CHLOE: Of course you are! Trust Pepper Smith to have the underground scoop!
PEPPER: This year, Rex London is hosting—
CHLOE: Rex London?! Oh-em-gee, obsessed. I live for his show.
PEPPER: Yes, Rex is a wonderful man, and a dear friend. And I’m so excited to share that—
CHLOE: Is this an exclusive scoop for the pod?
PEPPER: Erm, I’m not Rex London’s press secretary, so I couldn’t rightly say. But this year, Rex London is hosting a fashion show at Lacy’s—
CHLOE: A fashion show? Inside a department store? What will the man think of next?
PEPPER: Yes, a fashion show that features new and upcoming designers, ones whose work has never previously been exhibited before. It can be so hard to find truly innovative designs from established labels. Recently, I’ve been finding my best looks come from designers no one has ever heard of before.
CHLOE: Is that where you found this jumpsuit? Give us the deets, girl!
PEPPER: Ah, no, this was a gift from my dear friend Clare. Even an older, established design house like Givenchy can sometimes have a few tricks up its sleeve.
CHLOE: Pepper, you have such style. I mean, seriously, your Instagram? I’m obsessed! Have you ever thought of designing?
PEPPER: Goodness, no. I prefer to lend my support to those artists who are truly gifted. Perhaps that’s what I truly wish to do here in New York—create a space where others can, well, create.
CHLOE: You heard it here on the pod first, folks. Pepper Smith, benefactress of the arts, is here to help New Yorkers get artsy! We’ll be back with some more questions for Pepper about what’s going on in her love life now, but first, another word from Wow Well Whee! Have I told you guys about the tomato leaf candle? It’s life changing!
“YOU TAKE ALL THE GIRLS to truck stops?” I asked Boone.
“Only the really special ones.” He winked.
I opened the giant menu, the pages laminated and sticky. Almost as sticky as the floor. I lifted my heels, feeling suction as I pulled up off the black-and-white tile. A tired-looking waitress passed us, a coffeepot in each hand and multiple pens stuck into her hair. For a minute, with the clink of silverware and the smell of coffee in the air, it was almost like being back at Pop’s.
I didn’t miss Riverdale, not exactly, but my mind kept going back to Pop’s. Maybe what I was missing was being around friends. Sitting across from Boone, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a conversation with someone who wasn’t Dad or Pauly, or one that didn’t involve logistics, like discussing microphone placement with a stagehand. Not that my conversations with Dad involved much more than logistics.
Maybe that’s why I’d let a sexist cowboy drive me to a truck stop. I was starved for conversation. I lowered my menu, looking at the guy across from me. He was studying his own menu with a look of concentration too intense for hash browns and patty melts, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he read.
“So, Boone Wyant,” I asked, “are you really from Nashville, or are you from Nashville like a pre–pop music Taylor Swift was from Nashville?”
He grinned, laughing at my slight Swifty shade.
“Born and raised in the Volunteer State. Ever heard of a place called the Heartless Café?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Ouch, that one hurts.” He placed his hands over his heart like I’d stabbed him with my not-very-clean butter knife.
“Sorry.” I shrugged. “Is that a restaurant? Or a music venue? Country music isn’t really my thing.”
“This isn’t just about country music, girl. This is about something that might be even more important.” He lowered his menu and leaned toward me conspiratorially. “This is about biscuits.”
I laughed in spite of myself.
“Nobody thinks biscuits are that important.”
“That’s how I know you’re not from Tennessee.” He shook his finger at me. “We have a very strict policy of forced exile for all biscuit haters.”
“I’m not a biscuit hater!” I protested. “I just don’t think there’s anything that’s more important than music.”
“I can tell,” he said. “I’m sure anyone who’s heard you sing would say the same thing.”
We locked eyes, and I found my cheeks warming under the intensity of his gaze. He was looking at me like he knew me, which was impossible. We hadn’t even been at this table together long enough to get glasses of water.
“So. The Heartless Café?” I prompted, flustered by the charged moment we’d shared.
