Blue Bayou Final

by Kate, Jiffy

  I swallow, searching for words that fail me.

  “What’s wrong?” The look of concern begins to morph into something I can’t quite name—fear, uncertainty.

  “I know why you’re here.”

  Maverick cocks his head and runs a hand over his scruff and then through his hair. It’s then when I take in his appearance—button up shirt from yesterday, jeans, bare feet. “Could you enlighten me? Did something happen?”

  “I found your papers. The ones about the Blue B—” He goes to interrupt me, but I stop him, raising my hand into the air.

  “Please let me—” He starts again, but this time I raise my voice, talking over him, “I know you’re here for him! Your father sent you here to scope out the Blue Bayou.” I don’t want excuses. I know what I saw. “You want to buy my hotel.”

  I huff out a laugh as Maverick pretends to look confused again, but I know that’s a front too. He’s not confused. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  “Don’t do that!” I roar, pushing him out of the doorway and back out into the courtyard. I don’t want him in my apartment. I don’t want him in my space. I don’t want him in my hotel. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I might be naive, but I’m not stupid. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. You won’t fool me twice.”

  I breathe heavily, my chest rising and falling as try to get control of my emotions.

  “Carys,” Maverick starts, walking toward me with his hands up in surrender.

  “Don’t! Don’t touch me.” Now the tears decide to make a return. “I trusted you. I thought you...” I stop, searching his face, but then I turn away, looking for an escape. I can’t look at him. I’ll cave. I’ll listen to him and let him convince me his lies are the truth. “I thought you were someone you’re not.”

  “I am, Carys. I’m exactly who you think I am...I’m here for you,” Maverick pleads. “I’m not sure exactly what you saw or read, but you have to believe me.”

  “No! I don’t have to believe you. I did that and look at us...look at me. I was doing just fine before you came. I’ll be even better after you leave! Go! Go back to your father and tell him that I’m never selling this hotel, not to him or anyone else!”

  Maverick’s face falls and his hands fall limp at his sides.

  I feel my features harden, something resembling hate rolling off me in waves.

  “Carys.”

  “Leave.”

  My jaw is set tight, so tight it physically hurts. My shoulders squared. I want him to know I’m not weak. I’m not going to let him or anyone else push me over. I may be young and inexperienced, but I have a backbone...actually, I might have just found it, but now that I have, I’m using it. If I can’t stand up for myself, who will?

  Definitely not Maverick.

  He reaches for me again and begins to explain himself and his motives, but I turn my back to him, tuning him out. I don’t want to hear anything else. Nothing he can say will make this better.

  I walk back into my apartment and slam the door, but I don’t leave from the spot until I’m sure he’s gone. Maybe it’s the last piece of me that longs for him. Maybe it’s the part of me that still wants him even though my heart feels broken. Maybe it’s the part of me that wants to believe him...

  No.

  Some part of me knew from the beginning that Maverick was too good to be true. It’s ridiculous to think a dreamboat of a man can walk into my hotel at just the perfect time with blue eyes and a smile that rivals the New Orleans sunshine...and that he would fill in all the cracks of my heart, making me believe in fate and destiny. He made me feel like I was always meant to meet him, like my heart and his had waited their whole lives to be in the same place at the same time.

  When Mary mentioned my grandparents’ whirlwind romance, it made me think maybe history was repeating itself. I’d never been a girl who sat around planning her future or her wedding. I didn’t think about the guy I was going to marry. I didn’t dream about babies.

  That’s not me.

  But Maverick made me want all of that—marriage, babies, a family.

  The tightness in my chest is back and it’s radiating up into my throat, causing me to press my lips together to keep the deep ache from spilling over.

  Pushing off the door, I walk back to my bedroom, pull the curtains, turn off the lights, and crawl under the blankets, hiding from the world. From the protection of my cave, I pull my phone inside and send Jules a text message.

  Me: I’m sick. Can you cover for me?

