by R.S. Grey
There’s no wait; apparently he called ahead. I let my gaze slide down his gray Patagonia pullover and jeans. He looks like an erotic camp counselor, an outdoorsy man who could start a fire by rubbing two sticks together—a real tent-pitcher.
He sees me approach and steps back, smiles. Two little dimples frame his mouth. My breath sucks out of me like a vacuum. Somehow, I manage to keep my footing as I walk toward him. He leans down and kisses my cheek.
“Morning.”
I grunt or something in response then we’re led to our table.
I should have never agreed to breakfast.
Of all the meals, breakfast is the most civilized. You sip coffee or orange juice. You order something knife-and-forkable that is either healthy and simple (omelet) or delicious and messy (waffles). My taunting about seducing him with syrup from the night before flies out the window when they seat us at a small table in a corner. It’s a popular place, the tables close. I can hear what our neighbors are talking about, and it hardly sets the mood: “…hemorrhoids have really gotten better, I hardly even need this little pillow anymore…”
Beau smiles and takes the menus from the hostess. She smiles at him and tells him to enjoy his meal. I’m told nothing.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, eyeing me with those dark blue eyes over the top of the menu. “If not, we could split something.”
I hold my palm up to silence him. “I’m not one of those girls.”
I order a Chicken St. Charles: crispy chicken breast over a buttermilk biscuit, topped with poached eggs and finished with a tasso cream sauce. It’s one of their specialties and when our food comes, Beau is smart enough not to ask me if he can have a bite of it, though I do demand a sample of his omelet.
“Do you have plans after this?” I ask, sipping the last of my coffee.
The whole morning has been a big one-act play. Our conversation has been light and pleasant. We discuss the weather, Carnival season, where our favorite king cakes are from. I tease him for eating so healthy, and he wonders where I manage to put away the entire Chicken St. Charles I just slurped off my plate. Underneath the table is a different story. Our knees brush back and forth. His jeans create a torturous friction against my bare legs. We’re so entwined that if I tried to stand, I’d topple over. He makes eyes at me from across the table, and I suck a drop of coffee off my bottom lip.
“Plans?”
“Yes, like a pilates class or a book club.”
He smirks. “I suppose I have to see a man about a tattoo.”
I laugh. “No really. What would you do if we weren’t together? What do your Sundays usually look like?”
He rubs his hand back and forth along the nape of his neck and shrugs. “I’d usually work out, maybe go see my mom, work on her house a little bit. If it’s busy at the office, I’ll go in and try to get a head start on Monday.”
My face shows my disgust. “Wait, you’re telling me you use Sunday to get a head start on Monday? That’s sacrilegious, especially during Carnival season.”
He arches a brow, leans over, and grabs my hand. Our fingers are entwined between the salt and pepper shakers. A passing waitress sees it and smiles like we’re adorable.
I keep dragging details out of him, and apparently in all the years he’s lived in New Orleans during law school and after Audrey, Beau has never had a true touristy day in New Orleans. No streetcars. No Lafayette Cemetery #1. No dunking sugarcoated beignets into a warm café au lait at Café Du Monde. That’s the one that horrifies me the most—I think my eye twitches when he fesses up to it.
“Are you serious?” I ask in shock. “It’s like Rome—all roads lead there. In high school, I think Rose went there after every date she ever went on.”
“My dates end differently.”
My cheeks bake at that, and not just because I’m now imagining him having sex. I’m imagining him having sex with other women. Rose’s recent assessment jumps to my mind: Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser.
“I’ve toured the French Quarter and gone to Jackson Square Park,” he continues. “Does that count?”
It’s settled: we’re going to turn our breakfast into a full day of activities. Since we’re already in the Garden District, we start at Lafayette Cemetery #1, the most famous of all New Orleans cemeteries. People come from all over the world to tour it. The tombs are above ground, not only to follow in the French tradition, but also because New Orleans is below sea level. There are a few iconic crypts, the most famous of which inspired Anne Rice when she was writing Interview with a Vampire. We stand in front of the white, rusting, cast-iron structure, and Beau tilts his head.
