Any Other Love

by Elizabeth Barone

  The elevator dinged open and she stepped out into the lobby. Even though it was just after 7 a.m., the lobby brimmed with activity. A man in a suit that was too tight brushed past her, his arm swinging with the briefcase he carried. Rolling her eyes, she donned her sunglasses and emerged into the bright city morning.

  She could totally see herself living there, she mused as she headed toward the convention center. She’d been born in the country, but she was a city girl at heart. Watertown—with all of its cows and lakes and staring people—was the stereotypical small town. While Rowan had embraced small town life after moving back, Charlotte had endured more than enough. It was all white, cis, straight people. They were nice enough to her, but she longed to be around her own people. Queer people.

  A naked young woman painted from head to toe in rainbow colors slipped past her, prism waves of hair cascading down her back. She flashed Charlotte a smile and took position in the middle of the sidewalk. All around Char, Times Square came to life. Someone dressed in an Elmo costume occupied a no parking zone. Behind them, a man wheeled a hot dog trolley into place.

  Yes, she could definitely find her own place there. Being away from her family and friends would be weird at first—especially Rowan. Amarie, too, she had to admit. Eventually, though, she would make new friends. Besides, with things like FaceTime, she wouldn’t have to go long without seeing Ro, and she’d be just a short train ride away to visit.

  Spotting a Starbucks, she darted across the street with a throng of pedestrians. Though cars edged closer and closer to the herd of people, none of them seemed to notice. They walked as if it was their birthright to. Charlotte held her head high along with them.

  The line inside wrapped all the way around the counter to the door—one major downside of living in NYC, Char noted. She stepped into the queue and checked the time on her phone. The Javits Center doors opened at 9 a.m., so she still had plenty of time.

  “Excuse me.” Someone tapped her shoulder.

  She glanced up from her phone. A man in a suit smiled down at her, his inky ponytail trailing over his shoulder.

  “Can you tell me how to get to Toys R Us? I’ve gotta get there for my kid. I promised her I’d get her the new Shopkins today, but they’re gonna sell out before I even get there, and I need to get to an interview.”

  She tried to remember if she’d passed one on her way. Driving in, she’d barely paid attention to the actual buildings, focusing more on not getting T-boned. “Sorry,” she said. “This is actually my first time here.”

  “Really?” He glanced over her. “You look like you’re from here.” He turned away, already scoping out his next hope.

  Char grinned. If she could pass as a real city girl, surely it was a sign that moving there might not be so out of reach after all.

  ∞∞∞

  The Javits Center shimmered, a glass sea in front of the Hudson River that looked like something digital projected into the real world. Char stopped in front of one set of entrance doors and patted her pockets for her printed-out ticket. According to the instructions in the email, she was supposed to “will call” her actual pass.

  Unlike the pictures of New York Comic Con she’d seen on Instagram, there was no line wrapping around the front of the building. At least that meant she wouldn’t have to wait. She went inside.

  The lobby was one long, extra wide hall. Dozens of women milled around, most of them in regular clothes. Charlotte’s shoulders sagged with relief. They headed in various directions, following signs that pointed attendees to the various panels and workshops.

  Stepping up to a desk, Charlotte forced herself to look excited. She should be thrilled. Rowan had snagged her a ticket just before they sold out. Hell, Padma Lakshmi was going to be speaking at a panel. Those tickets had long sold out, so she hadn’t been able to get in, but still. Being under the same roof as Padma should have had her bouncing on her heels.

  The white-haired woman attending the information desk smiled at Char. “Welcome to the New York RestHERanteur Convention. Are you here to pick up will call tickets?”

  She gave the woman her name, eyes dropping to the stack of pamphlets in front of her. She was no con-naming extraordinaire, but the word “RestHERanteur” didn’t exactly roll off her tongue.

  “Take one of those with you, dear,” the attendee instructed, nodding to the pamphlets. Obediently, Char folded one into a pocket. The attendee passed her a laminated badge and pink lanyard. “Have fun, now.”

