Golden Hour (Crescent City)

by Campbell Reinhardt

  “It’s okay you know,” Caleb says slowly. I can’t look over, but I can still feel his eyes on me.

  “What is?” I swallow hard

  “To admit that you’re not okay.”

  I roll down the window and let the car fill with the thick, humid air. “I really am.”

  “It’s okay to say you’re pissed off at the world.” He rolls his window down too and hangs one arm out it.

  I stare straight ahead, wondering how this man can read me the way that he’s able to.

  “It’s okay to say that you miss him.” He flips the door lock, just to keep his fingers busy. It immediately makes me think of other things he could do to keep those fingers busy, and the guilt washes over me, fresh and hot. “Because you do, right?” he presses.

  I give a sharp nod and force the words out, knowing he won’t judge me. Knowing he’ll know exactly what I mean, what I’m trying to hide from everyone else. “Especially on bad days. He sort of knew everything about me. He knew my family, he was someone to talk to.” I glance over at Caleb, weighing his reaction. Talking about Mike to him feels right and wrong at the same time. “No offense intended. I appreciate you being here, Caleb. I actually really like you being here.”

  He reaches across the seat and puts his hand on the back of my neck. He traces a line across the nape, catching the baby fine hairs in his calloused fingertips.

  “It’s okay to admit that, too.” His voice scratches low against my ears.

  I take my eyes off the road long enough to really look at him. His strong arm stretched around me, the way his eyes flick over my skin fast but take in every detail, like he’s starved for more. Something deep in me boils up, hot and equally hungry.

  “So, where we headed?” he asks, breaking my ogle fest and leaving me red-cheeked and breathless.

  “I have no idea.” I fix my eyes on the windshield, barely seeing the signs flying by, not caring where we’re headed. And happy. Carefully happy to have him sitting at my side. “Just needed to get away from everything at home.”

  “Alright. So...” He rubs his palms together like he’s just accepted a challenge. “The day is ours. Let’s try something new. Go somewhere neither one of us has been before. That way, we’ve got no expectations. No memory of the last time we were there or where we were at in our lives then.”

  “We could do that.” I let my mind wander for a brief second, relishing how it feels to be starting over, to be purposely creating new memories instead of sitting at home sobbing over the ones I’ll never relive. I should feel guilty. But I’ve felt that for so many months, and I don’t want to give into it anymore. Right now I just feel excited at all the possibility in front of us. “Suggestions?”

  “I figure we can forget everything in the Quarter for starters. One of us has probably been everywhere worth going,” he says, drumming his fingers on the dash.

  “True.” I chew my lip, thinking, but every suggestion that pops into my head is tied tightly to memories of Mike.

  “Myrtle’s Plantation?” he suggests.

  A small chill creeps up the back of my neck, in the exact pace where Caleb is still gently rubbing. Despite the plantation’s rich history, I’d like to steer clear any place haunted.

  “Never been, but I’d like to avoid ghosts if possible,” I say firmly.

  “Point taken.” His fingers knead the tight muscles of my neck, and I let myself forget the dead and focus on the living, breathing man next to me. “Okay, Avery Island? I’ve never been there, believe it or not.”

  I snort. “Took three field trips there in Elementary school. On one of them, in the third grade, Vincent Plett threw Tabasco in my face because I wouldn’t hold his hand during the tour of the botanical gardens.” My eyes still sting at the memory.

  Caleb sucks in a quick breath through his teeth. “Ouch. That little shit. Alright, so no Avery Island.”

  “You want to go track down those Duck Dynasty folks?” I joke.

  “Pass,” Caleb says flatly.

  The miles are passing quickly on the interstate, and I’m starting to get nervous that if we don’t come up with a destination soon, he’s going to suggest we turn the car around and head back towards home. I’m not ready to say goodbye to Caleb yet. Not by a longshot.

  Desperate, I blurt out, “We could just drive. No plans? Get lost somewhere out in the sticks? Stop where we want?”

