by Nan Lowe
Oliver nodded a couple of times as the guy talked. They both glanced my way, and Oliver waved. I could see his friend mouth the word “nice” before he handed something to Oliver and winked at me.
Unsure of how to react, I looked away and pretended I hadn’t noticed.
“Hey.” Oliver reappeared next to me a few moments later. “Put this on.” He handed me a round sticker with a skull on it. Sometime during the walk over to me, he’d slapped one on his own chest, so I followed his example.
“Why?” I asked.
“We’re going to hang out with some dead people. That’s your thing, right?”
Before I could answer, his buddy raised his arm in the air and shouted, “Listen up!” He waited for the chatter to die out around us. “I’m Mitchell, and I’m going to be your guide tonight.” Instead of giving us some long spiel, he asked us to follow him down the street so the next group could move into place.
I could tell he was a local from his accent and the way he explained the few rules he expected us to follow while with him on the tour. Most of them were safety-related issues visitors wouldn’t have had a clue about.
“Have you done this before?” Oliver asked with a lowered voice.
“No.”
He looked pleased with himself. “Good. I think you’ll like it.”
There were stories of war and destruction, bloodbaths and sultans. Even our beloved Jackson Square was believed to be haunted by multiple ghosts. I’d heard that story many times, and it’s why I liked to be far away from there after dark. I forgot all about the fear aspect, though, and let myself get carried away by the tales. Mr. Poe could’ve easily concocted some of the twisted stories Mitchell passed along that night.
Midway through the tour, we took a small break at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. I waited forever in line for the ladies room, and since drunk hoverers have always had terrible aim, I covered the toilet seat with half a roll of toilet paper before sitting. Oliver was waiting for me outside, leaning against a wall and letting a small breeze help cool him off. He handed me a cup as I approached.
“Thanks,” I said. One whiff was enough to warn me that whatever was in the glass was alcoholic and likely strong. I took a long pull from the straw and recognized the tang of a hurricane.
I didn’t ask how he managed the booze. In return, he shared it with me while Mitchell recounted the pirate Lafitte’s dastardly deeds. No one questioned us or looked too closely. We stayed near the back of the group and observed the reactions of the tourists to stories we’d heard since our childhoods.
Oliver took pictures and occasionally added to Mitchell’s stories after we’d left one site to move on to another. The last narrative of the evening was a tragic tale of love and heartbreak on Royal Street. I’d heard of the octoroon mistress and read about her in a book or two from the local library. Her name was Julie, and she’d been destined to be the courtesan of her true love, never his wife, because of the color of her skin. Even though he loved her, the law wouldn’t have allowed it.
One foolish remark on his part had convinced the girl he’d find a way to make her his bride if she stayed outside all night, naked, on the roof of their four-story home, and she decided to complete the requested task on a cold, rainy night in December.
She died on that roof while he partied below, unaware his love was freezing to death above him.
His supposed devastation had never been enough to make me feel the least bit sorry for him. He’d offered her something he could never have delivered, and I’d always considered him a selfish bastard. Staring at the home where it happened didn’t do anything to change my opinion that her Frenchman had been a massive asshole.
Oliver laughed when I shared those thoughts with him. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. The tour ended there on Royal Street, and Mitchell reminded the crowd he was a starving college student; while his job paid the rent, the tips kept his lights on. Oliver put a hand on my arm when I started to dig through my purse for some money. “Stop.” He laughed and used his hand to guide me forward.
We waited for a few girls to pass tips and phone numbers into Mitchell’s hand, and when everyone else was finally gone, he turned to us. “Well, Violet, did you enjoy the tour?”
Shocked he already knew my name, I nodded and struggled for an acceptable answer that wouldn’t make me look like an idiot.
Oliver saved me again. “Violet, this is my brother, Mitch, and you’re not allowed to tip this jackass under any circumstances, okay?”
Mitchell laughed and mock-punched Oliver’s shoulder. “Fucker.”
I felt like I’d been punked, but at least the hurricane began to make sense. Oliver had connections. That much was obvious.
“It was a cool tour,” I said. “I’d heard or read about some of the stories, but seeing the buildings made it much spookier.”
“Excellent,” Mitchell said. “I aim to scare.”
“Your face scares the hell out of me.” Oliver laughed and moved behind me when his brother tried to smack him.
“Keep it up and I’ll smoke this myself, you little fucker.” Mitchell patted his vest and raised his eyebrows.
“All right. I’m sorry. That’s not for me, though. It’s for her.”
Both of them looked at me, and I again wondered for a moment if I was the butt of some joke.
“I see,” Mitchell said. He looked around, pulled a small baggie from his pocket, and passed it into my hand. “Enjoy.”
The aroma of good weed floated in the air between us, so I didn’t waste time dropping the precious cargo into my purse.
“Uh, thanks,” I said. “I didn’t bring any cash, but if you let me know how much—”
“I’ve got it,” Oliver said. He pulled a hard pack of Camels from his shorts, took some folded bills from the cellophane, and handed them to his brother. “If she ever needs any and I’m not around…” He paused to glance at me. “…give her the family discount.”
