Chapter 3
ZAHARA
I twisted between tables, balancing three plates on one arm like some kind of circus performer. Monday lunch rush at Grits was always chaos, but today felt like the whole damn city decided to show up at once.
“Order up for table twelve!” Cookie shouted from the kitchen window.
“I got it,” I called back, even though my hands were full and my patience was running thin.
The bell above the door chimed again. More customers.
Larry stood at the register, all smiles for folks who kept pouring in, acting like this soul food spot was some exotic safari adventure instead of just a place to eat.
According to a lot of natives in the city, the quality of food had diminished once the original owner, Ms. Diana, Larry’s aunt, passed away.
Larry had sucked the soul out of it. He invested a lot in the decor and cut corners with the food.
It didn’t have that same delicious Southern taste, so the natives stopped visiting except for the occasional brunch for unlimited mimosas.
Or for the sheer nostalgia. Only transients, gentrifiers and social media influencers came as frequently.
And they spent a lot of money on under-seasoned chicken and waffles.
“Excuse me? Miss? We’d like some more sweet tea.” An older blonde woman at table seven waved her empty glass at me like a flag.
“Be right with you,” I said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
I delivered the plates to table nine, then grabbed the pitcher of sweet tea. As I approached table seven, I braced myself. The mother-daughter duo had been working my last nerve since they sat down.
“Here you go,” I said, refilling their glasses.
“Oh, thank you so much!” the daughter chirped, all wide-eyed innocence in her designer clothes.
“So, we’re thinking about moving to this neighborhood. Is it safe? Like, you know, at night?”
What she meant was: are there too many Black folks around for her comfort? I’d heard this coded question a hundred times from gentrifiers like her.
“It’s as safe as anywhere else in the city,” I answered flatly.
“But what about that corner store? The one with all those men outside?” The mother leaned in like we were sharing secrets.
That corner store was the most harmless place, and the men standing outside were mostly retired vets.
They congregated there and played chess during the daytime.
It wasn’t as if it were a bunch of YNs posted up drinking and shooting craps.
“You mean the place where people in the community gather? Been there over forty years.” I kept my voice even while my mind drifted to Yusef’s music camp paperwork sitting on my kitchen table.
Eight hundred dollars due by Friday if I wanted the early registration discount.
He was a prodigy, already outplaying kids twice his age.
This camp could open doors for him, maybe even scholarship opportunities.
But eight hundred dollars might as well have been eight thousand with the way my bank account was set up.
“Are there any good coffee shops nearby? You know, with like, artisanal beans?” The daughter was talking again, pulling me back to reality.
“There’s an Ethiopian-owned spot three blocks down,” I said, thinking about my Sunday shifts at Grits that kept me from selling my baked goods at the weekend farmers market.
I’d told Larry five times now not to schedule me on Sundays. The farmers market was my chance to build my baking business, to eventually get out from under Larry’s thumb. But every week, there I was, serving overpriced shrimp and grits to people who acted like they’d discovered soul food.
“Your hair is so interesting,” the mother said suddenly, reaching out and touching one of my curls without permission. “Is it all natural?”
Something in me snapped. Before I could think, my hand shot up and slapped hers away. Hard.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, my voice low but sharp enough to cut glass.
Her mouth fell open in exaggerated shock. “How dare you! I was just curious!”
“My hair isn’t an exhibit,” I said, stepping back.
The daughter’s eyes went wide. “Mom, I told you not to—”
“Manager!” The mother’s voice carried across the entire restaurant, silencing conversations. “Your waitress just assaulted me!”
Larry appeared like he’d been waiting for his cue, all 300 pounds of him moving with surprising speed.
“What seems to be the problem, ladies?” His smile was all teeth, his eyes darting between them and me.
“She slapped my hand! All because I admired her hair!”
Larry turned to me, his smile vanishing. “Zahara, what the hell?”
“She put her hands on me without permission,” I said, standing my ground even as my heart raced. “I have a right—”
“Ladies, I am so sorry about this,” Larry cut me off, turning back to them. “Your meal today is on the house, of course. And please, order anything else you’d like, also complimentary.”
“Larry,” I started, but he gripped my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.
“Kitchen. Now.” He dragged me toward the back, past staring customers and whispering coworkers.
Once we were behind the swinging doors, he let go of my arm like it burned him.
“What the fuck was that?” His face was red with anger. “You don’t slap customers, Zahara. Especially not the well-paying ones who can afford to eat here every day!”
“She touched me without asking,” I said, rubbing my arm where his fingers had left marks. “I’m not an animal in a petting zoo!”
“I don’t give a damn! You think I can afford to lose customers because you got an attitude?
” He ran a hand over his greasy hair. “That meal is coming out of your check.” He sported a Jheri curl.
Yep, 2025, he was rocking with Soul Glo, leaving oil stains wherever he sat.
And he was always sweating. I mean always.
It’s 50 degrees outside, but there is a line of moisture at his hairline and his mustache. Yuck.
“What? Larry, that’s not fair—”
“Not fair?” He laughed, an ugly sound. “You know what’s not fair? Me having to comp meals because you can’t control yourself.”
“Larry, please. I need that money. My son—”
“Should’ve thought about that before you went putting your hands on paying customers.” His eyes traveled down my body in that way that always made me want to shower. “Though I’m sure we could work something out…”
I stepped back, disgust curling in my stomach. “Um, no.”
He shrugged, smirking. “Your choice. But either way, you’re done for today. Go home.”
“What? The shift doesn’t end for four more hours!”
“You’re lucky I don’t fire your ass.” He moved closer, his breath hot and smelling of cigarettes. “Real lucky. Now get out before I change my mind.”