  “That sounds perfect,” he says, pointing to the exit that’s coming up. “Get off here then.”

  “Here?” I ask, my voice mildly panicked. He nods, and I slowly turn on my blinker and steer the car toward the interstate exit. There are no signs to indicate which town we’re headed for, only overgrown foliage and a small dirt road that’s either quaint or ominous. It’s hard to tell when you have no idea what’s waiting at the end of it. “I have no idea if this leads anywhere though,” I say, glancing around for any indication of where we are.

  “That’s the point, darlin’.” His laugh breaks up the panic in my chest, and I relax. “Just head north, we’ll run into something.”

  I turn the car onto the one lane road and try not to cringe at the dust blowing through the air and the rocks pelting the underside of my car. I bite my lip so I don’t mutter about how I just had the thing detailed last week, because, really, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t been this excited in a long time, and I want to embrace that feeling.

  We pass a couple of plantation homes that look deserted, and I wonder what crazy circumstances would force families to walk away from such grand homes full of decades of history. I’m gaping at the sheer size of one of them when my car hits a rut, and I struggle to keep it on the dirt path.

  “If I knew it was going to be rough like this, I would’ve suggested we take my truck,” Caleb laughs.

  “Nice,” I say as we’re jostled back and forth. “I didn’t realize we were going off-roading.”

  “Lighten up, Uptown.” His eyes, blue as the sky above the overarching trees, are lit up with an excitement that’s contagious. “There’s a big world out there. Sometimes you just have to get a little dirty to enjoy it.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  His touch relaxes me, and I think back to the hours I’ve spend on the edges of ponds, digging for bait or sticking my hands into the dirt for hours on end to help Gram in her garden.

  “I have zero problem getting dirty,” I say just as he gestures out the window.

  “Look at that,” Caleb says, pointing to a small brown shack

  It’s off the side of the road, surrounded by a garden that was probably neatly tended once, but has been abandoned for so long, it’s grown wild. I spot resurrection lilies and clumps of star gazers, a tulip tree and flowering ferns all tangled around each other and in desperate need of pruning and spacing. It’s the kind of garden that would have had my gran’s fingers itching to weed and remake into something gorgeous.

  We step out of the car and walk across the thick grass undulating with fleeing grasshoppers, my hand held palm down, fingers spread so the tops of the overgrown flowers can drag against my skin. We walk, hands nearly brushing, up to the crooked steps, infested with termites and soft in spots. Caleb tests a step with his foot, then offers me his hand and helps me sit.

  We’re pressed close, leaned comfortably against each other, in this strange little hidden corner of nowhere, secreted away in plain sight if anyone knew where to look.

  I gaze at the wild pansies clumped near the bottom of the steps and along the sides of the worn walkway. My grandfather used to bring Gran little bouquets of them out of habit; he’d been doing it since he started courting her when they were both in middle school.

  There’s a flower with thin white petals that create a base around an explosion of thinner blue petals surrounding bright yellow pistils. I wish Gran was sitting here with us, so I could ask her the name. She used to love pointing out obscure plants and gabbing to her botanist friends about tricks for making anything grow anywhere.

  Th
at was all before she started to lose her encyclopedic knowledge about how best to tend to any green thing. I try hard not to think about how moving to a home might mean she has no access to plants, other than the few she can keep in her room.

  “My Gran took me out to a place like this one,” I say, my memory flipping back to the time Gran loaded me up in her big car. I’d had an earache for two months. The doctors had put me on round after round of antibiotics, but it wouldn’t clear up, and my hearing was starting to give me trouble. Mama made me another appointment to see our family doctor that afternoon and was supposed to pick me up after her shift, but Gran, who was watching me for the day had other plans. “I was sick for a while, couldn’t get well, so Gran took me to see a traiteur.”

  Caleb’s head snaps up. “That was my nickname in the army.”

  “Ah, so you weren’t the derelict soldier you like to claim you were.” I smile at him, but his face has a stricken look to it. "Traiteurs are the most powerful healers.”