  “Thanks,” she said as cheerfully as she could. Turning, she eyed the pink lanyard. With a sigh, she slipped it on over her head.

  Then she moved out of sight from the desk.

  Leaning against a support pillar, she exhaled and unfolded the pamphlet. She couldn’t get into Padma’s panel, but her badge let her into any of the others—as long as she got there fast enough. All of the regular panels were first come, first served, and the con’s website had warned that seats filled quickly.

  She scanned the list. In a few minutes, two separate panels were starting. One was on grants for women restauranteurs, and the other was on balancing work and family. Since she didn’t have any biological minions to speak of, she decided to go for the grants. Using the map on the back of the pamphlet, she hurried to the room.

  An attendant pulled the door to the room closed just as she reached it.

  “Is it full?” she asked breathlessly, flashing her badge.

  The attendant peered inside. “One seat left.” They motioned for her to go through.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Charlotte made her way to the remaining seat. She tucked herself in amongst women with iPads and notebooks, hands poised to take notes. She grimaced. She hadn’t thought to bring so much as a pen with her.

  At the front of the room, a screen proclaimed the title of the panel: Smartypants Grants Writing. Charlotte resisted the urge to roll her eyes. At least it wasn’t in pink. A podium with the con’s logo and the speaker’s name on it sat to the left.

  Della Marriott.

  She’d never heard of her before. For all she knew, Della was a celebrity chef within the city or just some grants writing professional. The convention organizers wouldn’t have hired some person off the street, though. Char pulled her phone from her pocket, turned off the ringer, and opened up her notes app.

  The women around her looked polished, as if they’d all just walked out of salons. Though they varied in personal style and ethnicity, none of them wore anything as immature as a T-shirt dress. Char yanked the hem toward her knees, wishing she’d gone with something a bit more professional.

  “All right, then?” a crisp but feminine English voice asked. Charlotte’s gaze snapped to the front of the room. A woman with shoulder-length blonde hair smiled at the group. “My name, as you can read, is Della Marriott.” She wore a tailored blazer, its white unfolded lapels connected by a gold chain at her navel. “I’m going to talk to you about the most boring thing in business today, but it’s also the single handiest skill you can develop.”

  Though her face looked young, Della’s aesthetic bespoke a stable thirty-something. “In business school, they only gloss over the grant writing process. At Johnson & Wales, well . . .” Della laughed. “I think I learned more about dating women than I did writing grants.”

  Char straightened in her seat, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

  “So I’m going to bore you a bit, but I’m also going to send you off with some resources and abilities.” Della clicked a button on a remote in her hand. “Shall we get started, then?”

  Char had a feeling she would not be bored. Not at all.

  ∞∞∞

  By the time the panel was over, Charlotte’s notes app and “Dream Restaurant” board on Pinterest were full of tips and resources. She remained seated, scrolling back through her notes. About half of the audience stayed behind too. Some of the women asked Della questions, but most of them stood in groups talking amongst themselves.

  “Good pan
el, huh?” asked the woman sitting next to her.

  Charlotte glanced up from her phone. “Yeah. Very informative. I had no idea there were so many organizations offering grants. Owning my own restaurant actually seems possible now.” She smiled.

  “Well, you’re young. You’ve got time,” the woman said.

  Charlotte lowered her phone and actually looked at the person she was talking to. Her gray pencil skirt and white blouse matched the silver streaking her hair. She wore glasses perched on the tip of her nose, making her look as though she was staring down at Charlotte. Maybe she was.

  Charlotte pushed aside the comment. Maybe she meant well. “Are you from the city?” she asked.

  “Not this one,” the woman tittered. “I have several franchises in New Haven, and we’re expanding in Waterbury soon.”

  “Oh, really? I live in Watertown. Which restaurant?”

  “Miranda’s,” the woman said proudly.

