Hot Mess. Emily Belden

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      “Not just a location. An actual restaurant that’s ready to be flipped. It’s a pocket listing.”

      “What’s that mean?” I ask.

      “It’s basically like a secret listing at this point. The previous owners need to sell it quick. Their Realtor was friends with Angela’s investor, so they called him to see if he had any interest. Now he gets first dibs and it stays off the MLS or some shit like that.”

      “Got it.” Eight ball, in the weeds, pocket listing...the vernacular I learn from Benji is the gift that keeps on giving.

      “Right now, they’re the only people who know about it,” he continues. “If they don’t strike by the end of the week, the building goes to auction and they’ll be outbid by someone who wants to turn it into a trendy office space just so they can say they’re on Randolph Street.”

      “Wait. It’s on Randolph Street?”

      “Sure is,” he says.

      I’ve learned to basically take everything Benji says with a grain of salt, but if what he just told me has any merit, then he, Angela and this investor dude are onto something.

      Admittedly, I don’t know much about the food industry. But even I know Randolph Street is Chicago’s famed restaurant row. Every nice dinner we’ve had since being together has been on Randolph. In fact, it’s where Ross Luca’s place, Republic, is. Though the area had basically been decrepit for years, it’s since turned into a mecca for the Michelin-minded because rent downtown is way too high. Granted, the West Loop is getting pricey due to the celebrity chefs, hour-long waits, prix fixe menus and artisanal cocktails—but hey, that’s Randolph Street for you. A foodie’s paradise.

      “You have to be kidding. How does no one know about this?” asks Due Diligence Debbie.

      “I don’t know. I told you, it’s some secret listing. We’ve got to move fast here.”

      We. An interesting if undefined pronoun that I’ll sweep under the rug for now. No time for semantics. The server room is making me hot; I need to get back to my desk.

      “Can it wait until I get home? Can we talk about it more then?”

      “Sure, yeah, that’s fine. But can you come home a little later today? I didn’t get a chance to do the laundry and cleaning and I have no clue what I’m going to make for dinner yet.”

      Benji’s brain is in a constant state of overdrive, especially when he’s excited about something. So the fact that housekeeping is at all on his mind in the midst of believing his dream is coming true right before his eyes helps me regain my bearings. No matter what’s going on with the restaurant on Randolph Street, Apartment 1004 will at least be clean and tidy.

      “No problem. See you around six thirty.”

      Back at my desk, I find an email sitting in my inbox from Angela Blackstone. For a second I assume it’s something Benji’s forwarded, but, sure enough, it’s a note directly from her, addressed to both Benji and myself.

      Benji,

      Great meeting with you today! Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me about 900 W. Randolph. I think we can both agree it’s something spectacular, and an opportunity we cannot afford to pass up.

      As per your request, I am copying Allie, and will on all future communications. As I understand it, she will play a large role in moving forward with our plans and I am delighted to welcome her to the team. I have no doubt that you two are a true power couple and am so excited to get to know her more in the coming days, weeks, months.

      I spoke with the Realtor this afternoon. He gave me the entry code and we are a “go” for a self-guided, private tour of the space on Friday, August 27th at 11am. Craig will meet us there and Allie will be there too, correct? She really should see this for herself.

      Finally, attached you will find the blueprints of the space, as well as the proposed budget I put together based off of the initial investment numbers we talked about today. This all can be tweaked, but it shows you where we need to hover around in order to move forward—plus or minus $10k.

      See you Friday.

      -Angela

      What. The. Breathe.

      I won’t read too much into it. I won’t overreact. These phrases become my mantra and I run them through my mind on repeat. Still, it’s hard to ignore all those pesky plural pronouns. And this budget...what has Benji promised? And how am I involved?

      It’s just an email, I remind myself. It’s just an email that can be deleted as quickly as it came through. But instead of pressing delete, I press the pause button on my freak-out. Maybe this is one of those things that’s best not to bubble up.

      I try to look on the positive side. Benji and I are a couple. We freaking live together. He obviously wasn’t receptive to committing to the pop-ups much longer, so I’m in no position to give the cold shoulder to anything that could potentially mean more income. I cling to the small, bright hope that maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems. What’s definitely a pleasant surprise is the fact that he’s requested that Angela copy me on everything from here on out. Hey, Ang, remember the girl who couldn’t manage to handle the tip-out to your standards? Well, we’re a package deal, so get over yourself.

      My email dings again. Please, no more from these two, I think to myself.

      Google Alert is the sender. I click to open and read a paragraph from a blog that this handy little tool has scraped from the internet.

      Dating in Chicago is a complete and total nightmare. Aside from Benji Zane & Allie Simon (omg, can we please start calling them Zimon?!), who after last week’s pop-up dinner are basically Relationship Goals, the rest of us are screwed...

      It takes seeing my relationship from another angle, this time from some chick on the web who calls herself a dating expert, to loosen the knot in my stomach. I may have no idea what we’re getting into, but the world seems to think Benji and I have something special and I happen to agree.

      And that’s when it hits me: maybe this whole restaurant thing is actually that “something bigger” I always knew was in store for us.

      * * *

      Since Benji requested I come home late, I find myself with an extra hour to kill after I get off work. So I hit up Jazzy and Maya for a quick Happy Hour at a place that’s central to all our offices.

      At Roka Akor, a swanky steak house, Maya shoves her blazer into her work bag and Jazzy clips her bangs back with two bobby pins as our first round of cocktails is served.

      “Okay, guys, before you say anything,” I begin, afraid of how hard they may come down on me, “I have to admit I haven’t watched The Bachelor yet so no spoilers, please.”

      “Oh my god, don’t freak me out like that,” Maya says. “I thought you were going to say something crazy...like you and Benji got engaged.”

      I can’t tell if that would be a good crazy or a bad crazy in her opinion.

      “Speaking of Sir Benji, what’s the latest?” Jazzy asks. “Any more pop-ups we can finally СКАЧАТЬ