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 toyourcooking,” 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’reintroduced 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 bethisbad.”
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’mnot 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.
The last time I saw Reed, everything about his aesthetic was black, from his clothes to his fingernails to his hair. Not much has changed, save for the last. His natural jet-black locks have been bleached, and the left side of his head is now closely shaved to his scalp. Most employers would frown upon the look in a town like this, but Giorgia has never cared about anything outside of service and punctuality.
“Yeah, you’re a real Buddy Hackett,” Nico jabs.
We all laugh, because Reed is anythingbut. Tattoos cover his biceps, and though he’s built like a beanstalk—all legs and lean limbs—there’s still discernible muscle definition. The kind of build you’d associate with a track star or swimmer. With his style, however, he looks more like he wandered off a music video set for a rock band.
“You’re never gonna guess who we’ve got here,” says Nico, slinging an arm around me.
Reed’s pierced eyebrow arches as he looks at his co-worker like he’s on crack or something. “It’s Alex.”
