Then I stopped and looked back again.
My whole body hummed with energy—good energy—the kind that made me want to get up early and stay up late and work until my hands ached.
I flipped off the lights, locked the door behind me, and headed to my car.
Journey was playing on someone’s radio as they drove past. “Don’t Stop Believin’” echoed against the nearby buildings. I found myself humming along.
Okay, I wasn’t a small-town girl, and Tampa wasn’t a lonely world, but the sentiment was the same.
I slid into my car, still humming, and drove home with the windows down and the Tampa evening air warm on my face.
And I couldn’t stop smiling.
Chapter 8
Finn
Iwas going to throw up.
And not metaphorically.
Actually throw up all over the polished bar that Mark and I had spent three hours cleaning yesterday.
“You’re doing the thing again,” Priya said from where she sat at the bar, watching me pace.
“What thing?”
“The spiraling thing. The pacing thing. The ‘I’m going to have a panic attack’ thing.”
“I’m not having a panic attack.”
“You’re breathing like you ran a marathon.”
“I’m fine.”
I wasn’t.
It was 7 p.m. on a Friday night.
It was our grand opening.
The doors would open in thirty minutes, and I was convinced that either no one would show up oreveryone would show up, we’d be unprepared, and the whole thing would be a disaster that would end with me crying in the walk-in freezer.
The past few weeks had been a blur of activity that still didn’t feel quite real.
After hiring Rod, we’d brought on Jackson—Jacks, as he insisted on being called—a twenty-two-year-old former college football player who’d responded to our barback ad with an enthusiasm that was either endearing or concerning. I hadn’t decided which yet. He was built like a linebacker, had dimples that could get him out of a speeding ticket, and possessed an earnest quality that made me want to both protect him and make sure he didn’t accidentally break everything in the bar.
Rod found his sous chef—a quiet, efficient guy named Carlos who showed up on time, did what Rod told him to do, and never complained. He was perfect.
The equipment had arrived in waves, first the stove, then the fridge and freezer, then a dozen boxes filled with kitchen equipment Rod had insisted on. I watched him unpack, unsure if I was witnessing the equipping of a kitchen or the arming of a rebellion.
The furniture also arrived. Mark and I spent a week assembling and arranging tables and chairs. We nearly killed each other in the process. Mark insistedon hanging every TV himself, which had resulted in one of them being slightly crooked. He refused to acknowledge this, despite the obvious tilt to his head when he tried to watch a show.
I gave up arguing about it.
Maya—Jackson’s best friend who’d somehow appointed herself our social media manager despite us not actually hiring her—had created an Instagram account and posted a grand total of three times.
Three.