I stared at him, calculating how much money I’d lose from this, at least a hundred in tips, plus whatever he took from my check for the comped meal. That was a chunk of Yusef’s camp money, gone.
“This ain’t fair,” I said, my voice shaking with rage.
“Life ain’t right, sweetheart.” His eyes dropped to my lips. “My office is always open if you want to discuss your… position here.”
I grabbed my purse from under the counter and walked out the back door without another word, the cool air hitting my face like a slap. I leaned against the brick wall, tears of frustration burning behind my eyes.
Four hours of pay gone. Sunday shifts blocking my real business. A boss who thought my body was on the menu. And a brilliant child waiting for a chance I might not be able to give him.
I pulled out my phone and checked my bank balance: $342.17. Not even halfway to what Yusef needed for camp. I’d have to ask for an extension.
Something had to change. I couldn’t keep living like this, trapped between other people’s entitlement and my own dreams. As I walked toward the bus stop, I made a promise to myself: this would be the last time Larry or anyone else made me feel small.
I just needed to figure out how to make that promise stick.
But I had no education, not even a GED, which is why I stuck working these dead-end jobs.
Grits has been the longest job I’ve ever held down.
I’ve dealt with unemployment too many times, which is why I needed to keep this job even if it meant fighting nasty-ass Larry off of me.
My soul knew that change was soon to come.
I checked the time on my phone—two o’clock. Too early to go home. My mind kept running through the numbers as I rode the bus across town. Yusef would be at Brandi’s place until six, giving me a few unexpected hours of freedom I hadn’t planned for.
Brandi was a godsend. Another single mother from Grits with a son, Nigel, the same age as Yusef.
We’d worked out our arrangement months ago.
Whenever she worked late, I’d watch hers, and whenever I worked late, she’d watch mine.
The boys both protested that they were old enough to stay at home alone.
A part of me agreed, but a part of me was worried they would get into trouble with the other no-good boys in the neighborhood.
Her apartment was just down the hall from mine, making drop-offs and pick-ups easy. The boys were thick as thieves, always getting into something, but they were good kids. Straight-A students with big dreams.
When the bus stopped downtown, I made a split-second decision. The central library was only two blocks away. If Larry was going to steal my hours, I’d make them count for something.
The cool quiet of the library wrapped around me like a blanket as I headed straight for the business section. By now, the librarians recognized me—the woman who spent hours poring over books on small business loans, marketing strategies, and bakery start-ups.
“Back again, Zahara?” Ms. Tompkins smiled from behind her desk.
“Got some unexpected free time,” I said, returning her smile.
I settled at my usual table by the window, a stack of books beside me, notebook open.
I’d been perfecting my business plan for months now.
“Sweet Zin” was a bakery built on creativity and love, named for me and my twin sister.
My signature was what I called Zinnamon Rolls, the “Z” for us, the flavor for everybody else.
They weren’t your average cinnamon rolls.
Each one was soft, buttery, and unapologetically indulgent, handcrafted from our own recipes and imagination.
There was the Red Velvet Zinnamon Roll, swirled with red cocoa and cream cheese glaze that melted into every bite; the Peach Cobbler Zinnamon Roll, packed with caramelized peaches and brown sugar crumble; and the Bourbon Pecan Zinnamon Roll, sticky, smoky, and just a little sinful.
Then came the wild cards: Lavender Honey Zinnamon Rolls drizzled with gold-flecked glaze, Salted Caramel Apple Zinnamon Rolls that tasted like fall on a plate, and a Bananas Foster Zinnamon Roll made for pure drama.
Hours flew by as I worked, comparing loan options, crunching numbers, sketching possible layouts for a storefront.
By the time I looked up, it was nearly five-thirty.
I knew I didn’t have the money yet, but as they say—stay ready so you won’t have to get ready.
All I needed was one opportunity and I would be well on my way.
“Shit,” I muttered, gathering my things. If I hurried, I could make it home right around my normal time. I texted Brandi and told her I was running late, but I would tell her when I was in the house.
The bus was crowded with evening commuters, and I stood swaying with the motion, holding the overhead rail. My mind was still buzzing with business plans, but reality kept intruding. Eight hundred dollars by Friday. I was still over four hundred short.
My apartment building came into view, a weathered brick structure that had seen better days but was clean and mostly quiet. As I climbed the three flights of stairs, my legs aching from being on my feet all day, I ran through possible solutions.
I reached into my purse for my keys as I approached my door, then froze. Something wasn’t right. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light visible through the crack.
My heart jumped into my throat. Had someone broken in? I never left my door unlocked. Never.
I pushed it open slowly, my hand trembling. The first thing I saw was a pair of expensive-looking men’s boots by the door. Taft boots. Not scuffed work boots or beat-up sneakers; these were high-end leather, the kind that cost a few hundred dollars.
My purse slipped from my shoulder, landing with a soft thud on the floor. I should run. I should grab my phone and call the police. But Yusef would be home soon, and whoever was in my apartment could race after me.
I moved forward cautiously, my keys clutched between my fingers like makeshift brass knuckles. When I reached the kitchen, I stopped dead in my tracks.
A man sat at my small kitchen table, facing me like he’d been waiting. Tall, broad-shouldered, long dreadlocks, he looked completely at home as he ate a bowl of Yusef’s Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Each slow spoonful felt intentional, his gaze fixed on me the entire time.
Before I could back away, he spoke, “Don’t scream,” his voice was deep, calm. “And close the door behind you.”
When I looked closer, I found myself staring into the most unsettling blue-green eyes I’d ever seen. They didn’t belong in that face—copper-skinned, strong-jawed, framed by sandy-brown locs. Those eyes locked onto mine, pinning me in place like a butterfly to a board.
“Who the fuck are you?” I managed to whisper, my voice barely functioning. “And why are you eating my son’s cereal?”