  A few minutes go by before my phone dings with a response.

  Jules: Did you catch the herpes from Dreamboat?

  That should be funny. I should laugh. So, I fake it and send him a laughing face emoji.

  Me: No, worse. I can’t leave the bathroom.

  Two seconds later, the emoji with the medical mask followed by the green puke face shows up on my screen.

  Jules: Say no more. Do you need soup? Is Dreamboat sick?

  I pause with my thumb hovering over the screen before I finally reply.

  Me: He’s leaving.

  Clicking out of our message, I call Mary. A text message will never work with her, but with my voice as hoarse as it is from crying, she’ll believe a phone call.

  Chapter 23

  Maverick

  Stunned.

  Stunned and confused.

  Hurt, dejected, and a little pissed off.

  But, mostly, I’m stunned and confused.

  I’m still not sure what the hell happened in the short time between waking up and now. I really wish this was just some fucked-up dream, but it’s not. The look on Carys’ face was real.

  The anguish on her face.

  The anger in her voice.

  The door that slammed in my face.

  The fact that she wants me to leave, for good.

  All real.

  And yet, I’m still standing here in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by the echoes of her cries, too stunned to move.

  Eventually, I manage to make my feet move and somehow end up back in my room. Thankfully, no one saw me or tried to talk to me on my way up. I honestly don’t know how I would’ve responded.

  Once inside the room, I toss the key onto the dresser and head straight for the table where the stack of papers resides. I don’t allow myself to look at the bed because I know I’ll be flooded with memories from last night. Memories of Carys’ body, her sounds, the feel and taste of her that easily make up the best night of my life.

  I grab the papers and look through them, trying to see what Carys saw and what set her off. There, in black and white, are details about the hotel that I shouldn’t know. Details I wouldn’t know or even care about if my dad hadn’t guilted me into another job.

  I get it. I understand why she reacted the way she did. What I don’t understand is why she didn’t let me explain. Why didn’t she just ask what the papers meant instead of storming out and shutting down? I would’ve told her everything and apologized for keeping my actions a secret from her.

  Maybe I should go back to her apartment and try again. Maybe she’s calmed down enough to listen to what I have to say. Without another thought, I grab my key and rush out the door. I can’t just sit in this room and do nothing. I had every intention of telling Carys how I felt—how I feel—about her last night, but there wasn’t much conversation once things turned physical and I’ll be damned if I let her push me away without telling her now.

  Rushing down the stairs, I come face to face with George. Normally, he greets me with a big smile but not today. Instead, his eyes are narrowed and his forehead is creased. He, obviously, knows something has happened between Carys and me and he’s none too pleased about it.

  “George, I—,” I start.

  “No.” He holds his hand up to emphasize his command. “Carys doesn’t want to see you and I’m not gonna let you bother her.” His words are calm as he levels me with a stare. “Not now,
not ever.”

  This definitely isn’t the warm and welcoming man I’ve come to know and respect over the past two weeks, but I can’t help but be glad Carys has him in her life. She deserves someone like George in her corner—wise, caring, and loyal.

  “I just need five minutes with her,” I plead. “I swear, I can explain everything. Can’t you just give me that?”

  “No, Mr. Kensington, I cannot.”

  Not “Maverick”, but “Mr. Kensington”. So, it appears George is done with me too.

  “I believe it’s time for you to leave, sir. You’re all checked out. All I need from you is a signature and you’ll be free to go.”

  I run my hands through my hair and look around the lobby, trying to think of something...anything that might make George ease up, but when he crosses his arms and clears his throat to get my attention, I know there’s nothing I can do.

  “Fine,” I say with a sigh, exhaling sharply through my nose. “Let me go get my things and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  This time, I take the elevator up to stop George’s evil eye from following me, but it’s a hundred times worse being assaulted by memories of Carys and me inside this metal box last night.

  Will every elevator ride remind me of her? Probably.

