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carefully. You, too,” she says. “Ryder’s
not putting him in the ring, is he?”
    “What ring?”
    “It’s sort of an open secret that when he’s not a
nightlife impresario,” she says, “Ryder Cole also runs
the underground fight scene.”
    “Like boxing?”
    “Exactly like boxing,” Savannah says. “Just without
the gloves, head gear, or rules. Bare knuckles.”
    Ryder Cole likes it rough. I might have guessed.
    “What’s the name of his new place?” I say, setting
the swing in motion again. Night has set in and the fireflies are
out, their greenish-yellow bulbs flashing in the blackness of the
back yard.
    “I think it’s called Altitude,” Savannah says. “And
you better not fucking go there without me.”
“Who can
wait for you?” I say, laughing. “You work til eight
o’clock at night.”
    “Fucking entertainment law. I should have been a tax attorney,
I swear, but I’m too damn good-looking,” she says, and I
laugh again. It feels so nice to have this conversation with
Savannah, like nothing’s changed in the last two years—even
though so much has. “You’re not rushing back to your
British babe too soon, are you?”
    “No rush at all,” I say. It doesn’t tell the whole
story, but it’s not untrue either.
    “Good,” she says. “Let’s get together this
week in person. I’ve really missed you, Cass.”
    “Me, too,” I say, leaning into the back of the swing,
bringing my knees under my chin as I sway lazily. Having a friend to
talk to, feeling the warm, humid air on my bare arms and legs,
listening to the crickets make their hopeful mating call—it’s
good to be home.
    My home. Our home—Jamie’s and mine. Not Ryder Cole’s,
no matter what.
    He’s not the only one who knows how to manage a fight.

 
    CASSIE
     

CH. 5
     
    My
first impression of Altitude is that it’s warm and relaxed and
feels like the kind of place that’s been in the neighborhood
for a hundred years, where you can have a fun girls’ night on a
Friday and then come back on Sunday to recap the weekend. It’s
inviting and spacious but cozy—basically the opposite of Ryder
Cole, so when I come looking for him the day after Savannah fills me
in on his extracurricular activities, I’m still not convinced
he owns this place. Standing in the entryway in my short, flowy
sundress—when you haven’t really had a job for two years,
“business casual” becomes a fluid term—I let my
eyes adjust to the dimness of the space as the white, mid-afternoon
sunlight squeezes through the slatted blinds. There’s a jukebox
in the corner playing Johnny Cash, and a few people at a nearby table
sharing a flatbread pizza that makes my stomach grumble with
jealousy.
    Heading toward the bartender working behind the long, wooden bar, I
take in all the black and white press photos from the Atlanta
Journal-Constitution hung on the walls, dated from the first and
middle parts of the last century: beautiful women in 40s party
dresses; Peachtree Street covered in snow; white college students
dancing while a black five-piece band plays in a nightclub. It lends
the bar atmosphere this kind of intimacy, as though Altitude is
connected to Atlanta’s history, that everything that ever
happened in this city has led me here to this moment today. Like
trying to get Ryder Cole to call off Jamie’s debt is just an
inevitable conclusion to something that got started a long time ago.
Fate. Destiny. Things I don’t believe in anymore.
    If I’ve learned nothing else in the past two years, it’s
that no one else is responsible for my life other than me. I make
things happen. It’s that simple.
    The bartender puts down the glass he’s drying as I approach.
Tall and muscular, he’s lankier than Ryder, clean-shaven, hair
combed and parted on the side, his strong forearms on full display in
his rolled up shirt sleeves. He’s good-looking, and his easy,
leaned-back posture says one thing: he knows it. “What would
you like?” he