by Dylan Allen
On the other side of the bridge from where we are now, is the town square. It is the very center of the enclave. It’s flanked by two residential communities. On the left is The Ivy. It’s a golf course, country club, and a cluster of luxury condominiums in a cluster of sky-scraping high rises.
On the left, The Oaks is a suburban prototype of single-family homes that range from starter homes to million-dollar mansions.
The Market runs along the southern border of the enclave, parallel from the Wilde office park. It’s one huge indoor food market. There is a green grocers, spice markets, fish mongers, butchers, florist, cheese shops, the bakeries, everything has a kosher or halal options. The long lines that snake out of The Market’s every day are due to the food counter. Over 700 feet of space dedicated to deliciousness highlights why Houston is one of the places where the phrase “melting pot” is not an exaggeration. From Afghanistan to South Africa and everything in between, the world’s best cooks show off their cultural delights. And people line up to devour it. I had tamales today and they might be the most perfect thing I’ve ever eaten. They’re only open for lunch during the week, but all day on the weekends, and I can’t wait to visit.
“Irma’s been here since Rivers Wilde opened its gates. And now she’s a landmark in her own right,” Remington says when I tell him I want to go back. “This is the dream at work. It’s a community that’s designed to encourage interactions between people who might otherwise see each other as foreign or different.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say and wish I could find a more eloquent response to his words. But I’ve never seen a place like this.
“You’re actually in for a treat. Don, our resident Cajun, and Tommy, who owns the Vietnamese restaurant in the market, come together for a crawfish boil that the entire community turns out for.”
“Crawfish?” I grimace.
“You haven’t lived until you have these. Lemongrass and garlic meet Old Bay and jalapeños for the most delicious crawfish you’ve ever tasted.” He groans dramatically and pats his washboard flat stomach.
“Well, I certainly hope you have a gym here, because it sounds like unless I plan on buying a whole new wardrobe, I’m going to need it,” I laugh.
“Got that, too. Tae Kwon Do school, Barre, a dance school with classes that use everything from the ballet rail to a stripper pole. And if you just want to work out, there’s a regular old sweat-it-out-on-the-treadmill gym, too.”
“So basically, if you live here, you never have to leave?” I ask.
“Not if you didn’t want to. And that’s the point. To make home feel like enough. To create a real sense of community. One that doesn’t exclude anyone who really wants to live here. Our housing runs the gamut, so whether you’re making forty grand a year or 400 thousand, there’s a place in your budget in Rivers Wilde,” he says with the same voice as the guy on the Price is Right.
“I’m taking a tour of a unit tonight, and I’m totally excited. This sounds like my kind of place,” I gush. I know I sound like a fangirl, but I can’t help it. It’s out of a dream.
We walk down the wide, clean-enough-to-eat-off sidewalk. Sapling trees are planted in clusters every thirty feet or so. Baskets of flowers hang from the hooks that are fixed to ten feet of brick wall in between the glass-fronted stores that line the street. There’s a healthy crowd of people strolling. They stop and speak to each other. I watch as two men shake hands and then sit down on a bench outside of the coffee shop, Sweet and Lo’s.
“I had the best lattes I’ve ever had in my life there,” I point it out to Remington.
“Yeah, it’s the best in town. Did you meet Sweet or Lo?”
“Yes. Lo is a hoot and Sweet wasn’t sweet at all. But I love them,” I recall happily.
“Here we are,” he pulls open the door with the words “TWIST” scrawled in bright blue lettering on the glass door.
“So, we’ll see you in the office tomorrow? We have a face to face with opposing counsel, clients will be present,” he says and I find something unsettling in his voice and the way he’s watching me.
“TB!” Cass shouts from behind me and Remi’s eyes widen in confusion.
I say, “Don’t worry. She’s not crazy. That’s what she calls me.” I give him an apologetic smile.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Nickname?” he asks.
“More like an inside joke.” I give him a halfhearted smile. His is more of a grimace.