  It doesn’t take long for me to gather my things. Because I was already planning to leave for Dallas tomorrow, my bag was mostly packed. I don’t like the idea of leaving now and feeling like I didn’t fight hard enough, but I’m at a loss at what else I should do. Carys refuses to talk to me and George has made his thoughts on the matter loud and clear. The only thing left for me to do is go home and give Carys the space she wants right now. I don’t have to be happy about it, but I’ll respect her wishes with the hopes this isn’t really the end for us.

  I head back down to the lobby, but before I reach the front desk, I spot Mary refilling the pitcher of water and walk up to her. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me, especially after spying the bag in my hand, but she does seem somber.

  “Hey, Mary. Can I ask a favor of you?”

  She graces me with a small, but sad, smile. “I can’t let you see her, Maverick, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I know. George made that very clear a few minutes ago.” I pull out my journal, the one my grandfather gave me, with all his words of wisdom and advice, and look at it while a lump forms in my throat. “Can you please give this to Carys? It’s very special to me and has helped me a lot throughout my life, but I think it’s time to pass it on. I hope she can listen to my grandfather, even if she doesn’t want to listen to me.” I rub my thumb across the worn leather one last time before handing it to Mary.

  She gingerly takes it from me and holds it to her chest. “I will, Maverick. Just give her some time, okay? She’s been through a lot and is still trying to find her way.”

  I nod my head and hoist my bag over my shoulder. “Take care, Mary.”

  The sky is dark and cloudy, matching my mood, as my cab drives me to the airport. Once there, I’m able to get a flight back to Dallas, which was quiet and uneventful, thanks to what I assume are mostly hungover passengers. Whatever the cause, I’m appreciative of it and manage to sleep for most of the trip, trying not to think about the girl I’m leaving behind and wondering how it all went so wrong.

  Chapter 24

  Carys

  “You’re No Good” by Linda Ronstadt blares through my speakers as I take in the mess around me. Macaron ingredients cover every surface in my small kitchen, including me, and I can’t be bothered enough to care. When I’m sad or lonely or depressed, I bake, but I also listen to Linda Ronstadt. She was my grandmother’s favorite. She’s the reason the Blue Bayou is the Blue Bayou. So, listening to this album makes me feel connected and gives me a soundtrack to escape to.

  I’ve done a lot of that the last few days.

  Escaping.

  Forgetting.

  Stewing.

  I’ve tried pouring myself into work by implementing my new marketing plans, but I just can’t.

  I’m trying to get over it and I’m failing. Miserably.

  I’ve tried to convince my heart to fix itself. It’s not that bad. I’m not this sad. It didn’t cut that deep. But it doesn’t listen. It keeps hurting and I keep remembering. The odd thing is that I can’t find it in myself to regret it. Maverick served a purpose. He helped me see what I was missing. He helped light a fire and make me want to do better...be better, work smarter.

  Maverick.

  I growl out my frustration to no one, except this fresh sheet of macarons. He left his mark here, in this kitchen. It’s in these cookies I’m glaring at. It’s in the courtyard outside my window. It’s in my lobby...my office...room 201, and especially room 304. I haven’t been to either of them since he left. Actually, the furthest I’ve been inside the hotel is the lobby to man the desk, and my office to stare at the piles of papers I made the night Maverick and I had sex.

  Made love.

  That’s what it felt like.

  To me, anyway.

  Angrily, I pick up my bag of frosting and forcefully fill the macarons. These cookies require care, but I can’t find it in myself to give them any. It’s like I’m punishing them for being made, for being delicious, and for giving me visions of Maverick sitting at my table and closing his eyes as he tasted one for the first time.

  Now, I know that face he made—one of utter and complete ecstasy—is nearly identical to the one he makes when he’s coming. And I can’t get it out of my head.

  That pisses me off too.

  A knock on the door makes me jump. I’ve been super jumpy lately, probably due to my lack of sleep. Even though I’ve spent an exceptional amount of time in my bed under the covers, my time there hasn’t been productive.

