Augie met Zami Martinaj when she was sixteen, her first summer at the Club. It was Zami’s first summer too but because he started after her, he joked she was a veteran. “You were running the place, don’t pretend,” he teased, flattering her. Zami was magnanimous. He had lake blue eyes with black eyebrows and a gray beard. He always brightened everyone’s mood.
Zami was a hit with the Club members. Augie watched him ascend quickly from line cook to grill master to any front of house role, impressed by his ability to shuck oysters and chat business with the bigwigs, prep bruschetta and ask about people’s kids, work the pig roast and start sing-alongs. Even the old GM became enthralled by him. Zami also frequently discussed the war he had fled, proudly explaining he was Albanian Kosovar. This was another reason no one challenged him: Say the wordwarand sheltered Midwesterners went stiff. Augie figured most people didn’t know where Albania or Kosovo were. But she felt comfortable with Zami, so when she told him she couldn’t remember much about the Balkans, he welcomed the conversation. He explained that he and his family had stayed in Pristina the first few months of the war, hiding out at their apartment, but after the night their restaurant was burned, he packed hiswife and daughter up. They followed a cousin to Iowa, then to Minnesota.
Zami’s wife died from a heart condition soon after arriving in the States, but over the years, Augie got to know his daughter, Teuta. She was twelve years older than Augie, but Augie loved her like a sister. Their bakery was also down the road from Augie’s house, so she and her mom visited frequently. Leah and Augie spent a lot of time there in high school, too, doing homework and eating Balkan delicacies—everything from byrek and mantia to Augie’s favorite, ajvar, a dip made of charred red peppers.
They especially loved being around Teuta. Like her father, she commanded a room. Additionally, she was gorgeous, with thick eyebrows, a full mouth, and a heart-shaped face.
Fueled by her work ethic and scratch card winnings, she was also determined to make Hyla as successful as their family’s old restaurant in Pristina. There was no way she’d go back to waitressing, either, she lamented, bitter about all the years she’d spent at The Manor.
Still, because it was off the beaten path and people weren’t familiar with Balkan food, the bakery struggled. This was why, when Augie had to choose a client for a marketing competition in high school, Hyla came straight to mind. Zami and Teuta were all in, and with the help of her mom—who’d picked up all there was to know about owning a restaurant working with Augie’s dad before the divorce—Augie developed a campaign that included everything from rebranding to partnering with influencers and farmers markets.
In the years that followed, the bakery took off. Zami was able to follow his true passion of working as a chef; he started a part-time catering business and helped families like the Crawleys with parties and meal prep.
Augie hadn’t seen Zami or Teuta since she got home. While they’d heard she was back from her mom, Augie was dodging them—they’d been so excited for her life in New York. Even so, Augie wasn’t surprised when, one morning as she was eating cereal, her phone flashed with Zami’s name. She dropped her spoon as she read his message.
Love, Teuta and I could use help for a party. A drive north but easy. Good money. The Crawleys? Their cabin. July 4. 9 people. Would love to see you. Would love your help! Call me. Yours, Zami
Augie’s ears began to ring. What was the universe doing to her?
If it was all couples, Chat would be number nine. He had to be. She took a moment before responding. Instantly, her mind returned to the last time she’d seen Chat—and Mrs. Crawley—laughing and playing with the boys across the pool.
That stupid, condescending wave.
She hadn’t seen Chat or Mrs. Crawley in the days since the meet, and while she knew it was a self-indulgent thought, part of her wondered if they were avoiding her.
Augie turned her phone over and focused. She made a mental list:
Pros: good money, time with Zami, I hate working the Club’s Red, White, and Blue party, the Crawley cabin is supposed to be insane....
Cons: Mrs. Crawley, and everything else.
It still sounded too complicated. Yet as Augie picked up her phone to say she was sorry she couldn’t make it, she felt suddenly foolish. She stopped.
If her goal this summer was to recalibrate—and not let anyone getin her way—she had to go. She had to make money, support Zami, remain in control. And really,fuck Mrs. Crawley. It was time she stood up for herself. These members—she was sick of them all. People like them got away with everything. Just look at Micah.
Augie began typing, not allowing herself to register the way her heartbeat doubled as she imagined Mrs. Crawley seeing her at the cabin. For once, Augie would be the one making the passive-aggressive power play.
She didn’t allow herself to register how excited she was to see Chat, either.
Zami!!she wrote before she could stop herself.Anything for you. When do we leave?
7
Before Danika knew it, the Monday had arrived—the lauded Fourth of July. The week before had passed in a blur of shopping, preparation, and harassing their cleaning company to set up the extra bedrooms. As much as she resented their guests, everything needed to be perfect.
“Can’t forget these.” Chat stood in the driveway in the milky light of morning, the sun casting weak shadows from the trees across the asphalt. He held up the pool noodles they’d bought at Target, gently swinging one to hit Max in the thigh, another to bump Cooper. The boys recoiled, giggling, the neon foam soft against their skin.
“Boys,” Danika scolded, though her heart wasn’t in it. Chat swung the green noodle her way, hitting her below the hem of her white shorts as she closed the trunk.
Against her will, she was wearing full holiday attire: white shorts, a blue tank top, and red Hermès Oran sandals. Along with the noodles, Chat had insisted on buying the boys Fourth of July T-shirts that read “Red, White, and Cool” and “Star-Spangled Stud.” Danika had cringed, but Chat found them so hilarious, he even bought one for himself: “’Merica: Kicking Ass Since 1776.” After Chat’s pleading, she’d promised to at least wear the colors. No one mentioned Bill.
Danika relaxed as they stuffed the last duffel bags and floaties in the car. She’d always liked early summer mornings, the way the dew gathered in tiny balls along blades of grass, the way the sky looked peaceful and pastel, the way the air turned her skin clammy and cool. The weather today was also falling in their favor: a high of eighty-two, mild humidity. A rare reprieve.
“You sure you don’t want to chill in the passenger seat? Take a load off?” Chat said after buckling in Max.
She scoffed as she grabbed the keys from her pocket. “You’re too kind, but another day.” She knew Chat loved her Range Rover Sport.
As she pulled out of the driveway, catching glances of the boys teasing each other in their matching shirts, listening to Chat hum along to the radio, she began to feel excited. It was not like her to be so festive, especially when forced to play host for such a ridiculous holiday, but once again: Things were different now.