“Right, right.” He leaned back against his booth, the tension broken. “My great-grandma opened the place in the ’30s. It’s right off the highway in Nashville, before you get to downtown. It’s a restaurant, with fried chicken and fifteen different kinds of pie and the best biscuits you’ve ever tasted. And every Friday and Saturday night, there’s live country music. Some of the biggest names in country have played there. Johnny Cash. Dolly Parton. Loretta Lynn. Luke Bryan and Kacey Musgraves both came through this summer.”
“And let me guess—little baby Boone Wyant got his start singing at his great-grandma’s knee?” I asked.
“Pretty much.” The boy had a gold-record smile, and it was twisting up my insides and making me weak at the knees in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge. “When she passed, my grandma took over the business, then when she retired a couple years ago, she passed the torch to my parents. I’ve been in that restaurant my whole life. Doing my homework with a basket of biscuits in front of me. Learning to play guitar. Singing in the restaurant before the real stars showed up.”
“And now you’re on your way to being a real star.”
“Something like that,” he said. “I play some jazz guitar, too, but I mostly write and sing country songs. Hoping to be the next Sam Hunt. Although, right now, it doesn’t feel like that. The Stranahan is the biggest gig I’ve got planned by a mile. I’ve even had trouble filling in the rest of my tour—way too many quiet nights for my liking.” He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it, and then changed the subject, charming smile firmly fixed in its usual place. “What about you, Josie McCoy? You gonna travel the world singing jazz with your old man forever?”
“Hardly.” I was having a better time than I expected with Dad, but this wasn’t it for me. I didn’t want to be anybody’s backup. “I’m gonna be a solo artist. The next Diana Ross.”
“I can see it.” He nodded. “Y’all been on the road for a long time? You like it?”
“Sometimes.” I placed my menu down, choosing my words carefully. “I realized that you’re the first person I’ve really talked to since we left. And I don’t miss my hometown, exactly—it’s kind of a complicated place—but I miss—”
“Belonging,” Boone supplied. “Having some place to go home to.” I nodded along with him. That was it, exactly. “It’s hard being out on the road. Easy to feel like you’re not tied to anything. Although, there’s something to be said for that, too. That sense of freedom.”
“I guess.” I looked around. Is our waitress ever coming over? “I can definitely see myself settling somewhere, but it would have to be a really special city. Some place I could become a star.”
“Nashville,” he said automatically. “You have to come to Nashville. It’s the best city in the world to launch a career. So many legends have gotten their start there.”
“How many Black female vocalists do you know who came out of Nashville?” I asked skeptically.
Before he could admit that the country music scene was whiter than winter at the North Pole, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen, and my heart sank. Dad.
Sighing, I picked it up, and answered cautiously.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Josie.” He sounded pissed. I winced at the tone in his voice. “Where, exactly, are you?”
It was time to face the music—but not the good kind.
I TOOK A STEP BACK, looking at the jumpsuit on my dress
form. It was sleeveless, with a high neckline, a slim waistband, and a ruffle running down the right side, all done in fuchsia crepe. I’d scrapped the original dress I’d shown Jorge, then started piecing this together. After almost a full twenty-four hours of nonstop work, I technically had a finished look, but it still wasn’t feeling right.
What was wrong with it? Mom would know. I squeezed my eyes tight, imagining her by my side, assessing my jumpsuit with her cool gaze, hand poised over the pincushion on her wrist. With a tuck here or a tweak there, she’d make it perfect. Why couldn’t I do the same?
Is it the ruffle? Maybe it was the ruffle. I rummaged around in my sewing kit until I found my seam ripper, then carefully started removing the ruffle without damaging the bodice underneath, trying not to mourn the hours I’d spent meticulously pleating the slippery fabric.
And without the ruffle it looked … boring. Totally generic. Exactly what I didn’t want. I should probably just start over, which meant I had exactly nothing to show for the past couple days of work, and the first fitting was less than a week away.