  Charlotte smiled while she struggled to keep her face blank. Miranda’s brick oven pizza had been a New Haven staple for years. During the two occasions she’d had it, she’d waited two hours in line for a table—once in the pouring rain. The pizza itself had been okay. Certainly not as good as everyone hyped it up to be.

  Despite the lackluster pizza, though, she’d been impressed with the woman behind the restaurant. She’d never bothered to eat there again, but she’d followed Miranda’s on social media, gleaning tips from every move she made.

  The woman she was talking to must be the Miranda. Charlotte could definitely learn even more from her by chatting with her. She straightened in her seat. “What you’ve done is amazing,” she said. “Taking your father’s tiny pizzeria and making it famous throughout the region? Meeting women like you is exactly why I came here.”

  “Well,” Miranda simpered, “I worked hard to get here. Hard work over many years is the key to success. No one is going to hand you anything while you’re still in your twenties.”

  Charlotte blinked. She hadn’t asked for anything from Miranda. “Do you mean it’s harder to get grants when you’re young?”

  “Darling.” Miranda stood. “Pay your dues. Go to business school. Learn the art of hospitality. Don’t expect handouts when you haven’t even proven yourself yet.” With a dismissive nod, she turned and walked away.

  Charlotte stared after her. Tears burned her eyes. It was bad enough that she already felt like an outsider. To be slammed down by someone she’d sort of looked up to over the years was humiliating. Her cheeks burned. Ducking her head, she fled the room.

  She hurried to the nearest bathroom, slamming the stall door behind her and sliding the lock into place. Cool metal soothed her burning forehead as she leaned against the stall door.

  She blinked away tears and FaceTimed Rowan. It was the middle of the day and her best friend was probably busy at the bakery, but she needed a friendly face. With the bathroom empty for the moment, she could rant in peace.

  The video call connected, Rowan’s flour-spotted face taking over her screen. “Are you in a bathroom?”

  “Yes, and I’m probably going to break out in a million pimples now,” she said with a sniffle. She definitely hadn’t been thinking clearly. She backed away from the door.

  “What happened?” Rowan held her iPhone in front of her while she walked through the kitchen and into the office. She sat down at her desk.

  “I shouldn’t have come. Everyone here has at least ten years and two degrees on me. What the hell was I thinking? I can’t run a restaurant. I didn’t even go to college.”

  “Hey, hey.” Rowan’s eyebrows knit together. “Slow down. What happened?”

  “We’re never eating at Miranda’s pizza place again,” she said.

  “Duh. I mean, when was the last time we bothered?” Rowan tilted her head. “Did someone say something to you?”

  “Even if she hadn’t,” Charlotte said, “I have no business doing this. No one in their right mind would give me a grant. I’m qualified for being a sous chef in a chain restaurant. That’s it.”

  Rowan took a deep breath. “Okay, ease up on the self-bruising. This isn’t my Char.” She paused. “You dyed your hair.”

  “Yeah. It was supposed to be for confidence.” She snorted. “Ro, I look like a teenager. Everyone here is in suits or pencil skirts. I look ridiculous.”

  “Is that the T-shirt dress?”

  Charlotte held her phone high so that Rowan could see her outfit. “Dude. I’m under-dressed and under-qualified. I’ve been wasting away time, just riding through life like this is some long-ass vacation. Ro, what am I doing?”

  “Right now you’re at the biggest convention for women in the industry.”

  She slid Rowan a flat look. “Obviously. I mean, what am I doing? Everyone we went to school with either went to Johnson & Wales or went into another career. You can’t succeed with just a high school degree these days. Ro, what am I doing?” Tears slid down her cheeks. She sighed, pacing the tiny stall in a circle.

  “You’re forgetting,” Rowan said, “that you have a best friend who went to business school. If you want to open up your own restaurant, I can help you. I mean, I know a bakery isn’t exactly the same thing, but I can mentor you or whatever.”

  Char shook her head. “You already have enough on your plate.”

  Rowan shook a finger at her. “No arguments. We’ve got this. Enjoy this convention. Attend every freakin’ panel. Learn things. When you get back, we’ll dig into grants and start looking at properties.”