  Mindlessly, I continue to pipe white filling onto half the cookies, blocking out the knocking behind me.

  “Carys June Matthews,” Jules bellows. “Open the damn door right this second.” Since when does Jules sound like an angry southern mama?

  I don’t open the door. I roll my eyes and continue my task at hand instead, hoping he’ll get the message—I don’t want to talk—and leave.

  “Carys,” he warns. “If you don’t open this door, me and this sledgehammer are coming through.”

  I pause, lifting my head and staring at the cabinet in front of me. There’s a chip in the wood I’ve never noticed before and I focus on it, hoping if I don’t make any movements, Jules will think I’m gone.

  “One...” The southern mama is back.

  Huffing in frustration, I slam the bag onto the table, causing icing to squirt out, but it doesn’t matter. It blends in with the rest of the mess.

  “What do you want, Jules?” I ask to the closed door.

  “I’ve been sent here to get a visual. Mary says I can’t come back inside until I’ve physically laid eyes on you. She hasn’t seen you since your shift yesterday and she said you looked like death warmed over, her analysis not mine.” He pauses for a second, probably waiting for me to give in. “Carys, I am not made for the New Orleans humidity. I’m fucking melting out here. If you love me at all, you’ll open this goddamn door.”

  My shoulders slump and my chest falls as I exhale loudly. Feeling frustrated and defeated, losing my battle in solidarity, I unlock the deadbolt and then the bottom lock and slowly open the door.

  Jules eyes go wide when I come into view and I glance down at myself. Powdered sugar. Everywhere. I try to brush it off, but that shit sticks to yoga pants bad. Blowing a loose strand of hair out of my face, I wipe my brow and then smooth down my shirt.

  “Hot fucking mess,” he mutters, shaking his head.

  Leaning in, he takes a whiff. “And, oh my God...have you showered? Like, ever?”

  “Yesterday,” I reply defensively, wrapping my arms protectively around my torso. Also, trying to hide whatever stench might be radiating off my body.

  Jules raises an eyebrow and his eyes bore into mine.

  “F
ine, the day before yesterday.”

  He breathes deeply, looking up at the sky, like he’s searching for inner strength. “Listen, here’s what’s going to happen...” Pausing as he takes a step forward, his eyes go wide again when he notices my kitchen. “What the fuck is going on in here? Because it looks like World War III and flour is the weapon of choice.”

  “It’s actually powdered sugar,” I say distractedly.

  He rolls his eyes as his hands go to my shoulders. “Listen, I’m being a good friend. Okay?” he asks, waiting for me to respond, but when I don’t he continues. “This is coming from a place of love, but...” He takes another deep breath and another look around before continuing in a flat, no-nonsense tone. “You stink. You look like shit. Your hair...” He cringes, doing a full body shiver. “It looks like squirrels are living in it. You’re covered in flour...powdered sugar, whatever the fuck. Your kitchen is a disaster zone. And I know...you’re...well, you’re...”

  “Pissed,” I offer.

  “Right,” Jules says, nodding as he scans my face.

  “And...” My throat tightens as I try to form the words without tears accompanying them, but I feel my nose start to burn as I try to hold them back. “I...I think I was falling for him,” I admit on a whisper.

  “I know, honey,” he says, pulling me into a hug, albeit an odd one, because he’s also trying to keep me at arm’s length as he pats my back. “Me too.”

  I chuckle, for the first time in days. Jules makes me feel something besides sad.

  “Can we turn this fucking depressing music off?” he asks, letting me put my head on his shoulder as we start to sway. “It’s making me want to eat a pint of ice cream, and I can’t afford that right now. I have a show this weekend. My fans expect svelte, not svat.”

  We continue to pseudo-slow dance in my kitchen until the vinyl screeches, signifying the end of the song. “This is the problem with records,” I murmur into his shoulder. “You have to physically flip them over. But it’s also awesome...because you have to physically flip them over.”