“Spooky?” I ask.
“No, but I still like it.”
It’s hard to get the real cemetery experience in the daytime with a hundred tourists milling around and a few shouting tour guides, so we don’t stay long. We continue walking up Washington past Commander’s Palace so we can hop onto the St. Charles streetcar. Rose would never in a million years get on a streetcar on a Sunday afternoon during Carnival season, but Beau doesn’t protest, even when we see that it’s packed to the gills. All the seats are taken, so I show him where to hold on and then I use him for support. His arm goes around my waist and he tugs me closer. I glance up at him and wonder if he’s about to kiss me in front of all these people.
Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser.
I blink and force my gaze away from his mouth.
“Where to next?” I ask, annoyed that Rose’s little comment has lodged itself so thoroughly in my brain. “How about Café Du Monde and then we’ll head to the French Market? There will be a ton of vendors set up since it’s Sunday, and if you’re good, maybe we’ll stop off at the Pharmacy Museum.”
“Is this a date or a school field trip?” he taunts. “I didn’t get my permission slip signed.”
I pinch his side and he laughs.
Then I realize what he said.
Date. D-A-T-E. I’ll even use it in a sentence: When two people want to bang, they usually go on a date beforehand.
My palms are sweating. My knees are weak. My arms are heavy. Eminem’s the only one who understands me right now.
I am living out my decade-old dreams. This isn’t some lifelike fantasy; I’m not going to wake up at any moment. This is happening, and there’s no way on Earth I won’t screw it up. Rose was right the other day—I’m not that experienced. My kissing isn’t all that great. My ex-boyfriend, Clark, never spent the night at my apartment not because I liked my space but because after we had sex, he couldn’t wait to leave. I never told Rose that embarrassing detail, and now I wonder if this is such a good idea. I bit off more than I can chew with Beau. Take people who like running, for example: they don’t just sign up for the New York City Marathon on day one; they start slow and work their way up, maybe take a lap around the high school track a time or two.
I haven’t had sex in…well, let’s not discuss that sad fact. It’s been a while.
We ride the streetcar until we hit Canal Street and I practically jump at the opportunity to step out of Beau’s reach. Suddenly, I’m not so sure it was smart taunting him the way I have been. I’ve been poking a bear, a bear who might want to tear open my lunchbox and eat my cookies at any moment.
We walk toward Jackson Square Park and the crowd gets more densely packed. Beau laces his fingers through mine, and the touch sends a shiver down my spine. I wish I could sneak away and call Rose. I need her input right about now. I need to admit to her that I forgot that teeth thing she told me about and ask her to describe it again. Am I supposed to bite his lip or sort of let him take the lead and then just—
“Lauren?”
“Yup!”
I jerk back to the present moment and see that he’s pointing at Café Du Monde. We’ve made a terrible mistake: the line for a table extends across the street out past Jackson Square Park, and it’s moving rather slowly. Something about deep-fried dough really slows people down. There’s no way we’re eating beign
ets today.
“Should we just head to the market instead?” Beau asks, trying to salvage the rest of our afternoon.
No!
This is perfect!
I jump on the opportunity and shake my head. “Actually, I just remembered—I need to go work.”
He frowns, confused. “You made fun of me for working on the weekends.”
“Did I? I don’t recall.”
“You said it at breakfast.”
“Weird, doesn’t sound like me. I just remembered that my contractor needs me to look over some emails he sent about bids.”
He turns and takes my other hand. We’re standing at the altar. He’s about to profess his vows. The crowd on the sidewalk parts and moves around us reverently, and I really need to talk to Rose.
“You’re being weird.”
I wear my best shocked face. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t look me in the eye.”
I look at the building just to the right of his shoulder and shake my head. “Yes I can, but I choose not to.”
“What changed from the cemetery to now? It’s been half an hour.”
