by Sara Celi
“Well,”—he looked down at the boxes— “you really should get going. People are waiting on their food.”
“We don’t want it to get cold.” I took a quick step forward, scooped up the meal, put it into the insulated bag, and moved backward again, relieved at the distance between us. Back when Seth was running the nightclub and I was the hired help, we’d engaged in plenty of flirty, mindless conversations that never went anywhere despite the promises they held. But this was different. We’d hardly said a thing, and yet there was an unspoken heaviness all around us.
Blame the pandemic.
“I should get out there,” I added. “Goodnight.”
I took the order, turned, and rushed out of the pizzeria, thankful it was already late and the night should slow down soon. FoodSwap also gave delivery drivers the chance to refuse pickup at any partner establishment, so I resolved to make sure I avoided Watch Hill Pizza in the future. Making money didn’t have to include embarrassment. I could keep my dignity and my pride.
“Kendra? Can you wait?”
I turned around in the parking lot, just five or ten feet away from the driver’s side door. Seth rushed to catch up to me.
“You left so quickly.”
“I need to get this food out.”
“I know, but—”
“What?”
“Let’s have dinner.”
I cocked my head. “Dinner?”
“Not tonight, of course. Tomorrow, maybe? We can . . .” Seth nodded in the direction of Sam’s Deli, another well-known Watch Hill restaurant and watering hole. “We can have dinner at Sam’s.”
“I don’t know.” I glanced back at my waiting car. “I just . . .”
“Please.” He moved closer to me and hunched his shoulders. Nightfall had made the temperature drop a few degrees, and even I regretted not having on a thicker jacket. “It’s just dinner between two friends. That’s all.” He cracked a smile. “Besides, when was the last time that you had some of Sam’s famous beer cheese?”
“A long time,” I admitted. “Before . . . before all this mess.” Before when I had a real job, when my dad was in better health, when I dazzled people with my NYC lifestyle. Although, in all honesty, it wasn’t something I would have had often back then either. I had always followed such a strict diet to keep both the weight down and the energy levels up. The life of a dancer. And I once used to complain about that . . .
“You deserve some. We both do.” His smile grew wider and his brightened, even under the dimness of the overhead parking light. “So, what do you say? You can meet me there.”
“Tomorrow,” I agreed, pushing away my reluctance. He was right, in some ways I did deserve a treat. I’d been depriving myself of extras in the name of meeting our basic needs, but I deserved some levity and escape from that too. A person could only push themselves for so long, and I’d been doing that since I came back to Ohio. “Sounds good.”
“Seven?”
“Seven.” I moved closer to the car. “Now I really do have to go. I don’t want this food to get any colder than it already has.”
“Absolutely. Don’t let me stop you.”
I said goodbye and jumped into the SUV, thankful for an excuse to leave and the reality that the delivery itself wasn’t too far away. I’d have the food there in a few minutes, and the payment in my account soon enough. Another completed task.
But as I drove away, all I could think of was Seth’s smile.
FIVE
SETH
I couldn’t believe it.
What were the chances of this—first hearing about Kendra from Ashley, and then actually seeing her the same evening? I supposed in a lot of ways it made sense given the circumstances, but I still marveled at it. It felt a little bit like something otherworldly willed my life to collide with hers, and I liked that. I’d never been someone who believed in coincidences—there was always a higher purpose to everything, even when it came to the bad luck that had surrounded me for more than a year.
It all pointed to something; I just didn’t know what.
Things slowed down at the pizza parlor soon after Kendra left, which made it easy for Tyler and me to close the place, once quitting time came. Every bone in my body screamed, and I was tired in a way I hadn’t been since the final days of The Frosted Heart, when I exhausted myself trying to come up with a way to save the business. Once I got home, I kicked off my shoes, changed into my pajamas, and went straight to bed, ready to fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
But I didn’t.
Instead, my thoughts turned to Kendra, and the sadness I’d seen in her eyes when she picked up the order via FoodSwap. She was still the same lithe and toned woman I remembered, but her shoulders sloped and rounded in a way that told me she wasn’t as carefree as she had been in the days before the pandemic. Not that I expected that—the stress of the whole thing had made most people more cynical and world-wearier than they had been before.
But I hated that for her.
That meant something was gone, something had died inside her, and I suspected it was more than just the end of her dreams. I didn’t have to ask—I took it as a given that the dance company she worked with closed because of the health restrictions in New York. I’d read plenty of headlines and chatter online to know that most of the arts programs in the Big Apple suffered in the wake of the virus. If Kendra had made her way back to the Cincinnati area to deliver food for a smartphone app—well, that proved those headlines were right.
She was doing worse than I was. Way worse.
I turned on my side and took my phone off the charger. It had been a long time since I logged onto much of my social media, but I knew a few quick searches would tell me a lot about what had happened to her in the last year. I searched for her name on one app, then the next, and then a third, and after I’d scored through a few, I had a good idea of Kendra’s current situation.
No, this was not good. Not good at all.
