by Roxy Reid
We’ve been wandering around the French Quarter for the last hour and a half. So far, she’s picked a ghost tour, a packed piano bar, and someone’s bachelorette party? I’m still not sure how we ended up at that one.
They’re all activities where we’re surrounded by other people. Activities where Charlie can hide behind her camera and avoid having an honest conversation with me. Project Friendship is not going how I intended.
“The piano bar was fun,” I admit grudgingly. Mostly because it was so packed we had to share a table with someone, and Charlie ended up so close she was almost in my lap. All that strength and softness pressed up against me, while her hair tickled my skin and her jasmine scent stole my breath.
“So how about it, Mr. Rockstar? Have you experienced enough of the city?”
“Not even close,” I say.
“Ok, then let’s—”
“I get to pick the next one,” I interrupt. “You broke my trust with the bachelorette party.”
I’m going to get her to let down her guard if it kills me.
I check the map, and perk up when I see an artsy night market on Frenchman Street. Charlie can’t resist a street market. I tap the map, “Found our next stop.”
Charlie leans in to peer at the map, and I try not to enjoy her delicious closeness.
“No fair,” she says when she sees what I’m pointing to. “You’re playing dirty.”
“Ah ha! You do know we’re playing. You were picking places we couldn’t talk on purpose.”
Charlie sticks her nose in the air and starts walking toward Frenchman Street, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I sigh, aggrieved, and follow her.
The market is a small, open air space with white lights strung above everything, giving it a magical feel. I think we’re there near closing time because some vendors are already packing up. Charlie drifts from stall to stall, before settling on one with photography prints.
I look over her shoulder, curious to see what catches her eye. I’m expecting cityscapes, like she shoots, but everything she lingers over are shots of people together. People laughing, holding hands, fighting, kissing. They’re not posed, or at least they don’t look posed. They look real.
“Why those?” I ask, expecting a brush off.
But when Charlie speaks her voice is soft, sincere, “I’ve got this project I’m thinking about— profiles of adopted kids and their families. I want to do a range of families, all over the country, and a range of ages, from babies to adults with their own kids.” She peeks over her shoulder to see what I think, then abruptly looks away and puts the photographs back. “It’s silly. Sentimental, if I’m kind about how I portray them. And if I’m honest instead of kind … families aren’t perfect, but they don’t deserve to have their failings exposed to the world.”
“It’s not silly,” I say. I know why the subject matters to her. Charlie is adopted. She loves her parents, but I know there were times as a teen when she wondered why? Why was I given up? Why was I picked? “You’re looking at who makes a choice to add someone to their family. And how it affects the person after they’re chosen. If anyone can be kind and tell the truth at the same time, it’s you.”
Charlie smiles at me, tentative and vulnerable, and I feel like I just hung the sun.
I gesture to the photos, “Pick the one you want. I’ll get it for you.” Project Friendship is finally taking off.
“Nah, I can shoot better than this,” Charlie says.
“Hey,” the vendor says indignantly.
“Then pick something else,” I say, indicating the rest of the market. “I’ll give you anything.”
“Why do you want to give me something?” Charlie asks, her eyes piercing.
Because back then, I couldn’t.
But instead I shrug, “It’s just money. It doesn’t mean anything.”
That was the wrong thing to say, because Charlie turns away and starts snapping photos of the night market as it closes down. She’s looking at anything but me.
“What do you want to do next?” I ask, trying to get her attention back. Trying to win back the ground I’ve lost.
“Aren’t you tired yet? It’s after midnight.”
I shake my head emphatically.
“Um …” Charlie lowers her camera, thinking. When she looks up at me, her smile is wicked. “Fortune telling.”
“Oh come on, it’s a waste of—”
“You just said money was worthless, so …” Charlie shrugs, looking particularly impish.
“That isn’t what I said,” I grumble, but I follow her out of the market and back toward Jackson square.
We fall into step with each other easily. I’m not sure why that surprises me. The first time we ever fit together was when we were walking home together.
And then … well, there sure as hell were other ways we fit, too.
I cut her a glance. I wonder if we’d still fit together. Or if it only felt so good back then because I didn’t have much else to compare it to, and she had literally nothing to compare it to.
Our footsteps fall heavy in the silence.
“Why did you apply for this job?” I ask.
“Why did you break up with me?” Charlie asks, and I stumble.
It’s been ages since that fight with Charlie’s parents, but I can still hear her mom crying, She’s going to drop out for you! What makes you think you’re good enough for her?
“Oh you know,” I say, “a crippling case of low self-esteem. I wasn’t good enough for the great Charlie De Luca.”
I can hear the bitterness in my own voice.
“You don’t have to be sarcastic about it,” Charlie says, and her sudden coolness is like a stab in the gut. “It’s not like it matters anymore. I’m just asking.”
I look down at her in disbelief. She has to be fucking with me. Charlie’s close to her parents. They must have told her some time in the last ten years.