Oh, just my brain tapping me on the shoulder and reminding me that we’re not supposed to be fun, we’re supposed to be neurotic and self-sabotaging.
I take a deep breath and finally force myself to meet his gaze. It’s glorious and I am not worthy. I need to go home and make out with my hand. I need to google Top Ten Ways to Blow His @#$% (And His Mind). I need to YouTube that sex scene from Titanic and memorize how Kate Winslet kisses Leonardo DiCaprio. How did she know how hard to slam her hand against that steamy window? What if she accidently punched straight through? Beau is older and more experienced than I am. Sure, he was my first kiss, but I need to show him that I’ve progressed since then. I’m not that same high school dweeb anymore. I’m Lauren LeBlanc, sex kitten, vixen extraordinaire.
Or at least I will be.
WORK AT NOLA steals my attention for the next few days. We’re only a few weeks away from the soft opening. The to-do list is a mile long and by the time I scratch off one item, three more get added. I work with a consultant to finalize the drink menu and we sample pastries from a bakery down the street. NOLA doesn’t have a full working kitchen, so we’ll keep it simple with croissants, donuts, and avocado toast. During next year’s Carnival season, I’ll order king cake from Manny’s and do my best to leave enough for the customers.
Our sign is finally installed outside: four millennial pink block letters spaced across the white brick facade spelling N-O-L-A. Underneath, in delicate, scrolling neon lights, it says: is for lovers. It’s genius, a statement people will want to pose underneath, all the while spreading the word about the coffee shop and gallery. The day it gets installed, there is a line of aspiring influencers with their cameras at the ready.
Our tables and chairs arrive next. I commissioned them from a local furniture designer. They’re rusted copper and natural wood, somehow dainty and masculine all at once. Miles comes back to finish the backsplash behind the bar. While he’s at it, I have him install light wooden shelves on top of it so I can start to display our pink coffee cups. The day our espresso machine is delivered, I perform quality control by taking a “latte break” every couple of hours. By the end of the day, I’m so wired I can’t sleep. I lie awake googling sex positions and thinking about Beau.
I try to delude myself into thinking work is keeping me busy enough to forget about him, but it doesn’t come close. He’s been busy at work as well. We hardly talk during the day, but every night after he finishes up at Crescent Capital, he comes to NOLA and walks me home (to my actual apartment, not the bank). The first day it was a surprise. I was sitting behind the bar, trying to work through bills when he tapped on the glass and caught my attention. It was two days after our breakfast date—two long days. He was wearing his camel coat over a black suit. Shiny shoes. Raven hair. My mouth pooled with drool.
I wanted to drag him inside, flip off the neon side, and have my wicked way with him, but I’d been too busy to do any meaningful research. I still wasn’t prepared. Whatever he had in mind, it needed to stay platonic.
“What are you working on?”
I held up my bills and turned my computer so he could see my screen.
QuickBooks, A.K.A. PretendYouKnowWhatYou’reDoing&LetYourAccountantFigureItOut.
He frowned. “You should eventually set most of those recurring bills to autopay or you’re going to spend half of each month buried in envelopes.”
“I was getting around to that.”
He unbuttoned his camel coat as if he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. “Do you want some help?”
I was smart enough not to turn him down. I patted the stool beside mine and he took a seat. We didn’t touch once. Instead of spreading the sheets, we made spreadsheets to track monthly expenses. Instead of putting it in my box, we cleared my inbox. We cataloged my business assets instead of…you get the idea. I could have easily done these things myself, but I liked the game. If we couldn’t have sex, I wanted this. I wanted delusion. I sexualized everything: the way he sat on his stool leaned forward, thigh muscle flexed; the way he narrowed his eyes and dragged his finger pad across his bottom lip. At one point, he pulled out glasses to read something on the screen, and I had to press my knees together.
After that day, him walking me home became our routine. His firm is near NOLA and my apartment is a few blocks from his gym, so it’s a convenient walk for him. Sometimes he changes out of his suit at the office so when he picks me up, he’s in sweats and a t-shirt, or if it’s an unseasonably warm day, he’ll wear gym shorts. Those days I have to keep at least a body’s length between us on the sidewalk so I don’t get any wise ideas. I’ve had a lot of them lately.