My phone dinged with a calendar notification. Distracted, I reached over to silence it … then saw the alert that KO’s boxing match was starting in an hour. KO’s boxing match is starting in an hour?! That was barely enough time to get to Queens, and I definitely couldn’t leave the house in my pink heart-printed bathrobe.
And the shirt! I had to find my lucky shirt!! The first time I went to one of KO’s boxing matches, I made myself a white T-shirt that said “I <3 KO” on the front. That day, KO had done phenomenally well, and the shirt had become a bit of a lucky charm. KO wasn’t as superstitious as some of the boxers I’d met, but he had his things. On match days, he always had a bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast (hard to get more literal than that), he always wore athletic socks with red toes, and I was always front-row center, wearing my “I <3 KO” shirt. It had gotten a little short over the last couple years of washing and drying, but that just meant it worked really well with my high-waisted red palazzo pants.
Which meant I also had to find the pants!
Eventually, I found the pants hanging over the back of a chair (why?!) and the shirt in a basket of clean laundry I’d meant to put away but never folded. After dressing like I was trying to set a new speed record, I shoved a handful of accessories, some makeup, and my hairbrush into my “Sew Much Fabric Sew Little Time” tote bag. It wasn’t the first time I’d finished pulling my look together on the subway, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. After a moment’s hesitation, I tossed my sketchbook in there, too. Maybe something would come to me when I least expected it.
Someone must have been watching out for me, because I miraculously made it to the boxing gym before the match started. It was warm in there, the seats around the ring already mostly filled, and it smelled like sweat. I opened my phone camera to see what the insane crush on the N train had done to my hair. Miraculously, it was still mostly in place, tied back with the silk scarf Jorge had given me for my birthday last year. He’d presented it to me with the caveat that he’d found it in a bin at Larry’s Vintage in the Village and it was probably a knockoff and not really Hermès, but I didn’t care. It had a red-and-blue print of the Battery in Lower Manhattan, and I loved it. With a final twist to set Mom’s old gold hoop earrings into place, you couldn’t even tell that I’d spent the last hour crushed under someone’s armpit on the subway.
Looking around the room for KO, a pair of sapphire-blue silky boxing shorts caught my eye. You know, they had kind of an interesting silhouette. I pulled my sketchbook out of my tote bag. Inspiration really could strike in the most unlikely places! Maybe a silk culotte with a wide, high, gathered waistband? Part of a two-piece set, with a cropped, off-the-shoulder top? Or maybe something more structured? Or athleisure-inspired? No, that isn’t it. I erased the hastily drawn shoulders at the top of my sketch. It wasn’t quite right.
Nothing was.
“Katy!” I looked up and spotted KO’s head in the group of people milling around the ring, towering above everyone around him. He waved and made his way toward me, his broad shoulders easily carving his way through the crowd. KO was already wearing his silky red boxing shorts, but he still had a sweatshirt on. “Thank you so much for coming.” He wrapped me up into a hug. I could practically feel the pre-match adrenaline coursing through him. He was never nervous, exactly, but there was always a different energy about him right before a match. “It means so much to me to have you here. And I know how busy you are with the fashion show coming up—”
“Hey, I’ve never missed a match before. I’m not about to start now.” And honestly, I could use a break from thinking about Rex London. I wasn’t about to unload all this on KO right before a fight—he needed all his focus to make sure he wasn’t, you know, beaten to a pulp—but panic was definitely starting to set in. I’d never been stuck like this before.
“Well, it means a lot that my fashion mogul could take time away from her design empire to come out here for the match.” He kissed the top of my head. I loved it when he did that.
“Yeah, that’s me, the fashion mogul.” I smiled at him, trying to project a confidence I didn’t feel. “The fashion mogul and the boxing champ: New York’s hottest power couple.”
“Let’s hope so.” KO kissed his fingers and tapped the shoulder of my T-shirt three times, another thing he did for good luck. “I’ve got a good feeling about this match tonight. I was supposed to fight some kid from Riverdale—”
“Riverdale? Seriously? Like the Riverdale Veronica moved to?” What a weird coincidence.
