by Grey, R. S.
“I don’t know what to say. It’s different now. Good night, Beau.”
I think I’m being very clear about my rejection, but he falls in step beside me. Fine by me. It’s only a few blocks to my apartment, and if he wants to act as a human shield against this winter wind, I’ll let him.
“Here, go in front of me,” I say, ducking behind him as much as possible.
I should have brought gloves or a hat with me. NOLA was deceptively warm.
“How is it different?” he says, more playfully curious than spurned. The wind picks up and I hiss against it. He rolls his eyes and unbuttons his coat, tugging it off his arms and holding it open for me. It’s like someone is holding up a delicately crafted banana split with whipped cream and a cherry on top. I might have enough sense to turn down a date with him, but I do not have the willpower to turn down that jacket. I turn and he steps forward then wraps it around me. My eyes close, and for two seconds I delude myself into thinking it’s him wrapped around me rather than the stiff, woolen material. It’s warm and smells so good I want to bring the collar to my nose and sniff like those weirdo actors on Febreze commercials.
“Why is it different now?” he asks, spinning me around to face him.
The light of the French Quarter is just enough to make it easy to see every contour of his face. The straight nose. Strong brows. Soft lips. Those lips are where I’m staring when I tell him one solid, very good reason why it’s different now.
“Well, for one, Preston and I are dating.”
Bippity. Boppity. Boop. He’s supposed to rip his jacket off me and storm off in a jealous rage. I grip it around me tighter just in case he tries. Instead, he laughs like I’ve just told him the world’s funniest joke. His dark brows arch in disbelief.
“Preston? Little Preston?”
“Grown-up Preston,” I correct after clearing my throat.
“Since when?”
I turn and continue walking toward my apartment, anxious for this exchange to end before he picks apart my lame excuse. “Since I moved back to town a few weeks ago.”
I don’t think it’s important to clarify that Preston and I haven’t actually gone out on a date yet; our first one is still a few days away. I was sort of looking forward to it before tonight…I think.
“Little Preston treated you like shit. Remember crying over him in your parents’ kitchen? What makes you think big Preston won’t do the same?” he asks, somewhat rhetorically.
“He’s changed.”
And really, he has, at least from what I’ve seen.
“Hmm, must’ve been one hell of a change. Guy didn’t even see what he had in front of him then.”
I whirl around and point my finger into his chest. “Oh, and you did?!”
I want to reach out and pluck the words out of the air before they reach his ears. I regret my outburst even before he replies with a cold, steady breath. He steps closer to me, his shiny designer shoes hitting my tennies.
“That was different and you know it.”
We’re so close I can taste his breath. It’s minty and fresh and it pisses me off even more. Can’t he leave one thing open to criticism? Where’s the annoying habit? The gap in his teeth? Anything! I need a flaw to focus all my energy on so I can convince myself to stay away from him.
We stay positioned like that, and I realize I’m supposed to speak up now since he was the last one to talk, but my brain’s operating system accidentally reverted to a decade-old version. I’m nothing but a beating heart and shaky limbs. The wind picks up again, jostling my curls, and Beau leans up to brush them aside, his finger warm against my cheek. My stomach tightens, along with every other muscle in my body.
“This is my apartment,” I say, pointing up.
It’s actually a lie. My apartment is another block over, but I have to get away from him. I’m already stepping back and waving genially.
“Lauren—”
He steps forward and I shake my head to cut him off.
“I’ll see you in the morning at my parents’ house for brunch, okay?”
Before he can reply, I turn and pull open the door of the building in front of me, thanking the various gods it’s not locked. I step inside and pull the door closed, heaving a sigh of relief to be out of his presence. I keep my eyes closed for a few breaths, trying to unscramble my brain, and when I blink them open, I find that I’m standing in the foyer of a bank. It’s closed. I only have access to an ATM, but who cares, because I’m an idiot. This isn’t an apartment complex. No one lives here, and Beau definitely knows that. Even now, he’s probably standing on the other side of the door wondering what my plan is, but I refuse to go back outside and admit that I’m certifiably insane. Instead, I slide down to the floor and set up shop. I’ll stay here as long as it takes.
