Me: Did you know Rod Silva used to be head chef at Casa Vera?
Mark: Maybe.
Me: MAYBE?
Mark: I knew he cooked at some fancy places. Didn’t want to bias you.
Me: You could have mentioned he was a literal professional chef.
Mark: Where’s the fun in that? Did you hire him?
Me: Yes.
Mark: See? You didn’t need me to tell you. You figured it out yourself.
Me: You’re infuriating.
Mark: But helpful.
Me: Occasionally.
Mark: I’ll take it. Dinner tonight to celebrate?
Me: Can’t. Have to update my spreadsheets now that we have a chef with a budget for a sous chef.
Mark: You’re going to make spreadsheets on a Friday night?
Me: Yes.
Mark: You need a life.
Me: The bar IS my life.
Mark: Fair point. See you tomorrow?
Me: See you tomorrow.
I pocketed my phone and glanced around the empty space one last time. The afternoon light was streaming through the big windows, illuminating dust motes and about a thousand things that still needed to be fixed.
But I could see it.
For the first time since Mark had offered me this partnership, I could see it.
The bar would go here, running the length of the room. Booths along that wall. High-tops near the windows. TVs mounted in the corners—enough to watch the game, not so many it felt overwhelming. The kitchen in the back, Rod working his magic. The smell of food, the sound of laughter, the feeling of home.
We were building something real.
Something that mattered.
My chest felt tight, but not in the anxious way it had all week. This felt different.
This was excitement.
Anticipation.
The feeling of standing at the edge of somethingbig and knowing—reallyknowing—that you were about to jump.
I walked to the door, keys in hand, ready to lock up.
