Spiced rum hit me first, and a smoky scent that reminded me of my granddaddy’s Sunday cigars. Savannah’s Soul was everything a Black-owned jazz club should be: intimate without feeling cramped, classy without being pretentious. Photos of jazz legends lined the dark wood walls, and the tables faced a smallstage where a live band played something slow and familiar, making my shoulders immediately relax.
Ronan leaned close to my ear. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
If anyone else had said it, it might have sounded like a line, but Ronan’s words carried genuine appreciation. I glanced up at him, taking in how fine he looked in that charcoal gray suit that fit him like someone had poured it onto his frame.
I straightened his already-perfect tie just for an excuse to touch him. “You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
The host approached, a sister with beautiful red locs piled artfully on top of her head, smiling like she could read exactly what was happening between us. “Welcome to Savannah’s Soul. Just the two of you tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ronan answered, his hand never leaving the small of my back.
She led us through the dimly lit space, weaving between tables where other couples sat close, heads bent toward each other, fingers intertwined over white tablecloths. The saxophone notes rose and fell in conversation with piano keys, the bass keeping time like a steady heartbeat.
She gestured to a corner table partially secluded by an ornate wooden screen but with a perfect view of the stage. “Here we are. Vincent will be your server tonight. Enjoy your evening.”
I slid into the plush velvet seat, and Ronan sat across from me. The table was small and intimate.
“What?” Ronan asked, that half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he caught me staring.
“I was thinking about how different this is from the first time I saw you.”
The band transitioned to a rendition of “Summertime” that made my heart ache with its beauty. The trumpet player closedhis eyes as he coaxed notes that seemed to hang suspended in the air above us.
“And now?” I asked, almost afraid to break the moment, but needing to hear him say it.
“Now I see all of you. The brilliant professor, the fearless activist, the woman who called me on my shit in a holding cell, . . . the Nia who feels like home.”
“Wow, that’s so sweet.” I put my hand over my heart. We’d taken the hardest path to get here, moving from adversaries to reluctant allies, to lovers kept apart by life and our own mistakes. Yet somehow, against all odds, we found our way to this table, to this moment, choosing each other openly.
“It’s the truth.”
Our server arrived, a young brother with glasses and short locs, who smiled professionally but with that extra warmth reserved for folks who looked like him. “Good evening. Welcome to Savannah’s Soul. Can I start you both with something to drink?”
Ronan looked at me first, a small gesture that spoke volumes, not taking charge, not assuming, but offering me the first choice.
“Bourbon, neat. Whatever’s local,” I replied.
“Make that two,” Ronan added.
As the server nodded and left, the band started a new song, bluesy and full of longing, matching the energy between us. The saxophone player stepped forward, his instrument shining under the lights as he played a solo that seemed to say everything I couldn’t.
“I can’t believe we’re actually here.”
Ronan’s fingers tightened around mine. “Took us long enough.”
The bourbon arrived in heavy crystal tumblers. Ronan lifted his glass, waiting for me to do the same.
“To taking the scenic route,” he said.
I clinked my glass against his. “To getting where we needed to be.”
Across the table, Ronan loosened his tie. There was something intimate about watching him relax, like being granted access to a private showing of who he was when the world wasn’t watching. The band shifted to a stronger beat. The bassist took center stage, and I swayed slightly in my seat, the music working its way into my bloodstream alongside the bourbon.
“What are you thinking about ordering?” Ronan asked, scanning the menu.
I shrugged, enjoying the fluid movement of my shoulders under the silky dress. “Everything looks good. You ever had their collard green egg rolls?”
“Can’t say that I have. Are they worth trying?”
