I’d checked my bank account that morning. After rent, utilities, and my car payment, I had about eight hundred dollars to my name. I needed to be smart about money.
“Just water for me,” I told the server. “And maybe the—” I scanned for the cheapest thing on the menu. “The side salad?”
Mark looked at me like I’d announced I was joining a cult. “You’re getting a side salad at the Columbia Café? Are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head? Should I call someone?”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“You’realwayshungry. You have the metabolism of a beaver on cocaine trying to build a hydroelectric dam.” Mark turned to the server, ignoring my protest. “He’ll have the Cuban sandwich and aMaterva. I’ll have another coffee and theropa vieja.”
“Mark—”
“It’s a business expense,” Mark said, waving me off like we were discussing the weather.
“What business?”
“The one we’re about to start . . . which I’ll explain after we order. Stop looking at me like I just kidnapped your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Well, if you did, I wouldn’t kidnap it. I have six already. There’s no room.”
The server left, probably grateful to escape whatever our conversation was becoming. The moment he was out of earshot, I leaned forward. “Okay, so what’s this mysterious business you’re talking about?”
“Let me ask you something first.” Mark settled back in his chair, his expression turning more serious. “How was work last night? Still terrible?”
“A woman called me ‘the help.’”
“Jesus Christ.”
“In front of my infant manager, who then proceeded to throw me under the bus and make me serve her a mojito with a plastic mint garnish.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I was. She waved it around like a sad, limp—” I stopped myself. “Actually, you know what? I don’t want to relive it.”
Mark snorted. “Riley’s is the worst.”
“Riley’s is the worst.” I rubbed my eyes, feeling the exhaustion of seven years of bartending hell settle over me like a weighted blanket. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Mark. I’m twenty-nine. I’ve been bartending in chains forsevenyears. What do I have to show for it? An encyclopedic knowledge of well liquor and a developing eye twitch.”
“You don’t have an eye twitch.”
“Giveit time.”
Mark leaned forward, his biceps flexing as his elbows landed on the table. “What if you didn’t have to do it anymore?”
“I’m not becoming your boy toy.”
“I don’t play with toys.” He grinned, then his tone turned serious. “I mean, what if there was another option?”
His eyes had that light in them, the one that appeared whenever he got excited about something. I’d seen it when he’d decided to learn carpentry from YouTube videos and ended up building a bookshelf that was more art installation than furniture. I’d also seen it when he’d adopted his sixth dog despite the fact that his house already smelled like a kennel.
Mark was great with big ideas.
Terrible with execution, but great with ideas.
“Mark,” I said carefully. “What did you do?”
“Nothing . . . yet.” His gaze locked onto mine. “I want to open a bar.”
