Page 99 of The Comeback Summer

It’s Friday. The big night. My first event at Adam’s diner.

Everything for the gin and rummy evening came together so quickly—several local papers were happy to break up the Lollapalooza buzz, and we managed to get coverage in theReader,Block Club Chicago, and a few online outlets.

I left the office around three so I could help Adam set up. He’s as nervous as I am excited, which I understand given the pressure to do right by a family business that’s been entrusted to you.

What I don’t get is the pressure I’m putting on myself and my outfit. I keep reminding myself that this is professional, not personal. But I want to look good, especially if any press comes to the event.

After changing outfits four times, I settle on a pair of dark blue jeans that make my butt look amazing even though they’re a little tight in the waist, and a floral blouse that’s long enough to cover my belly but also shows a little cleavage. Heels would be over-the-top—and I’m not coordinated enough to walk inthem—so I settle on some strappy black sandals, grateful I gave myself a pedicure last weekend.

I get off the bus half a block from the diner and give the butterflies in my stomach a moment to settle before walking inside. I see Adam through the window, moving around the empty restaurant, comfortable and confident.

A car honks as it passes by, startling me and capturing Adam’s attention. He turns and looks outside, his face lighting up when he sees me.

My heart lifts. He’s been texting all day with an hourly countdown to the kickoff... or whatever it’s called when the first hand is dealt in gin. He’s got high hopes for this event, and I hope it exceeds—or at least meets—his expectations.

“Hey!” Adam says, opening the door. The bell chimes a friendly tone as I walk inside. “Welcome!”

“This place is great,” I tell him, meaning it. The diner feels less stodgy than the photos made it look. There’s a well-loved warmth to the space, the air saturated with decades of baked goods and greasy comfort food. My stomach growls, and I realize I forgot to grab lunch.

Red booths line the walls, with two- and four-top tables filling the rest of the space. There’s a full bar in the back and a semi-open kitchen behind it. I walk over to the front counter, where old family photos line the wall.

“Is this your dad?” I ask, pointing to a black-and-white photo of a man who looks an awful lot like Adam, standing in front of the diner with his arm around a woman.

“That’s actually my grandfather,” Adam says. “This one’s my dad.” He points to a color photo: a man who looks like a carbon copy of the first one, with a slightly rounder face and alittle less hair, carrying what can only be a tiny Adam on his shoulders.

“Strong family genes,” I say.

“We look more alike than we are,” Adam says. “My grandfather was a master in the kitchen—it seems the cooking genes get watered down generation by generation.”

“We’re always our own harshest critics,” I say, repeating the words GiGi said to me so many times. It didn’t always resonate in the moment, but I hope Adam takes it to heart.

“Should we get started?” he asks, rubbing his hands together.

“Let’s do it!”

With two of us working, the room is turned into a quasi casino in no time. We place a fresh deck of cards on every table, and string red and black streamers featuring hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades along the walls. It’s cheesy, but that’s kind of the point.

When our work is done, Adam looks around the room, proud of the minor transformation. Then he looks at his watch. “That didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”

He’s right. We have almost an hour before the event starts.

“Should we have a drink?” he suggests, making his way behind the bar. “You can test out one of the specials—how do you feel about gin?”

“It makes me feel ginvincible,” I say, then inwardly cringe, hoping he isn’t one of those people who hates puns.

But Adam grins, his eyebrows doing their trademark dance. “Then let the fun be-gin! What can I make you?”

He hands me a copy of the special menu we came up with, featuring a gin and tonic, a gin fizz, and a French 75 on the ginside; and a dark and stormy, a rum runner, and a mai tai on the rummy side.

“Let’s go with a French 75,” I say.

“Good choice,” Adam says, grabbing the shaker from a shelf. “Delicious, but simple—there are only four ingredients.”

“That’s about seventy-one less than I would have guessed.”

Another smile, and I swear my insides turn to liquid. I can’t help but imagine an alternate reality where we could be an us. A couple like Hannah and (gag!) Josh.

Adam measures out gin, lemon juice, and simple syrup before pouring them into the shaker.

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