“Okay,” he says, and starts to back down the street “See you bright and early tomorrow. We’re really glad to have you on board,” he says before he turns and dashes back up the street.
“Was that Remi Wilde? Oh my GOD. Do you know what his nickname is?” Cass asks just as I turn to face her. Her face is flushed and her hair is sticking to her face is sweaty strands.
“Yeah, that was Remi. And what was his nickname?” I ask when she doesn’t offer it up.
“The Legend. His mind, his prowess on the basketball court, between the sheets,” she chortles and waggles her eyebrows and then moves in for a hug.
I pull back. “I don’t really want those visuals of my new boss, thanks. And let’s just imagine that, hug, okay?” I eye her sweaty shirt. “Did you run from your office?” I ask her and give her a quick up and down.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she retorts, but desists in her attempt to hug me. “It’s hot as fuck and I had to walk for ten minutes to get here,” she says.
“You look like you’ve been walking for an hour,” I quip and grin at her.
“You just wait until you’ve been standing without shade in the middle of the afternoon in Houston, TX for more than three minutes,” she snaps and pulls at her shirt.
“I’ll make sure to avoid that particular situation. Can’t walk around looking like I work in a sauna,” I tease her one more time and am rewarded with a scowl.
“I’m hungry, let’s get a table.” I pull the brass handle of Twist’s glass-paned double doors open.
“Its like a fancy saloon,” she says as we step inside the restaurant. The cool air-conditioned, dark paneled room does look like something out of a western movie. But instead of sawdust littering the ground, there’s a gleaming mahogany brand with the crowned horse logo of Rivers Wilde on the floor right under the wagon wheel chandelier in the center of the restaurant.
Instead of a bar that runs the length of the wall, there’s a stage in the front of the room, complete with a red velvet curtain behind the wall of bottles. There are no seats in front of the gleaming countertop. It’s just two bartenders, one man and one woman, making drinks and setting them on the bar where waitstaff picks them up. “Shut Up and Drink” is burned into the wood of the bar.
“Wow, I’ve never seen anything like this,” I marvel.
“Hey ladies, welcome to Twist,” a small, dark-haired woman with a hugely pregnant belly approaches us when we step into the main dining room. “Your first time here?” she asks knowingly.
“Yes.” I smile back.
“Yeah, your openmouthed, wide-eyed stare kinda gave it away.” She laughs good-naturedly and then reaches for two menus that sit under a green chalkboard—“open secret” scrawled on it.
“That’s our oxymoron of the day. Well, of the week or whenever someone thinks of one and changes it. Feel free to contribute. Every week, I pick my favorite and the author gets a free entrée,” she says excitedly.
I pick up the chalk and scrawl “bittersweet” while she marks something down on her hostess stand.
“You want a booth or table?” she asks.
“Booth,” we say at the same time.
“Awesome, come this way. And I’m Angie. My husband, Jackson, and I are the managers.” Her soft brown eyes twinkle with pride. I can see why. It’s a wonderfully unique place. Nearly everyone we pass looks up to greet her and tips their heads at us as we make our way through the wide aisle between the tables in the front of the huge space.
“If you need anything,
just shout. But your server will take real good care of you,” she says happily and puts the menus down on the stone tabletop of the booth she stops at.
“Actually, I need the ladies’,” Cass says.
“Just walk past the bar and down the corridor. You’ll see it on the left,” Angie says.
“Be right back. Will you get me some water, please?” Cass says and drops her bag on the floor.
“Thank you,” I say as I slide into the curved, butter yellow leather covered seats of the booth and smile up at her. The high-backed seats wrap around the table and we can’t see our neighbors on either side.
It gives us a view of the entire room. I admire how brightly decorated it is. The white brick walls are full of abstract artwork and broken up by large windows that face the picturesque strip of stores that line the street.
The artwork is all whites, blues, and yellows with splashes of red and purple that manage to look coordinated but somehow eclectic at the same time.