Two weeks into this weird schedule we’ve found ourselves in, he declares, “Tomorrow I’m going to work out during my lunch break.”
I try not to sulk. His workout clothes have become the best part of my sad little life.
“The police department is having their annual charity concert at House of Blues tomorrow night and I’ve agreed to attend.”
I’m barely listening, focused on the fact that I will have to get my kicks from somewhere else tomorrow. No Beau Fortier in gym clothes. My diary will have such a sad entry, so many depressing doodles.
“I’ve RSVP’d for two,” he continues.
I wonder if I could possibly sneak into his gym tomorrow during lunch dressed in a blue maintenance jumpsuit and a fake mustache.
“Lauren, are you listening?”
“Not at all.”
He laughs and deposits me on my front doorstep like I’m a parcel and he’s a mailman. We don’t even play it off like he might be coming up. The first night he walked me home, I grappled with the idea, even muttering the first half of the question: “Do you want to—”, but then I clamped my mouth shut and reached out with my hand. We shook hands under the fading sun, and I cradled that hand against my chest as I walked up the two flights to my apartment, alone and berating myself for being so weird.
After that day, I don’t even bother playing the will I, won’t I game with myself anymore, and for some reason, Beau doesn’t seem to mind. After all, it’s not as if he’s demanding entry into my apartment. He could easily push me back into the foyer of my building, kick the door closed, and drag me up the stairs by my collar, but he doesn’t, and that confuses me even more. I wish I could go back to the early days of our relationship when I straddled him in his office, when I was too impulsive to care whether or not I was a bad lover. It’s been weeks since we’ve done anything beyond holding hands, and I think my body is starting to expel energy in other ways. I use a stress ball at work. My teeth gnaw on the ends of pens. Today, I cried when I realized NOLA backward is almost ALONE.
“I’d like you to come with me tomorrow.”
The invitation catches me off guard. I’ve grown used to our short walks home. I find that in the
few minutes it takes us to get here, I can usually keep myself from staring at him with undersexed, horny eyes. He might actually think I’m a functioning human being.
“Tomorrow?” I squawk.
He laughs and tips forward, kissing me on the forehead like I’m a good little girl.
“Yes. Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at NOLA at 7:30. We can walk there if it makes you feel better.”
“Dress code?”
“Not too fancy. Wear a dress.”
“You can’t handle me in a dress.”
The taunt comes out so naturally, I don’t have time to steal it back. Maybe the old me is back!
His brow arches, and now he’s the one with undersexed, horny eyes.
I push him off the sidewalk, away from my apartment, across the street, and onto the opposite sidewalk. If I could, I would march him down to the port and deposit him on a ship set for Europe.
“Forget I said that.”
He smirks. “It’s forgotten.” Then he steps back, repositioning his gym bag over his sculpted shoulder. “Tomorrow.”
I offer a noncommittal sigh. “Yes. Sure. Whatever. Now turn around and hurry to the gym. I’m going to go scream into a pillow.”
THE NEXT DAY, I bring three dresses with me to NOLA and FaceTime Rose in the bathroom after the construction crew has left for the day. It’s early February and chilly enough that I want to be bundled in five layers and roasting myself near a fire, but that’s not an option.
“Show me the black dress again.”
I hold it up and she nods conclusively. “Yep, that one. Done. Wear it with the stockings and leather jacket.”
“I’ll freeze my ass off.”
“Do you know what the temperature is in Boston right now? 11 degrees. 11!”
Suddenly, 55 doesn’t seem so bad.
“Yeah okay, I’ll suck it up. Are you still coming down for NOLA’s soft opening?”
“I’ve already requested time off work. My boss isn’t excited about it, but I don’t really care. In the few years I’ve been here, I’ve used like three of my PTO days. I deserve this.”