The dance company was bankrupt and didn’t expect to open again. She performed her last show in March 2020, days before the rolling lockdowns that had made life so hard, and the Instagram-worthy photo of her spinning onstage came with an announcement that she’d just signed as a principal dancer with the company. God. She really was that good. And now . . . “Looking forward to opening next season in our modern take on Swan Lake,” she wrote in the caption, the euphoria behind the words obvious by the star and smiling emojis she included. “We can’t wait to see you in September!”
But September had come and gone, and there was no modern take. None.
From there, the trail went cold for a bit, but Kendra did post something about being home with family for the holiday season and enjoying the time with her dad. I suspected this was to help her put on a brave face, allowing her to check in with her followers and give her that dopamine rush that often came with sharing something on social media and getting the likes that followed. I didn’t disparage her for that either—before the pandemic I’d been something of a social media addict too, living for the likes and feedback I got whenever someone mentioned The Frosted Heart. I imagined she felt the same way.
But unlike Kendra, I still had some vestige of my dream. Kyle had been great to give me hours at his restaurant, and building the outdoor patio had also provided me with a sense of accomplishment that could only have come from getting my hands dirty and sweat on my brow. Once I gathered the right investors, I intended to get back into the nightclub game, and I’d even driven to a few locations across town, dreaming of how I might retrofit the properties before opening them to the public. I understood the boom-and-bust mentality that came with the industry where I thrived, and while this recent period had been a bust, success still lay around the corner.
I couldn’t be sure about that for a woman like Kenda. It had to be hard to train so long for a profession that then evaporated overnight. Most dancers had a quick and short shelf life, and she was at the top of hers. This wouldn’t be something she could easily
recover from if she could recover at all.
What a darn shame.
And then I sat up in bed. Hmm. Speaking of darn shame . . .
I opened the text message app and scrolled through my contact list. Networking was one of my sharpest skills, and I knew people all over the Midwest with all kinds of different needs. I didn’t like to let anyone get too far away from me, knowing full well there might be a need. Bartenders, bouncers, DJs, musicians, performing arts troupes, models, waiters . . . no one strayed from my list. As a result, I could find whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it.
The last few months had kept me from accessing that network, though.
I located Nancy Smith’s name and typed out a quick message. She probably wouldn’t see it until the following morning, but I wanted to make sure that I contacted her before I forgot. I had a good idea, and she needed to read it.
Satisfied with the message, I locked the phone and pulled the comforter over my head. Time for sleep. At last.
KENDRA
The next day passed in a blur.
I got up early and applied for a slew of jobs I saw posted online, even stretching my résumé a bit as I submitted for positions in fields where I had no real experience. That was the biggest problem—I skipped college in favor of moving to New York City after high school, telling myself that it would be better to train with professionals than waste time studying for a degree I would never use. The sooner I started auditioning, the better chance I had of succeeding.
So, I didn’t have any degrees or certifications to show for my twenty-five years of life. That made my résumé look slim by comparison to those I knew were in the job market around me. How could I compete with people who had bachelor’s and master’s degrees?
Still, I did have work experience and determination in my side. That would help. Click. Submit. Click. Submit.
After that, I did a few chores around the house and got ready for another round of work on the FoodSwap app. Sunday mornings didn’t usually include many orders, but sometimes I got lucky. And luck was something I needed to survive. Dad and I couldn’t make it without a little bit of that.
A lot of it.
That was thing about the threat of hunger and the danger of losing everything. There was always something to do, some hustle to partake in to make sure the little security we had left stayed intact.
“I’ll be back this afternoon,” I called to Dad as I zipped up my jacket. “I don’t think I’ll be gone long, but you never know.”
“Hopefully, you’ll get a lot of orders.”
He’d taken to saying that almost every time I left the house. I wondered if he considered it a sort of good-luck chant.
“People are still ordering in, even though things are more open now. They like the convenience of it, and some of the other contractors don’t like to work on Sunday mornings. They say it’s not worth their time.”
“Any chance to make a buck is worth your time.”
“Exactly.”
I slung my tote bag over my shoulder. It was French, and made of a soft, buttery leather that complemented the gold hardware detailing. I remembered buying it in NYC right after American Dance Company announced me as a principal—it had been a reward for all the hard work I’d put in to make it that far. At the time, I’d barely noticed the $400 price tag, but now it seemed like such a stupid indulgence, a relic of a careless and carefree life that I’d never lead again.
“I’ll text you if I get held up,” I told Dad before I slipped out the back door.
I logged on to the app moments later, but my suspicions were correct. In three hours, I only made four deliveries, and all of them for orders that amounted to less than twenty dollars. It ended up mainly being a mindless morning spent roaming the streets around the outskirts of Cincinnati while listening to the weekly pop-chart countdown on the radio.
And then a text hit my phone around noon.
The incoming message caused the FoodSwap app to crash, and I ripped the phone off its charger to see what had happened.
A message from Nancy Smith awaited me.