“It’s so private,” I say. Angie nods knowingly.
“You make yourselves comfortable and I’ll get your waters and your basket of bread right out.” She puts a hand on her pregnant belly and rubs it.
“Are you okay?” I ask, pointing with concern at her baby bump.
“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” she asks sharply, peering at me with intense anticipation on her face.
“Uh—” I eyeball and wonder why she’s acting like my answer is important. “Well, nothing … you keep rubbing you're belly. I was just thinking maybe you were having some pregnancy-related difficulty,” I explain cautiously.
She laughs at the joke she still hasn’t bothered to explain to me.
“Oh. Thank goodness. I was only rubbing it ‘cause I wanted to make sure you knew I was pregnant and didn’t think this was a beer gut or something,” she says and then gasps with embarrassment.
“I can’t believe I said that out loud,” she says apologetically. “Pregnancy has completely removed my already very porous filter. It’s my fourth time; you’d think I’d be over this part. But I hate that I can’t see my feet and this ass is as wide as the Houston Ship Channel,” she blurts, a pained expression on her pretty face.
I want to laugh but I don’t think she’s trying to be funny. I try to think of some sort of consolation to offer, but I have a feeling nothing I say would actually make her feel better.
“I’m sorry, you probably think I’m so vain,” she says and shakes her head deprecatingly.
“You are vain. And nobody is thinking anything except how to get you to stop talking so they can get some food,” a gruff but twangy woman’s voice comes from the booth next to ours.
“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry,” Angie smiles apologetically. “For talking and for Henny’s rudeness. Thank you for being nice.” She rolls her eyes at the booth. “Your server will be right over. Glad to have you. Hope you’ll come back.” She makes an exaggerated scowling face at the hidden booth occupant and waddles off toward the front of the restaurant.
“As if anyone could mistake that belly for anything other than another one of your giant babies,” the voice calls after Angie.
“Oh, Henny, be nice and introduce yourself,” Angie calls back without looking over her shoulder.
A gnarled, arthritic hand with perfectly, French-manicured nails comes to rest on the shared top of our booths. Right over the side where Cass would have been sitting.
“You should be thanking me,” the voice comes. I grin when a hand taps the top of our booth.
“Well, are you going to make me shift my ninety-year-old bones out of the chair, or are you going to get up and say hello?” she asks impatiently.
I giggle and slide out of the seat and step to her booth. The woman sitting there looks like she could be a fill-in for Sophia Petrillo on Golden Girls.
“Thank you,” I say cheerily.
“You’re welcome,” she says tersely and then looks up at me with a pair of dark brown eyes that are set deep in a face that’s got so many wrinkles, it’s impossible to tell what she really looks like.
“Yes, I know,” she says like she’s bored. “I look like a bleached prune. You don’t need to stare at me like you’ve never seen an old person,” she says.
“Oh, I’m not staring cause you’re old, I’m just waiting for you to tell me why I should be thanking you,” I say good-humoredly. I come from a town full of crotchety old people whose bark is all lie. And I’ve never lived anywhere else where your elders ‘spank you’ even if you’re not theirs to.
“That girl never stops talking,” Henny says. “She runs a tight ship, though. Once she gets out of the way.” She raises her eyebrows knowingly and draws out that last word. “You’ll enjoy every single meal you have here.”
“I’m Confidence,” I say and extend my hand.
She frowns and eyes me. “You look too young to have hippies for parents,” she muses.
“Yeah. My grandparents’ generation, I think,” I say.
“You think?” She scoffs and gives me a disapproving frown. “You kids don’t know your history. You should know what generation your elders belong to. Not just yours. I bet you’re a millennial. You will be remembered for your selfishness,” she chides. I throw my head back and laugh the first real laugh I’ve managed in a while. She’s awesome.
“Glad you think it’s funny,” she says dryly. “I’m here every day, if you want more.”
Cass walks up just then, looks between Henny and me and says, “Of course, you’ve already made a friend.”
