“That would be wonderful.”
And just like that, everything was okay.
As the rain got heavier, the kitchen got cozier. Together, they made Nanna’s fried chicken, the recipe for which called for a fresh buttermilk brine and a handful of crumbled Cheetos in the coating. Savannah pan-fried the different parts, filling the apartment with the warm, salty smell of a backyard barbecue. Honey put a pan of cornbread in the oven and made a bowl of creamy grits. They traded playful insults and made each other laugh. It was both easy and enlivening to be in Honey’s presence. Two Southern girls in New York City, chasing their dreams, figuring it out. Honey got excited around food, talking and moving faster than usual. She was at ease in the poky, understocked kitchen, a deft improviser. Her confidence in all things made Savannah feel confident, like what she wanted in life was actually attainable. But more so, as a single girl, it was just so nice to have someone to rely on, for a laugh or a chat or comfort when things went wrong. Just like she used to rely on her best friend from home, Cricket. Except where Cricket was small-town, Honey was big-city, the one who introduced her to the restaurant reviews in the New Yorker and hidden speakeasies dotted all over Brooklyn. As the collard greens simmered on the stovetop, Savannah opened a bottle of cheap white wine. They toasted to friendship.
“Speaking of,” Savannah added, “I have something for you.”
She handed Honey a T-shirt. When Honey unfolded it, she saw it was emblazoned with a Honey’s Fried Chicken logo. Honey’s eyes went wide. “What? How…?”
“It’s just a first draft,” Savannah was quick to point out. “I’m not much of a designer. I just thought you could wear something like it when you do all this”—she indicated the food—“yourself.”
Honey couldn’t stop staring at the shirt, a gap-toothed grin plastered on her face. “This makes the whole idea a thousand times more real. Thank you. And now, I don’t have to ask my ex about it.”
Savannah sipped her wine, curious. “What’s going on there?”
Honey sighed, folding up the T-shirt carefully. “Me and Rowan, that’s… complicated.”
“How so?”
“We got together when I first moved to New York. Rowan means a lot to me. Always will. I just can’t figure out if we’re meant to be.”
“If you’re not meant to be with him, what sort of guy are you meant to be with?”
Honey met Savannah’s gaze. As if she knew the answer to that already. Savannah scanned the available men in Honey’s life. Guys who worked at the restaurant, friends who’d drop by for happy hour, a few colleagues from past jobs whose meals Honey always comped. None was a match for Honey: she was so much better than all of them combined. Being unable to guess the riddle felt like losing equilibrium.
“Who?” Savannah pressed. “Do I know him?”
A strange smile played at Honey’s lips. “Savannah. It’s not—”
The front door unlocked. Leonie was soaked. “My date was a total psycho!” She dumped her bag and busted umbrella. “Oh my God, it smells amazing in here!”
Savannah cleared the kitchen table and set it with cloth napkins and the nicest plates she could find. As Honey began serving pieces of chicken, Yuli arrived home.
“The cornbread’s vegan!” Savannah pointed eagerly. “And so are the collard greens!”
Yuli took a seat.
The four feasted. Leonie regaled the table with online dating horror stories and Savannah laughed so hard she got a stitch. She had no idea Leonie was so funny. Yuli ate three pieces of cornbread and canvassed for advice about a job he was going for at a charter school. He taught eighth-grade English and wrote young-adult romance novels under the pen name Summer Winters. Again, a revelation. Just as the wine ran out, Arj returned home from his shift. “I was going to drink this in my room, then try and get some REM,” he said, extracting a bottle of burgundy. “But if there’s fried chicken going…”
“Best fried chicken I’ve ever had.” Leonie reached for a drumstick. “Yuli, you’re missing out.”
“Screw you,” said Yuli companionably. “I have my cornbread. No!” He batted Arj’s hand as he tried to take the last piece. “Mine!”
“That reminds me,” Leonie said, chewing on a drumstick, “of the time I went on a date with this guy who wouldn’t stop eating off my plate.”
The table groaned, laughing, as Leonie launched into another anecdote.
Honey met Savannah’s eyes across the table and grinned, as if to say, You did it!
We did it, Savannah wanted to say. We’re a team. She hadn’t thought about a girlfriend like that since Cricket. She and Cricket were a team: a two-for-one deal. In fact, Cricket kind of looked like Honey. Both were small, spunky brunettes with big smiles and expressive eyes. Maybe I have a type, she joked to herself. A girlfriend type.
She paused, a forkful of cornbread frozen midair. Honey met her gaze. Blinked. Turned to Leonie, laughing a bit too hard at whatever she’d just said.
Which is when it all started falling into place.
Her roommates were yawning and stacking the dishwasher by the time Honey was at the front door, a bag of leftovers in hand.
“Honey?” Savannah kept her voice low so that her roommates wouldn’t hear.
“Yes?”
“About Rowan…”
Honey looked up at her quizzically. No. Expectedly.
Everything was shifting, the horizon at a slant. “Rowan’s… not a guy. Right?”
Savannah couldn’t read what was in Honey’s eyes. Apprehension? Relief? An eternity passed before her friend slowly shook her head.
“No. She’s not.” Honey leaned up on her tiptoes and brushed Savannah’s cheek with a kiss. “Good night, Savannah.” She headed quickly down the stairs and into the rainy, summer night.
* * *
The following morning, Savannah and Liv sat side by side in the sunny front office of In Love in New York. Before them were two open laptops and two oat milk cappuccinos. Dolly Parton, a shared favorite, played softly on the Sonos. To an outside observer, a perfect tableau of women at work. And yet neither woman had moved in the last fifteen minutes.
Why hadn’t Honey told Savannah that she was gay? The first and most horrifying thought was that Honey, whom Savannah believed to be her closest friend in New York, thought she wouldn’t be accepting. Judgmental. Which she wasn’t.
Okay—maybe it had been a shock.
It had definitely been a shock.
The queer people Savannah knew were obviously gay, definitely gay, no-surprise-to-anyone gay. Lavinia, a witchy lesbian in her study group. Ryan, her middle school “boyfriend” who currently did musical theater. Scout, a beautiful nonbinary model who floated around campus, making weird art-house films that no one understood but everyone went to see because Scout made them. Lavinia and Ryan and Scout were different, and that was great: live and let live. But while they were different to her, Honey was the same. Honey was like her. And so if Honey was gay, then all bets were off and literally anyone else could be too. The rules of who and what you were felt paper-thin and flammable. And that made Savannah uneasy.