Page 116 of This Could Be Us

I laugh and flash her a middle finger. “Get out of my house and don’t come back.”

“You don’t mean that.” She pokes out her tongue, climbs in, starts the car. She drives down my driveway, and a hollowness settles in my chest as soon as she’s out of sight.

“No,” I tell the empty garage. “I don’t mean that at all.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

SOLEDAD

Ihave a bruised poontang thanks to you.”

I snort laughing at Hendrix’s outrageous—and incidentally accurate—statement.

“They’re called pole kisses,” I say, grinning at her and Yasmen over my menu. “We’ll all have them in unusual places tomorrow, but they say it’s hardest the first time.”

I lay my menu down and smile at Cassie, Grits’s head chef, as she approaches our table.

“Have you ladies decided what you’re having?” Cassie asks, setting down a basket that is half corn muffins and half biscuits.

“To what do we owe this honor?” Hendrix smiles up at her. “Not every day the chef herself comes to take our order.”

“Heard the boss was out here with her girls.” Cassie nods to Yasmen, her face smooth and unlined beneath the pristine white scarf covering her honey-blond locs. “Wanted to take care of you ladies personally. Any questions about the menu?”

“Yeah, why does everything look so good?” I scan all the high-fat, hearty-helpings items. “I just worked out, but that loaded mac ’n’ cheese… hmmm. At least those ribs aren’t on the menu anymore to tempt me.”

“You can still get ’em at the Grits in Charlotte,” Hendrix says, sliding Yasmen a sly look. “I swung by there when I went to see Mama last month. Vashti’s recipe is still bringing folks in by droves.”

Yasmen offers a wry look at Hendrix’s subtle dig about their attractive employee who transferred from Atlanta to their North Carolina location.

“It’s not the ribs I’m glad are gone.” Yasmen smirks. “It’s the woman who makes them. Let the good people of Charlotte enjoy them ribs. We good over here.”

And that’s all we’ll say about that.

“I’ll have the turkey wings.” Hendrix closes her menu with a decisive snap. “Fried green tomatoes and corn off the cob.”

“The usual shrimp and grits for me,” Yasmen says, handing her menu to Cassie. “If it ain’t broke.”

“Let’s go with the catfish.” I give a quick glance at the sides. “Rice and gravy, green beans.”

“Sounds good,” Cassie says, giving me a wink. “And I’ll bring some of Soledad’s pear preserves out for your biscuits.”

I grin at her comment, sharing a smile with Yasmen over that small, but consistent, contribution to my monthly income. A few Atlanta-area restaurants carry Sol’s Secret Preserves now. It’s still in relatively small batches, but every little bit helps.

“I just wanted to give pole a try.” I pick up where we left off. “A few tries, actually, before I commit to installing one in my she shed. So thank you for indulging me and venturing out.”

“I don’t think it’s for me,” Hendrix says. “If I’m hanging upside down, some man better have me in his red room.”

“I’m not sure I’m down either, Sol,” Yasmen agrees. “You might be on your own for this one.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I may not even end up installing the pole, but it does seem like a fun way to stay in shape, and I’ve been pushing myself to try new things.”

“How’s the she shed coming?” Hendrix asks.

“Have you not been watching my live updates?” I feign affront. “And you’re supposed to be my manager.”

“Oh, I am your manager, little girl.” Hendrix gives me a secretive look. “I got some things up my sleeve for you.”

“What things?” Yasmen asks, munching on a muffin.

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