“Sure thing.” Mitchell used two fingers to give us a small salute. “I’m out, kids. I’ve got a date with a sociology major at 10:30. Don’t smoke it all at once.”
“I’ll see you this weekend,” Oliver said to his back.
We hailed a cab when we made it back to Bourbon. Oliver opened the lid of the Camel box and revealed an already rolled fatty. He told the driver to drop us off at the cemetery in Uptown. We ignored the strange look, and I ticked off the street names in my head as we got closer to our destination. Everything about that night had been perfect. The thought of catching a real buzz was the proverbial cherry on top of the sundae.
Oliver paid for the ride, helped me out of the cab, and waited for tail lights to disappear before firing the joint. We walked slowly toward my street, covering the dooby in our cupped hands and toking occasionally. He put it out a few blocks away from home, and by then, we were both slightly stoned. The silence between us was necessary rather than uncomfortable, so any time we talked, I giggled.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “Will your parents know you’re fucked up?”
“Nah.” I shook my head. “They’re not the hugging type. I doubt I’ll even see them. I plan to go straight upstairs and fall into bed.”
“That sounds like fun.”
He insisted on walking me to the door. My decision-making abilities were impaired along with the rest of me, so I blurted out a “thank you” and unlocked the front door. He could’ve been flirting, but I still wasn’t sure and didn’t want to make a fool of myself.
“Goodnight, Violet,” he said, taking a step back toward the porch steps. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
I left him outside and closed the front door behind me as quietly as possible. I tried to tiptoe up the stairs and down the hall to my room, but my father’s voice stopped me in my tracks as I was passing his office.
“Did you have fun?”
I turned to face him and nodded. “Yes. The movie was great. Again.”
Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the book opened in front of him on his desk. “Good.”
“Night, Dad.”
“Goodnight.”
Chapter Five
Wade pushes the snooze button on the alarm three times Saturday morning. Instead of hitting the road at 5:30 as planned, we stumble into the shower together more than an hour after that. Hot water and his hands help wake me, but they end up putting us further behind schedule. We were up packing his suitcase for our weekend trip until late last night.
There are many things I love about Wade, but his knack for procrastination isn’t one of them. The good news is we shopped together for his family online. At least I know their gifts are taken care of.
After our shower, he makes coffee while I dry my hair. I’ll have an almost four-hour drive to apply makeup, but if my hair dries naturally, it’ll be a frizzy mess. Wade dated his next-door neighbor for a while during high school, so I always try to look my best when we’re in Savannah. It’s silly, considering the number of times he sees me in zombie mode during our daily life together, but something about his ex-girlfriend is motivating. She’s made it clear she doesn’t like me, and I don’t want to give her reason to judge me.
I wear my cutest jeans, a flattering sweater, and boots with dangerous heels. When I join him in the kitchen, he’s lounging against the counter, wearing his running sweats and a Hawks hoodie. His hair isn’t quite dry, so the tips are curling, creating a wild mess on his head. There’s a hint of stubble along his well-defined jaw.
Even though I had him less than an hour ago, the stirring of want is there. It’s always there, even when I want to strangle him for being so appealing in his “lazy” clothes. It’s unfair I’m stuck wearing neck-breaker boots on a road trip when he doesn’t even have to try.
“Wow,” he says, looking up from the newspaper. He leaves it sitting on the counter to step forward into my path. “What’s the occasion?”
“Hillary.”
He laughs before leaning in for a kiss. “You’re kidding, right?” His palms rest on my hips. “It was fifteen years ago. I was seventeen.”
Instead of replying, I kiss him back. I know what love was like at seventeen, how wild and free it exists in that last stretch of youth. I don’t worry about his feelings for her now, but the thought of him living out loud that way with some other girl never fails to awaken my dormant jealous side.
“She doesn’t like me.”
“And this is relevant how?”
I stare at my hands on his chest. “It’s not. I just… want you to be glad I’m your girlfriend.”
“Nothing says ‘I love you’ like an uncomfortable pair of boots.” He smiles and lightly pushes me away. “Go. Change your shoes so we can leave.”
My worn-out running shoes are heaven, but I slip the boots into my suitcase before rolling it out of our bedroom. Those boots are killer, and there’s no way I’m leaving them behind. When we get to his car, I lift my bag into the back seat instead of the trunk. It can’t hurt to have them nearby in case I change my mind.
Wade opens my car door and studies my face. “You packed the boots, didn’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I take my seat, stare straight ahead, and try to fight a grin.
“Of course you do.”
The door closes, and I use the few seconds alone in the car to laugh. It’s under control by the time he slides in next to me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s go.”
The sky is pale violet everywhere the sun isn’t. It’s cloudy and looks cold, but according to all the major networks, including Wade’s, the high will eventually creep over sixty degrees later in the day.
“Are you nervous about the interview?” I ask after we cross the city limit.
“Not yet. It’ll hit me Tuesday morning,” he says.
“Do you know how many others have applied?”
“At least a few.”