I couldn’t open it fast enough. Nancy Smith was one of the best-known dancers in the region, and she ran a large dance studio in Cincinnati’s Hyde Park. She started it after retiring from the Cincinnati Ballet, and the students who came out of her studio often went on to some of the country’s most elite programs. I would have loved to attend her school during my childhood and teenager years, but we couldn’t afford the tuition.
How did I wind up on her radar?
I didn’t have any clue.
Kendra, I’m looking to expand the hip-hop and modern dance programs at my studio in the coming weeks now that people are reopening, and I was hoping to discuss the idea with you. I came across your contact information in your résumé, and I wondered if you’d be kind enough to send along the rest of your credentials, as well as more about your time in New York. Best—Nancy Smith
Excitement and anticipation pulsed through me when I finished the message. Here it was—the chance I’d been waiting for these last few months, an opportunity that looked more like the sunrise after a long, dark night.
Could Nancy Smith and her dance studio be my way out and allow me to continue doing what I loved—while making money and building a viable future? Please, God.
After a few minutes of steeling myself, I opened the reply box and typed out a few words.
Conversation started. Couldn’t have asked for a better one.
SIX
SETH
This was the closest thing to a date I’d had in months. Years, even.
Running my nightclub hadn’t given me much time for a personal life, not when my professional one was built on making sure other people enjoyed their off time with abandon. I did it well, but the nights left me exhausted with little motivation for doing anything with anyone else.
And the pandemic struck.
After closing the club, I crawled into bed for two weeks and barely come out, only doing the minimum needed to keep living. I slept for what felt like days, and while it was nice, I soon realized the depression and grief I felt over the closure of my business wasn’t healthy. I needed to get out and see people where I could, even if the lockdown and quarantine restrictions made that awkward.
Thank God for Kyle and his booming pizzeria business. He gave me the reason.
And maybe now I have another one . . .
“I’d like the Dunkel,” I told the bartender behind the counter at Sam’s Deli. It felt good and refreshing to sit on a barstool and order a drink after months of restrictions. Ohio was opening slowly, but it was opening, and people grew braver every day. “The one on tap.”
“Coming right up,” the man replied. “Should I open up a tab, or is someone joining you this evening?”
“I have a reservation for a table, and I’m waiting for someone.” That felt good to say. Another inch toward normal.
“Just tell me when you’re ready to be seated, and I can add this to your check.”
“Perfect.”
He moved away, and I focused on the newscast playing on the television hanging above a few shelves of liquor. A few more minutes, and she’ll be here. I remembered how Kendra looked the last time I saw her before the pandemic—glitter across her cheeks, a sparkly leotard and feathered headband setting off her red lips and pearly teeth. I wanted that woman back, the one who always kept my attention whenever she was inside my club.
Kendra walked into Sam’s Deli seconds after the bartender handed me the drink. She caught my gaze when she arrived at the hostess station, and with a quick nod to that woman, she crossed the room to my side. A smile pulled at her eyes. “Hi there.”
“Hi. So glad you could join me.”
Her flushed cheeks and slightly open mouth told me something was on her mind.
“Everything okay?” I added.
“Yes.” She grinned. “It’s great. For the first time in a long time, it really is.”
�
�Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Let’s sit at our table first.” She unbuttoned her oversized tweed blazer, which coordinated with a pair of dark jeans. “I have to admit, I’m really hungry.”
“Let’s go then, I don’t want to keep you waiting.”
I let the bartender know we were ready for dinner, then let the hostess know we wanted to be seated. She led us to a quiet section of the restaurant, one with ample space between our table and the nearest ones. When the server arrived with two paper menus, I ordered a large serving of pretzels and beer cheese. Kendra asked for a sparkling water.
“You can order a drink if you want one,” I said when the server walked away. “Don’t worry about that.”
“I’m trying to cut back. I’ve consumed more liquor this year than usual.”
I eyed my beer. “Me too.”
“At one point, it was like every night. I’d hit five and . . . well, I’d have a drink. I’d wake up to another day of quarantine . . . and have a drink. Whatever was in the house that I could find.”
“Yep. I did the same thing.”
“The other day I realized I have to stop.” Her shoulders relaxed. “That can’t be healthy.”
I shook my head. “No, it probably isn’t.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you understand.” She sighed. “Do you want to know what I was happy about when I walked in here?”
“That’s the only thing I care about.” I put down my menu. I didn’t have to study it to know what I would order. Sam’s Deli was famous for its burgers, and I craved a juicy thick one with mushrooms and swiss cheese. “So, you’d better tell me.”
“Well, it’s pretty big.” Kendra leaned across the table and I smelled something floral coming from her hair. Perfume? Hair spray? Shampoo? Some heady mix of all that? Whatever it was, I wanted to inhale it.
“Can’t wait,” I managed.
“Nancy Smith reached out to me.”
“From the dance academy?”
Kendra nodded. “We spoke on the phone just before I came here. She wants me to come by her studio on Tuesday so we can discuss an expansion she has in mind for her modern dance program.”