I elbow her and say, “This is Henny.”
Henny shakes her head and says, “Sorry, I have a one-new-person-a-day rule. Come back tomorrow.” Then she picks up her fork and knife and digs into a huge baked potato that’s bursting with what looks like brisket, cheese, sour cream, chives, and butter.
I stand there and watch her for nearly a full minute before I realize she’s serious and isn’t going to respond. Cass doesn’t wait that long before she slides into her seat.
She’s gripping a menu when I sit down. “Oh, this place has the nicest public bathroom I’ve ever seen. It’s cleaner than mine. I wish I’d known about this neighborhood when I was moving back. It’s like living in the suburbs but in walking distance from all the action. I totally would have bought a unit here.”
“Yeah, it’s really convenient. And apparently my new boss’s family owns all of it,” I tell her. She squeals and clutches her menu to her chest excitedly.
“I’m the worst friend. I didn’t even ask how it went. I was so excited to see you! Tell me!” she exclaims and stares at me with goggly eyes.
“Oh my God, it was amazing, Cass,” I say dreamily.
“And you got the job!” she interjects excitedly.
I nod and let my grin have a moment of unfettered shine. “They want me to attend a meeting tomorrow before I leave for the case they’re hiring me for. I’ve got some of the publicly available court records to review. So, I’m going to hole up in my hotel and study up so I can be ready. I want to make sure when I get on my flight tomorrow, he’s not sorry he hired me,” I tell her.
“So, you’re going to leave here and not call Hayes?” she asks with surprise.
Hearing her say his name makes me flinch. Beneath the surface of my happiness for every amazing thing that has happened today has been the terrible sensation of how wrong it is that I’m here and not with him. How shallow my joy is without being able to celebrate it with him.
I forced myself to push him out of my thoughts whenever he entered them today.
“So, you’re not here because you have a huge boner for Hayes Rivers?”
“Of course not,” I snap and look around the restaurant. There’s a loud din. People speaking like they’re in their living rooms instead of in a public place where anyone could over hear.
Just like home. God, I think I love this place.
“Hello? Are you listening?” Cass snaps her fingers in front of my eyes.
I t
urn startled eyes back to Cass. “Yes, I am. And that’s not why,” I lie.
“Yeah, right. He’s worn you down, and you got a lucky break with this offer. Two weeks ago, you would have never accepted it,” she pushes.
“Two weeks ago, I had enough money to live on for another month. Now, I don’t. It’s also right up my alley. This is a developing area of law that I kind of pioneered,” I tell her. “But, I would have taken this job anywhere in the world.”
“Aww, you should see your face. I don’t know how the hell you managed it with him, of all people, after somehow avoiding it for so long.” She shakes her head at me incredulously.
“Avoiding what?” I ask just as our server approaches with the water and bread baskets.
“Being completely head over in heels in love. Wanting something more than your pride,” she says.
“Welcome to Twist,” our server interrupts as she bounces up to our table. Her wide mouth parts to reveal a perfectly straight smile that’s contagious. She’s slightly out of breath and leans on the table in mock exhaustion before she stands up again.
“I’m Kemi, I’ll be your server today,” she says and brushes a braid that’s falling over her eye out of the way before she pulls a small spiral notebook out of her apron pocket. “What are you ladies drinking?” she asks.
“I’m fine with water,” I tell her, wrinkling my nose at the menu. I hate having to decide what to eat.
“The hell she is. We’re having champagne with lunch,” Cass says giving me a fierce scroll that dares me to argue. I don’t. I want to be excited … I wish I didn’t feel so heartsick at the same time.
“Wonderful,” Kemi chirps and scribbles on her notepad. “What are we celebrating?” she asks as she writes.
“She got a job! A great one, and she’s moving to Houston,” she tells her and slides her eyes over to me and smiles proudly.
“Well, then, this calls for our special. It’s a grilled Tilapia on top of a bed of the most delicious rice you’ll ever have,” she says.