For the next hour, I conduct a mock interview, asking him questions about his current position, his strengths, his weaknesses—which, in my opinion, are few, though they’re plenty in his—and his goals. He’s been with CNN since he graduated from Emory with a double major in journalism and English, which was long before I moved to Atlanta. With his good looks and charisma, he could be a reporter or an anchor, but he’s shy and better suited behind the scenes, so he says.
It’s the creative side of him that thrives in production. Plus, he performs well under pressure. That’s why I know this job will be his eventually, if not now. He’ll keep moving up the chain of command until he decides to stop. He doesn’t want to leave Atlanta, and he doesn’t want to rule the world.
Family’s everything to Wade. He’ll never live more than three hundred miles away from his momma.
I don’t blame him, really. She’s the type of mother you read about—soft and loving while firm. She raised him alone after his father took off when he was five. The man Wade calls Dad married his mom when he was in elementary school. He’s an only child, and it shows.
Atlanta works for me, too, because I can also get home easily. It was convenient for a while, but I haven’t made the trip in a couple of years. I just… couldn’t.
We stop for breakfast at a diner outside of Macon. Because it takes our bodies a while to catch up with our minds each day, neither of us likes to eat first thing in the morning.
Wade waits patiently in the parking lot with me while I brush my hair and put on some lip gloss, but his stomach isn’t as tolerant. I can hear it over the radio.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I open my car door.
He shakes his head and gets out. I wait until he’s locked the car to walk over to him. “You’re going to scarf a heart attack omelet, and you’re prettying up your lips to do it.”
I shrug and let him open the door of the diner. He steps in close after he crosses the threshold, and warmth spreads through every part of me he’s touching.
“Two?” the hostess asks, smiling as she picks up two menus before we even answer. She walks across the room with purpose and stops when she reaches a booth in the back.
It’s an old-fashioned place, with Formica countertops and pleather stools. They serve malts and Coke floats anytime, day or night. For us, it’s milkshakes with breakfast. It’s a tradition we started the Christmas before we moved in together, when he took me home with him to meet his family for the first time.
We’ve spent the last two Thanksgivings in Savannah and the last two Christmases with my family at my siblings’ homes. He’s never been to New Orleans, and for the first time, I let myself hope that he’ll somehow work it out to be there with me. I want to show him the house I grew up in, walk down Bourbon with him after dark on Christmas Eve, and listen as brass Christmas music pours from every club.
“Hey,” he says. He moves the salt and pepper shakers to the end of the table so there’s nothing between us. “Where’d you go?”
I reach for a menu and open it, even though I already know what I’ll order. “I was thinking about how much I wish I could take you to Bourbon Street on Christmas Eve.”
He immediately looks down at the menu on the table. “Really?”
The doubt in his voice pricks at my conscience. My avoidance of my hometown has obviously bothered him more than he’s ever let on.
“Yes. New Orleans is a… Well, it’s like a different world. I think you’ll like it.”
“I may not make it until Christmas Day, but that’s worst-case scenario.” He reaches across the table for my hands, folding them in his. “What’s Bourbon like on New Year’s Eve?”
“I don’t know, but we could find out together.”
The server interrupts to ask for our orders, and we both ask for greasy, cholesterol-laden omelets and chocolate shakes. Her eyebrows lift, but she nods and takes the menus from us without a word.
Wade waits until we’re alone again to speak. “So, I’m a Libra, and you’re a G
emini. Are we compatible?”
I sigh and turn to look out the window. Talking to him about Oliver has shifted something with him, with us. “How can you ask me that?” I shake my head. “I don’t know what the charts or whatever would say about us, but I think we’re pretty fucking compatible.” It bothers me that he could question that.
He’s my best friend and the best lover I’ve ever known. During every part of my day—when I’m lecturing or leading a class discussion, when I’m grading work, or when I’m riding on the MARTA—he’s on my mind, around the edges of every thought. And knowing he’s there makes me happy. I love him, and I feel loved in return. That’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
What happened in our closet the other night has shaken him, even though that’s the last thing I want. It’s why I’ve kept quiet about it for so long.
“Hey,” he says. I let my eyes close, and he gives my hands a small squeeze until I open them to look at him again. “It’s strange to be invited inside this wall. You talk about Auburn and Emory all the time, but you’ve never said anything about high school. I don’t even know if you went to your senior prom, Violet. It’s like your life began when you left New Orleans.”
“It did.”
He leans back in his seat and breaks our contact when the waitress arrives with our brunch. I want to reach for his hand again the moment she walks away, but that kind of desperation would be hard to explain, especially when I’m trying to convince both of us that everything’s fine.
“That’s obviously not true.”
“High school was shitty, okay?” I laugh a little and unroll my silverware from my napkin. “I don’t dwell on it. It was a lifetime ago, and it sucked. Someone tried to add me to a Facebook group for my ten-year reunion that’s coming up next summer, and I declined. That’s not an unusual thing. Lots of people hated high school.”
“There’s no need to be defensive.” He looks down at his plate. “I want you to be able to talk to me. Is that so terrible?”