  Nodding, Charlotte wiped away her tears. “You’re right. This negative person is not me. What the hell is wrong with me?”

  Rowan smiled knowingly but said nothing.

  A groan escaped Charlotte’s lips and echoed through the bathroom. “Why is everything so complicated right now?”

  “It’s not,” Rowan said. “Either you want something, or you don’t.”

  “I do,” she insisted. “I just . . . Ro, I don’t know if I can do this. I can’t think straight,” she said, thinking of Amarie.

  Rowan watched her patiently.

  “Last night, all we did was order in room service. She wasn’t feeling great so I put on a movie. Then we went to sleep. That’s all we did, but I couldn’t sleep. She was like two feet away from me all night, but she might as well have been under my skin.”

  “Yep,” Rowan said. “You’re in love.”

  She snorted. “I know what love feels like, Rowan. This isn’t it. I just need to re-group. Do like you said, catch as many panels as I can.”

  Rowan nodded encouragingly. “Don’t be afraid to go after what you want. I’ve got to go, though. Buns in the oven. You’ve got this!”

  Before Char could say anything else, her best friend disconnected the call.

  Chapter 11

  Amarie opened her eyes to an empty hotel room, the sheets tousled beside her. She’d hoped to wake up with Charlotte, but her nighttime dose of Percocet had knocked her out cold. She rolled onto her back. Every joint in her body was stiff and swollen, the familiar ache already sweeping through her. If she was going to make it to her appointment on time, she was going to need her body to cooperate.

  Right.

  Already she could feel herself folding in, the panic engulfing her. She’d given up three whole work days for the appointment. She’d irritated her boss. While she received the same salary every month, she didn’t want to start missing days. It’d been bad enough at Dunkin Donuts, where each shift had left her unable to even walk. There were a few times when she’d had to call out the next day because she couldn’t get out of bed. Her bosses there had never said anything to her face, but whenever she missed a shift, her hours had mysteriously dropped. She was going to be paying off her student loan debt for the rest of her life—even though the community college she’d attended had been cheap in comparison to other schools.

  She sucked in a deep breath. If she started letting her anxiety get the best of her, it would never end. She
just needed to take everything one step at a time.

  Starting with getting out of bed.

  Using her elbows rather than her hands, she struggled into a sitting position. Even her shoulder blades and ribs hurt. It had to be raining outside, she mused. She swung her legs out of bed. Testing her weight on each ankle, she stood. So far, so good.

  She limped over to the hotel room dresser. The Percocet from the night before had long worn off, but she didn’t want to show up at her first appointment with Dr. Warren stoned and sleepy. She was going to have to suck it up with a hefty dose of Advil, tons of Tiger Balm, and a ThermaCare patch for her hip. The pain meds would be there when she got back.

  Amarie ate a protein bar then took her morning medications. Most of them were supplements like vitamins B12 and D3. She’d been deficient in both several times—another reason why her regular doctor thought she had some kind of autoimmune disease. If only her blood work would show something concrete. Every time she saw a new specialist, she hoped her blood would cooperate and give them something to go on. Almost every time, she was disappointed. She’d had a positive anti-dsDNA show up once, which meant that her body was attacking itself at the DNA level. It was definitely autoimmune, her doctor insisted, but with normal rheumatoid factors and no inflammation markers in her labs, every rheumatologist she’d seen had been hesitant to diagnose her.

  “It’s just Fibromyalgia,” they always said.

  She scowled at the memory. Fibromyalgia, her ass. Her grandmother had Fibromyalgia, and so did several of her Twitter friends. Their experiences were completely different from hers. She wished she could have Fibromyalgia. At least then she would know what was wrong and how to treat it.

  She also wished she could take a shower, but it’d taken her so long to get out of bed, she no longer had time—never mind the spare spoons. She grabbed the outfit she’d carefully selected with Matt’s help and sat down on the bed to get dressed.