  Caleb gives a noncommittal shrug and swallows hard. “I guess.”

  “Caleb?” I trace my fingers over his, and he uncurls them from the tight fist he’d had them clamped in. “From the sound of it, you were an incredible gift to the military. I bet you saved a lot of people out there.”

  He shakes his head and makes a strangled sound. His hand grabs at mine, and he squeezes hard, staring out the window like he’s thinking about running away and never looking back. But he stays put. He stays here and he tells me.

  “There’s always that one that one you wish you could save more than all the others. I know every life is supposed to be equal and all that, but...fuck. I don’t give a damn if I’m supposed to feel this way or not. The fact is, there’s always one that you would’ve done anything—anything—to save. But it doesn’t matter what you wanted. Sometimes there’s not a single thing you can do, you know?”

  I do. I know it so damn well.

  “All we can do is make their pain a little easier,” I say, my voice a perfect blank. Because that truth hurts so badly, I have to shut my feelings down or open up to the rage and pain that swallows me whole and tears me apart when I face it. I remember stroking the side of Mike’s face that night, my head knowing full well he was already gone. But that didn’t stop me from leaning close to his ear and whispering that things would be fine. “That’s our job. Even if it means promising them they’ll be okay when we know they won’t.”

  “I never promise them they’ll be okay,” he says. He keeps his eyes on mine even as he watches me recoil at his words.

  “Never?” I ask.

  Unbelievable.

  I can’t count how many times I’ve patted a hand and offered words of sympathy during endless shifts that seemed full of bleak, worried eyes. I can’t remember how many family members I’ve consoled with warm words and kind smiles, knowing full well their loved ones wouldn’t make it.

  He blinks, but doesn’t look away from my harsh gaze. When he speaks next, he plies the words out one by one, like bolts yanked from rusted metal.

  “The only thing I’ve ever promised anyone is that they’ll never hurt that way again.”

  And I feel it, as sure as I felt his hand in mine minutes ago.

  He’s saying what he needs to without actually saying it.

  He’s making a promise to me without uttering the words.

  Our eyes lock and hold, even though I can see his instinct is to look away. Slowly, I nod, letting him know, in my own silent way, that I understand. We sit back, hands linked tight, and stare into the beauty of this little hidden paradise, trying to put our own persistent demons to rest, if only for a while.

  The miles seem to go by slower on the way home, with Elise curled up in the passenger seat of her car while I drive us back to my place. I glance over at her, my coat draped over her shoulders, her lips parted gently as she soaks up the kind of sleep I only wish I could sink into.

  What I wouldn’t give for a night of rest that didn’t end up with me hitting the floor of my bedroom at the slightest noise. I’ve got no problem walking into a scene the police haven’t deemed safe for medic entry or trading blows with some asshole at a bar. But the quiet moments in my own house…Elise said I’m a hero.

  But what kind of hero’s afraid of the dark?

  The ding of the gaslight snaps me back to the present and what I’m supposed to be doing—which is getting Elise home safely. This area is shady at best, but I don’t want to chance running out of gas, so I pull into the tiny gas station under the interstate overpass.

  I watch Elise’s eyes flutter as I inch the door open, but she doesn’t wake, even when the hinges creak. I glance around the parking lot as I pull my wallet out of my back pocket. The lighting is dull and sporadic, and there’s a group of guys over by the dumpster—it goes without saying that if you’re hanging out by a gas station dumpster, moral character probably isn’t one of your shining attributes.

  I quickly slide my card into the reader on the pump, but it doesn’t work.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter to myself, glancing at the guys from the corner of my eye. They aren’t showing us any particular attention, but they are being loud and stupid, which tends to be a red flag that trouble isn’t far behind. I try swiping three more times: nothing. I glance into the car, and Elise is just barely stirring. I crack open the driver’s side door and lean in.

  “I have to go in to pay,” I say softly. She looks up at me, her eyes heavy and so fucking gorgeous, they take my breath away. I throw a glance toward the crowd of assholes jostling and hollering like they’re hoping to attract trouble. Elise’s eyes follow my stare. I keep my voice low, but clear. “Stay in the car.”