The quiet voice in the back of my head starts firing off questions.
Why are we running from Beau?
Why are we clinging to Preston?
And most importantly…
How the hell is this bank offering a 2% interest rate on savings accounts?
I ARRIVE FOR brunch the next morning before Lauren does. Mrs. LeBlanc lets me in, tells me I look handsome in my suit, and ushers me back into the kitchen where she’s currently unpacking food from a large brown paper bag. Apparently, she has outsourced brunch to a nearby restaurant.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I ordered you a little bit of everything.”
Normally on weekdays, I’m in the office and my breakfast is something simple and healthy—egg whites, protein, green and blended—but I’m not picky because I haven’t forgotten my roots: scrambled eggs and sticky syrup.
“It’s great, thanks. Can I help with anything?”
She laughs as she folds the brown paper bag. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but there’s really nothing left to be done. Lou insisted that I order food.”
“Oh, is she coming this morning?”
I train my voice to sound as if I don’t care, but Mrs. LeBlanc still smiles at me knowingly.
“She is coming, but she called and said she’s running late. Only my Lou can be late to the first appointment of the day.”
I nod and reply with a barely interested hum. She told me last night she was going to be here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she manufactured some excuse. I’ve seen her twice since she returned to town and on both occasions, she couldn’t wait to be rid of me.
Mrs. LeBlanc transfers our food onto plates and sets it out on the table. Coffee and orange juice is poured. Silverware gleams. It almost looks like she spent all morning preparing the meal.
“Why don’t we go ahead and eat?” she says, glancing down at her watch. “There’s no sense in letting the food get cold.”
The front door slams and Lauren’s voice trails through the house. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m here.”
We both turn in unison as she appears in the kitchen doorway looking as if she just stepped out of a boardroom. My gaze sticks on her black heels and then slowly lifts up across her black stockings, pencil skirt, and white silk blouse. There’s a delicate bow tied between her collarbones and her hair is twisted in a low bun at the nape of her neck, curls nowhere to be found.
“Wow! You look fancy,” Mrs. LeBlanc says with a teasing whistle. “Do you have a meeting or something after this?”
Lauren drops her purse on the counter and saunters toward us, careful not to meet my eye as she smooths a hand across her hair. “Oh, yeah. Something like that.”
She has my camel coat in her hand. “Here you go.”
“Where’s your meeting?” I ask, taking the coat and hanging it on the back of my chair.
She glances toward me, meets my eyes for a brief moment, and then looks away. “Downtown.”
“What is it for?” her mom asks, purely curious. She doesn’t realize she’s doing my dirty work for me.
Lauren waves her hand in the air. “Business! Commerce! All right, are you two done? What else can we talk about?�
�� she flusters.
I don’t usually go for the polished business look, but Lauren pulls it off so well that I might have a change of heart. I wonder if her stockings are thigh-highs, if there are delicate little clips holding them in place beneath her skirt.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she hisses when her mom crosses the kitchen to grab the pot of coffee.
I tip my head. “Like what?”
“Nothing. Just stop.”
“Did you dress like this for me?”
Her eyes widen in feigned shock. “How dare you? I have a business meeting.”
“With whom?”
“My…tax guy.”
“Accountant,” I correct with a teasing smirk.
“Obviously, yes. Him.”
Her mom is back in earshot. “I thought you were using Joanne?”
“Right. I am, tax guy is just…my nickname for her. Is breakfast ready? I’m starving.”
We take our seats at the table, where Mrs. LeBlanc has set my food down beside Lauren’s. I pull out her chair and she thanks me. Her skirt rides up a tantalizing inch when she sits and she sees me notice, tugging it down with an angry scowl. I imagine her dressing like this in New York.
