not trying to impress her. I’m not trying to get her to trust me. I’m not trying to do anything but enjoy my evening and hopefully she gets to enjoy her evening too.
I do as Beppe asks and take an apron from the freshly laundered pile behind the door and put it on.
Then I wash my hands and get to work. As usual when I get into the kitchen, I feel my muscles unlock and my brain start to empty.
The feeling isn’t as pronounced as it usually is.
Maybe because I’ve spent the day in bed with Avril, rotting.
I smile to myself as I chop. When I’m finished, I put everything in the right-sized bowl and put the board over by the sink for a thorough wash.
“What’s next?” I ask.
“You want to go back to your date?” he asks.
Maybe I should. When I glance over to our table, Avril’s not there. I scan the restaurant. Did she get pissed off and leave?
“Hey,” I hear behind me. Avril’s standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “You look at home.”
“He is at home,” Beppe answers for me. He stops what he’s doing and goes over to greet Avril, air kissing her on both cheeks. “Benjamin is family.”
She smiles at me like she’s really happy to see me, and I don’t want to look away from her. Just her presence here warms me.
I give her a quick tour of the kitchen and introduce her to the other members of Beppe’s family.
“Right, you two lovebirds, get out of here. It’s about to get busy,” Beppe says, not taking his eye off the stove.
“You need a hand?” I ask.
“I need you to go and eat.”
I pull off the apron and Avril and I head back to our table.
“How often do you come here?” she asks. Her eyes are soft and her body seems more relaxed somehow. Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s me.
“Once a week or so,” I reply.
“How did you find it?”
I never normally have to field questions about this place. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”
“I thought you were British?”
“My mum is British. My dad was American. I was born in the UK, then we moved to New York and then when…when we lost the restaurant, we went back to the UK. That’s where I went to university.”
“Where was your dad’s restaurant?” She asks the question like she already knows the answer.
I take a beat, wondering whether I should tell her. But I want her to know.
“Across the street,” I say.
She reaches across the table and slides her hand over mine. “It’s nice that you have this.”
I nod. “I don’t come here to grieve or mope or anything.”
“I know,” she says. “You come here for connection. To your past, to your childhood, to the people here who treat you like a son.”
Her words hit me right in the solar plexus like my chest is a bullseye and her words an arrow.
“Yeah. I guess I do.” The food is good in Serenissima.
That should be the only reason anyone needs to come here.
But Avril’s right, I wouldn’t come as often if I didn’t feel so at home here.
I don’t come here to network or “connect with the right people.” Except I come here to really connect with the right people.
I come here to be myself. To be treated like a son. To be me.
Avril gets it. I’m starting to think she understands me better than I do.