  Elise nods, and I practically jog to the door of the convenience store. The guys weren’t doing anything, but I still can’t shake the feeling that something about them wasn’t right—which means luck sticks me behind some guy counting out a huge pile of change to pay for his pack of Marlboro Reds.

  I glance out the window, but I don’t have a clear shot of the car from where I’m standing.

  “How much you need, man?” I ask after his trembling fingers move from the last of the dimes in his stack to the nickels. I’m more than happy to support his wish for lung cancer if it means he gets out of my way quicker.

  “I got it man,” he mumbles, plunking down the last nickel, then reaching into his pocket for more change. He slides the final coin across the counter and starts to push each stack toward the bored cashier. I don’t wait for him to get out of the way before I toss forty bucks down on the counter, call out the pump number, and push through the door.

  I rush across the parking lot, where I spot the passenger door of Elise’s shiny car, open. I don’t bother looking in the car. My eyes go straight to the corner of the lot where the group of guys are, adrenaline pumping hot and fast through my veins. One of the guys has Elise pulled against his chest.

  I break into a full sprint, my blood rushing, my vision blurred at the edges, screaming her name.

  “Caleb!” She pushes away from the guy and turns to look at me, her forehead creased with worry. Like I’m the one in trouble. “Is everything alright?”

  I slow my run as the dirt bag looks me up and down. “Are you alright?” I ask, staring the asshole down as I ask her the question.

  Elise looks confused. “Of course. I’m fine. Caleb, this is Lawson. Remember I told you about him? Mike’s brother?”

  Lawson winces at the introduction, flicking his dark hair back with a toss of his head and scowling around a glinting lip ring.

  “Right,” I grind out through tight lips. “Good to meet you.” I extend my hand, but Lawson doesn’t respond. “What are you guys doing out here anyway?” I ask, motioning to the deserted parking lot.

  I don’t give a shit that it sounds like I’m accusing them of something. I know what they’re doing. They’re looking to score some pills or pot, or worse. And I know because you can’t pull one ov
er the guy who was Orleans Parish’s most notorious juvenile delinquent.

  “What are you, the fucking cops?” one of the dirt bags asks, and the entire group snickers like a pack of hyenas. Lawson’s lips curl back over his teeth, and Elise’s stare drifts to the concrete.

  “We should get home,” I say. Everything in me is screaming to reach out and pull Elise closer, to protect her, but I fight the urge. That would be overstepping. It would be a protective move I can’t pull in front of this loser—because, owing to his blood, she cares too much about him to see what he truly is. Which is not good enough for her to waste her time with.

  “Okay. It’s getting late, I guess,” Elise says, nodding. Her brows pull down in disappointment. “Do you still have my number, Lawson? You promise me you’re going to call me if you need anything. Okay?”

  Lawson gives an unintelligible grunt of some kind, and I watch the water well up in Elise’s eyes.

  Fuck this asshole.

  “Come on,” I say, my voice gentler. This time, I don’t listen to my own better judgment. I pull her away from him and into my chest. I immediately feel my nerves smooth, knowing she’s safe in my arms.

  I keep my arm around her shoulders until she’s in the passenger seat of the car and I’ve leaned over to buckle her in. I slide into the driver’s seat and let the door slam harder than necessary as I pull out, eager to get away from that shithole.

  And it’s only then that I realize her arms are crossed over her chest, her lips pursed in a quiet fury.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize, but it sure as hell doesn’t sound sorry, even to my own ears. “But you need to stay away from those dirtb—You shouldn’t be hanging around Lawson.”

  “I’m sorry,” she snaps, “but I missed the part where you thought it was perfectly fine to drag me around, telling me what to do.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to stop doing that when you stop hanging around with drug dealers at random gas station dumpsters.” I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. “I can’t believe I’ve got to tell a woman as intelligent as you are that it might be bad news to spend time with guys like them.”