“You’re looking very fancy today, Beau,” she says, her gaze nowhere near me.
“Well, it’s such a coincidence—I have a business meeting after this too,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed. Suits seem to be all you wear these days. Do you sleep in them too?”
Mrs. LeBlanc chokes on a laugh and an explicit reply is on the tip of my tongue before I remember we’re at brunch with her mother. For a few minutes, we eat in silence. Lauren takes tiny bites, keeping her gaze pinned out the window. I sip my coffee, contemplating how I can get her alone.
“It’s strange to see you both sitting here now, all grown up,” Mrs. LeBlanc says, smiling at us. “It’s like we all stepped into a time machine.”
“Mom…” Lauren warns.
Mrs. LeBlanc holds up her coffee cup in innocence. “It’s just that you were both so young back then, kids, and now look at you.”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it.”
Mrs. LeBlanc turns to me with a suspicious gleam in her eye. “Beau, I suppose you’ve worked out that Lou had a big crush on you back then?”
Lauren’s fork stabs into her omelet. “MOM. Next subject.”
Her mother completely ignores her. “It was so cute. Her dad and I used to pretend we were oblivious. The way she was always fussing over you—you know, I think she tried to invite you to every single family dinner. God, she went on about you constantly.”
“I was a teenager,” Lauren says in her defense. “I also thought I was going to marry Nick from the Backstreet Boys.”
We continue ignoring her.
“Is that right?” I ask, leaning forward toward Mrs. LeBlanc. “Truthfully, I always thought she had a thing for Preston.”
Her mom frowns. “Preston Westcott?”
I nod. “She’s actually going on a date with him.”
Her mom makes a little sound like she finds that interesting. “You didn’t mention that, Lou.”
“Yeah, well, consider it mentioned,” she grumbles. “Next subject.”
Mrs. LeBlanc finally takes the hint. “Right, well, Mitch’s firm is throwing a Carnival luncheon. We’re raising money for the Ronald McDonald House this year, and you and your mom will have to join us. I’m dying to meet her.”
“I’m sure she’d love to be there. When is it?”
“A week from Saturday, here at the house. I’ll get you a formal invitation before you leave.”
Lauren doesn’t even look at me through the rest of brunch. Mrs. LeBlanc carries the conversation, and we’re left in silence on our side of the table.
When I’m done, I clear my plate and step outside to look at my old apartment. It’s been a decade since I’ve seen the place, and I always wondered if they continued renting it out after the hurricane.
Lauren steps out to join me on the back porch and for a little while, we don’t say a word. Finally, she sighs. “C’mon, I’ll show you what it looks like now.”
I’m surprised she’s suggesting a tour, just her and me. Last night she couldn’t wait to get away from me.
“After the hurricane, my parents had a hard time finding a renter since most students were displaced. My mom decided to convert it to an art studio, and now she works out here.”
She unlocks the door and flips on a light. The scent of acrylic paint hits me right away. The old furniture is gone, replaced with art supplies. A large wardrobe takes up one wall, drawers spilling open. Paint is everywhere, on the floor and stacked in boxes. There’s no rhyme or reason to the design of the room. Stools are set up in front of three different easels, all with canvases at varying degrees of completion.
“How many artists work in here?”
“Just her. She does that a lot,” Lauren explains. “She’ll work on a few things at once depending on her mood or the light or the season.”
Right now, morning sunlight spills in and the easel closest to where we stand almost looks like it has a spotlight on it. I wonder if Mrs. LeBlanc was working on this one before brunch.
It’s positioned right where my old couch used to be. I step closer and peer out the window into the back yard. The water ripples on the surface of the pool, the wind picking up and jostling the leaves on the oak trees. I glance up and there’s Lauren’s old bedroom window, soft white curtain and all.
“You used to leave the curtain open,” I mention impulsively.
