And yet, even the magic of New York couldn’t fix her current predicament. It was almost closing time on Saturday night when Savannah hauled herself onto a barstool at ’Shwick Chick and let out a heavy sigh. “I need a drink.”
Honey reached for the Pappy Van Winkle.
Over the past week, Kamile hadn’t replied to any of Savannah’s increasingly desperate texts and voice mails. The newlywed was lying on a beach in the Bahamas, ironically unplugged. That wasn’t how the world was supposed to work. You give, you get.
Honey left to clear a table, returning a minute later to ask, “But haven’t you got a contract or something?”
Savannah closed her eyes in defeat. “No.” Why had she pushed back so vehemently on sending Kamile a contract? Liv had been right. One hundred percent, absolutely, fundamentally right. The reputation of the business Savannah co-owned was still in the toilet, and the past few months of full-time work had amounted to absolutely zilch. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No, you’re an optimist.” Honey squeezed her hand. “Savannah, what you’re doing isn’t easy. You threw yourself into a new job in a new city with a woman who has every right to hate you. You brought in the first client and pulled off an awesome wedding against a lot of odds. We’re always our own harshest critic, but as your biggest fan on the sidelines, I’m telling you, you’re killing it.”
Savannah closed her eyes, trying to let the kind words into her heart. Why was it so easy to see the best in others, but not in yourself?
Her phone pinged. A text. From her father. Hey Pookie! I know it’s late, but are you free for a chat? Nothing urgent, we love you!
She flipped her phone over, feeling an unfamiliar snap of annoyance. She was fairly certain she was the only Gen Z transplant in Bushwick who talked to their parents multiple times a week.
Honey flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and invited Savannah to hang out while the staff cleaned up and balanced the books. Savannah felt like she’d just been invited backstage. A new level of intimacy, unlocked. She watched her friend expertly wipe down the bar. “What’s your plan, Honey? Think you’ll stay here for a while?”
“This is the best restaurant job I’ve ever had. But I’m just crazy enough to open my own spot, one day. I hear it’s real easy.”
Savannah perked up. “Really? That’s so cool.”
“Honey’s Fried Chicken. It’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it?” She leaned across the bar, her brown eyes sparking. “I’ve worked every front-of-house job, so I know how to staff up. I’m only an amateur cook, so I’d hire someone to run the kitchen. Maybe somewhere in Greenpoint, or Bed-Stuy.”
Savannah nodded eagerly. “You could start with a dinner series. Like, a pop-up. Fifty bucks for all-you-can-eat fried chicken and beer. Build a mailing list, get a logo designed, maybe start a YouTube channel. The Brooklyn food scene is so popular right now, and having a niche is smart.”
“You’re smart,” Honey said. “They’re all really good ideas.” As Honey cleaned, they riffed on the concept. The honey-fried chicken was one of the most popular items on ’Shwick Chick’s menu, and the only dish that wasn’t created by the head chef. It made Honey feel confident she knew enough about food to hire the right cook. Honey was only twenty-five but the food scene was a good place for the young and ambitious; the owners of ’Shwick Chick were two guys in their early thirties. And Honey’s ex was a designer. “You know—for the logo and stuff.”
Honey had never mentioned anything about her private life. Savannah didn’t know if this was a mistake or an invitation. “That’s handy.” And then, because she really was curious about how relationships in New York started: “How did you meet?”
“Online. It’s one of those on-again-off-again-I’m-losing-my-mind-again things.”
It wasn’t a mistake. They were definitely in the waters of a deeper friendship. “Maybe I should give that another go. Online dating, I mean, not getting back with my ex.” He died. Savannah saw his dead body, something she tried not to think about but would come back to her in disturbing flashes. Poor Eliot’s death was obviously why the idea of dating guys in New York still left her so cold. “Think you’ll get back with your guy?”
Honey inhaled a breath and wrinkled her brow. “It’s a long story. For another time. Sit tight and I’ll get some leftover pie to wash down that whiskey. Then if you’re up for it, come get a drink with us.” She indicated the rest of the staff. “There’s a dive around the corner we usually hit up.”
Savannah was surprised she’d been deemed cool enough to be invited along. “I’d love that.” She leaned across the bar to give Honey a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for being such a good friend, Hon. It’s really good to have someone to confide in.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t worry about Kamile. You’ll figure it out.” Honey topped up her drink. “Go the extra mile. Roll up your sleeves and just get it done.”
Go the extra mile. Just get it done.
Yes.
Savannah swirled the whiskey, mind whirring. A plan started to form.
26
Zia picked up extra shifts, working parties and events, in an effort to save for Mozambique. Global Care would pay for her flight and accommodation, but the weekly stipend was tiny, and she’d spent all her savings on helping her sister. It didn’t make sense to text Clay. But while her brain made a perfectly rational case, her subconscious had other plans. Clay Russo filled her dreams. Every night. The feeling of his mouth on hers, bold and sensual. Frankly, she was stunned at the way she was responding to this man. The crush was interesting, but learning something about her own body was fascinating. Come Saturday night, her resolve broke.
Zia, 8:35 p.m.: Hey, it’s Zia/your favorite makeup artist. I’m going out dancing tonight. Bembe in BK. Wanna come?
Clay, 8:41 p.m.: Hello! Nice to hear from you. Dancing sounds fun, but crowds can be tricky. A drink at my place? No funny business, would just like to talk.
Zia, 9:06 p.m.: I hope your funny business rule doesn’t extend to Bill Murray, I love him . I need to move tonight, so Bembe’s my jam.
Clay, 9:18 p.m.: Totally get it. Can we make a plan for next week? Dinner + a Bill Murray movie?
Clay, 10:15 p.m.: Are you still going tonight?
By day, Bembe didn’t exist. It was just a faded black door, messy with graffiti, notable only for its location tucked under the giant steel beams of the Williamsburg Bridge. But by night, long lines braved muggy heat or bitter cold to get into the city’s best global music dance club. Bembe was a place people came to dance. Feel-the-music-in-every-cell-and-let-it-move-your-hips dance. Salsa and dancehall and Afrobeats, all with live percussion. Zia squeezed her way onto the crowded dance floor and let the beat start to dictate her movements. Feeling lithe and supple, all thoughts of Clay left her head.
An hour or so later, a man in aviator sunglasses and a baseball cap grooved up next to her. When she turned away, he was back in front of her. Take a hint, bro! The man took off his glasses, and winked.
Clay. He showed up. Despite the worry about crowds.