“I guess so.” KO shrugged. “But the guy pulled out of the match. He had some crazy excuse—I don’t know how your friend Veronica’s been there for so long; this Riverdale place sounds nuts. But anyway, Ronkowski stepped in at the last minute. He’s been winning a lot, but Coach says I’ve never looked better …”
A pair of distinctly female arms appeared around KO’s torso and squeezed. Huh? I took a step back, wobbling on my wedges, literally taken aback.
“You ready, champ?” An absolutely adorable blonde popped her head out around KO’s side, her arms still tight around his middle.
“Jinx!” KO exclaimed with delight. He wrapped his arm around her head like he was putting her in a headlock, but, you know, like a fun, hugging kind.
“Jinx?” I repeated, wondering if I’d heard him wrong. This was Jinx, KO’s favorite new boxer at the gym?! KO released her from the headlock and she stood at his side, one arm still around his waist. She was short, about my height, and fit perfectly under KO’s arm—just like I always did. Jinx’s blonde hair was in two tight French braids. She wore a black sports bra and a pair of low-rise, oversize sweatpants, exposing a toned, tanned midsection. I tried to count her abs and gave up once I realized she had more than a six-pack.
Jinx was … not what I expected.
And why was she hugging KO? Why was she still hugging him? Like, a quick hug hello, I totally got, but she still had her arm wrapped around him. What was up with that?! I knew boxing was a physical sport, but I thought it was more, you know, punching. Less embracing. Less standing so comfortably, so casually, snuggled up under my boyfriend’s arm. If anyone happened to be walking by right now, they’d think the two of them were dating! Honestly, right now, they looked like two extremely buff, sweaty people posing for a prom photo.
Just like KO and I had done only a couple months ago.
“Katy Keene,” KO introduced us, interrupting my spiraling train of thought, “meet Julie ‘Jinx’ Holliday, the undefeated flyweight terror of Queens.”
“This is Katy?!” Jinx pulled me into a hug that felt more like a headlock. “KO, you weren’t kidding. She’s absolutely gorgeous. Love those earrings. I wish I could wear hoops in the ring, but that’s kind of a professional liability.”
“Sounds like a good way to lose an earlobe,” I said, patting her awkwardly on the back.
I felt silly for assuming Jinx was a guy,
but I had. And not that it really mattered—of course KO could have female friends—but I just hadn’t expected the person KO was spending all of his time with to be so … well, female. And pretty.
And clearly so comfortable touching KO.
“Can you believe this guy?!” Jinx threw her arms around KO again, squeezing his middle. And again with the hugging. My fingers itched to pry her arms away so I could hug KO myself. Who was I right now? Some bodega cat marking my territory? Get it together, Keene. “He’s the greatest—inside the ring and out of it.” Outside the ring? How much time had they been spending together outside the ring? I tried to remember how many times KO had told me he’d grabbed a meal with Jinx after training, but back when I’d thought she was a boxer bro, I hadn’t been paying enough attention. “Ronkowski’s not gonna know what hit him tonight!” Jinx turned to KO. “Did you see him taping his right hand? Heard he’s got a weak cross. Always has, and one of the guys told me he’s been leaving that whole side unprotected recently.”
“A weak cross?” KO asked. “Huh. What’s wrong with it?”
“Spins his back foot,” Jinx said. “Really reduces the drive.”
“Really.” KO nodded, rubbing his jaw.
“Mmm, yeah, a spin,” I said. “Totally reducing.”
Why was I jumping in here? I didn’t know anything about boxing. I came to all of KO’s matches, but I knew as much about it as he knew about fashion: practically nothing. And I’d never thought that was a problem before. But now, hearing him talk to Jinx about the thing he loved most in the world, I found myself feeling jealous that I couldn’t share this with him the way Jinx could. It was like they were connecting in a way that KO and I never had.
“For sure,” Jinx agreed with me. If she had any clue that I had no idea what I was talking about, she didn’t show it. “And he telegraphs the punch. Tries to hit too hard—probably because he’s compensating for the spin.”
“You hate to see a telegraph,” I said. Why was I still pretending I knew anything about a weak cross?
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