She stays quiet for a second like she’s soaking in what that means, that sometimes I’d look up and try to find her, just like she used to look down and find me.
“Did you ever see anything?”
I smile and turn away from the window.
“I was a perfect gentleman.”
“You were,” she insists.
“Almost always.”
Once, I saw her changing into her pajamas. It was purely by accident. I was in the middle of studying. I got up to grab some water and on my way back to the couch, I caught light and movement out of the corner of my eye. Heavy clouds had rolled in and darkened the landscape, and her bedroom lights silhouetted her in the window. Her back was to me, and before I had a chance to process what I was seeing, she tugged her t-shirt off over her head. I remember my hand tightened on my glass as her pale pink sports bra followed. Naked from her hips up. Almost against my will, I was transfixed by the bright portraiture effect the window created. I focused on the smooth expanse of skin that stretched from the nape of her neck to the delicate curve of her hips. I stood, mesmerized before reality slapped me back into the moment. Lauren. Their daughter. Underage. I whipped around and refocused on my law textbook, refusing to give another thought to what had just happened, to the lust I’d just felt for a girl I had no business thinking about.
“Sometimes I’d forget to close the blinds, since I was used to the apartment being vacant,” she says quietly. “But other times, I’d leave them open…on purpose.”
Her confession is so dirty, so unlike the image I had of her back then.
I wait for her to work up the courage to meet my eye, and when she does, I reward her with honesty of my own. “I’m surprised. I thought of you as such a good girl.”
She snorts. “I was, believe me.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugs. “Just in comparison to the other girls my age. They were way more experienced. Rose was already fooling around and having sex. Meanwhile, I didn’t have my first kiss until I was 17.”
She’s talking about us, the kiss we shared in this apartment. She was so bold, crossing the room and pressing her lips to mine. I could have stopped it; I could have taken it further. Instead, I let it happen, a passive participant. I let her press up on her toes and brush her body against mine, justifying it all because technically, I didn’t kiss her back. I d
idn’t let her see how turned on I was from nothing—our lips barely brushing together. She was so sweet, but dangerous. Her lips tasted like cherry lip balm.
“Though that was hardly a kiss,” she says with a laugh, turning to look out the window.
“You’re right.” I take a step toward her and her attention whips back to me as I approach. “You were so mad when I didn’t kiss you back. It was kind of adorable.”
She frowns. “I wasn’t trying to be adorable. I was trying to seduce you.”
I take another step closer and my finger catches the silky bow of her blouse.
“Wh—what are you doing?” she asks, trying to take a step back.
My hand wraps around her waist and I keep her there, pressed against me.
“Why don’t you try again.”
As much as things have changed, I’m struck by how they’ve stayed the same. Deep down, a part of her still thinks she’s the timid girl next door, playing dress-up in a fancy blouse and delicate stockings—but she’s a woman now, and she doesn’t have to try to be seductive. She just is.
She swallows and her gaze is on my lips. She looks away, but then a moment later, her eyes slide right back to where they were. There is a hunger there, and I want to cultivate it. Maybe I want to twist this little bow around my finger and bring her closer to me, inch by inch. Her hip brushes mine. Her heels—the stilts she put on to impress me—make it so her head comes up to my chin. I’d still have to bend to capture her mouth, and a part of me aches to do it. I could drag my hand up her back until it electrifies the nape of her neck, lace my fingers through her hair and force her head to tip back. Her lips look so soft, barely parted as she inhales a shaky breath. I can feel her trembling even now, just imagining it.
Her body language urges me to kiss her. Everything inside of her is screaming for me to end her misery. I lower my head another inch, and she inhales in preparation.
Another inch closer, and then I smile.
“I’d hate to get between you and Preston. When is your date?”
Her eyes pinch and she draws a clarifying breath. Her hands come up to my chest to push me away. I don’t let her. When she opens her eyes again, there’s no hunger there. Fury dominates.
