Basic Neighbors

Chapter 11

I never thought I'd be the kind of person to surrender control, especially when it came to my apple butter. That was my baby, born from late nights and early mornings, stirred with a spoon of resilience and a pinch of hopelessness. But here I was, sitting across from Trevor in that cozy corner of the café we'd claimed as our unofficial office, about to leap into a partnership that felt as daunting as it did exhilarating.

"Are you sure about this?" Trevor asked, his eyes reflecting the same mix of anticipation and concern that was probably mirrored in mine.

"Let's do it," I replied, trying to infuse more confidence into those words than I felt swirling in my stomach. "You've got my trust, Trevor."

His smile was like a shot of espresso straight to my heart, strong and invigorating. I watched him gather the scattered papers, his hands steady and certain—a stark contrast to the tremor of excitement coursing through me. As he tucked them into his leather satchel, I imagined my jars of apple butter wearing their new branding like a dress at a debutante ball, ready to waltz into kitchens across the nation.

Later, in the makeshift kitchen we'd cobbled together, Anna and her friends became the unsung heroines of my fledgling enterprise. Amidst the clanging pots and laughter that bubbled over the simmering apple mixture, their presence was a reminder of the solidarity that had cradled me since I arrived in this city of steel and dreams. They chopped apples with the rhythm of a well-oiled machine, their camaraderie seasoning the air along with cinnamon and cloves.

"Jade, are you even listening?" Anna's voice pulled me from my reverie.

"Sorry," I said, blinking back to reality. "Just got lost for a second there."

"Lost or found?" she teased, knowing all too well how my mind tended to wander down the trails of what-ifs and maybes.

"Bit of both," I confessed.

The bar where we rented kitchen space was like a sanctuary that came alive with the promise of creation. Its dark wooden counters and brass fixtures held stories of night-time revelries, yet in the light of day, it became a haven for my ambition. The irony wasn't lost on me—finding success in a place designed for escapism.

As the clock hands inched closer to our eviction time, the pressure to get everything bottled and labeled weighed heavier than the crates of apples we lugged in each morning. The sticky scent of success was potent, making the air thick with potential, while the dull ache in my muscles sang a chorus of hard work and hustle.

This was New York, after all. A city that demanded your sweat and tears, promising nothing but taking everything. Yet here we were, dancing to its relentless rhythm, laughing in the face of adversity, and rolling up our sleeves to dive into another batch of apple butter.

"Okay, ladies, let's wrap this up!" I called out, glancing at the clock. It was a race against time, but every jar sealed was a small victory, a testament to what we could achieve together.

"Next time, we can start an assembly line for biscuits to go with the butter," Anna suggested, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "Imagine that combo."

"Let's not run before we can walk," I chuckled, although the idea sent a thrill through me. My business was growing, stretching out like the skyline at dawn, reaching for something just beyond the horizon. And for the first time in a long time, I believed I might just reach it.

The clang of pots and the hiss of boiling apples were my new daily symphony. As I stirred another batch of apple butter, the kitchen's stainless-steel surfaces reflected the chaos of our hustle. Anna and her friends, a brigade of strong-willed women with hair tied back and aprons stained with our labor, moved like clockwork around me. We had become machines of efficiency, each jar filled and sealed was a tiny revolution in its own right.