Right?
It slowly sinks in that I’m wasting my time. There’s no way we’re friends by morning. I’m going to have to call Zane and beg.
Suddenly, I just want this night to be over. I’ll call it off as soon as we finish with the fortune teller.
There are several fortune tellers set up around the edges of the green park at the center of Jackson square. Charlie picks a woman with lots of candles and a giant pink parasol.
The woman has two camping chairs set up in front of her table, and the woman gestures, “Take a seat, take a seat.”
We do, even though the chair is too short for me and my knees end up by my elbows. Charlie snickers and snaps a picture, undeterred by my glower. I am really, really not in the fucking mood.
“So how does this work?” I ask the fortune teller.
She reels back in the face of my grumpiness.
“Well, you get three questions. We can do three questions each, or three questions together. I ask the cards and interpret the answer. I ask for twenty dollars, but of course you’re welcome to give more if you’re pleased with your experience,” her voice is soothing but husky, like if a chronic smoker decided to make a meditation video.
“So tell me, what questions lurk in your mind tonight?” she asks.
I glance at Charlie, who’s still hiding behind her camera. “You go first,” I say.
“No, you,” she says.
“You’re the one who wanted to do this,” I mutter.
“That was before … nevermind,” Charlie lowers her camera and faces the fortune teller. “Can you tell me about …”
The fortune teller taps her cards gently, “Many people have a question they think they should ask. But often it’s the simple, ordinary question that’s bothering you that you most need an answer to.”
Charlie shakes her head, “You can’t answer that.”
“Try me,” the fortune teller says, with only a hint of exasperation.
“Fine,” Charlie says, leaning back and throwing her hands in the air. “Tell
me why he broke up with me.”
I sit up indignant, but the fortune teller passes the cards to Charlie—something about getting her energy on the cards—then takes them back and starts laying them out in a complicated pattern.
The fortune teller starts pointing to cards, telling Charlie things about symbols and Hanged Men and Cups of Wheat. It all sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me, and apparently it does to Charlie too, because she cuts through and says, “Yes, but what’s the answer to my question?”
“Short version? He had a broken heart.”
I stiffen. That’s … uncomfortably close to the truth.
Charlie is looking at me speculatively. Like maybe she’s seeing me for the first time.
And I don’t like it at all. This whole wanting to be seen was a horrible idea. Friendship was a horrible idea. I shift uncomfortably in the tiny chair.
“Ok, here’s my question. Why is she being such a pain in the ass?”
The fortune teller rolls her eyes, “Because you broke her heart, and she’s got a backbone. But sure, let’s ask the cards.”
There’s more shuffling and New-Age terminology I don’t give a crap about. Then the fortune teller, flips a card over and pauses.
“Huh,” she says.
“What?” I ask.
The fortune teller looks up at Charlie, “You’re carrying something heavy. Not in the past. Now.” Then the fortune teller looks at me, “Don’t trust her until she sets it down.”
This time it’s Charlie’s turn to shift uncomfortably. And for some reason it makes me want to defend her.
“Aren’t you supposed to be telling us good things so we’ll tip you?” I ask.
“You’re going to tip me anyway,” she says.
“Because you were so helpful?” I ask scornfully.
“No, because you’re a rich rockstar trying to impress your ex,” she says. “My niece loved your concert by the way. Can I get an autograph for her, when we’re done?”
Charlie snickers, and I hear her camera shutter click again. She’s retreated back to where she’s comfortable: behind a camera, mocking me.
I dig out my wallet and pay the fortune teller. Charlie gets another photo of me signing an autograph for the woman’s niece.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe trying to get Charlie to actually see me was a waste of time. We’re not like that anymore. Trying to tell the truth at this point is just picking at a scar that’s there for a very good reason.
The fortune teller counts her money, then gives me three dollars back.
“I only answered two questions, and I feel bad leaving you both out of sorts. Go split some beignets at Cafe du Monde,” she nods to the white building with an open courtyard on the far side of the square. “Welcome to New Orleans.”
6
Charlie
He had a broken heart. I asked the fortune teller why Finn broke up with me because I figured whatever bullshit she made up would goad Finn into correcting her, and giving me a real answer.
But instead he flinched. Like that was the reason.
A crippling sense of low self esteem. I wasn’t good enough for the great Charlie De Luca.
He had a broken heart.
It doesn’t make any sense. He said, We’re not right for each other. He said, We want different things. He said, I don’t love you anymore.
Why would he say that if it broke his heart? Was he scared it wouldn’t work out? I don’t think Finn always liked himself, but it never stopped him from going after what he wanted.
We settle at a cafe table. Even this late at night—or early in the morning—there are other customers. There’s a roof with ceiling fans, but other than that the seating area is outdoors.
Finn’s sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest, his face in perfect profile as he looks away from me, waiting for a waiter.
I raise my camera out of habit, and snap a photo, even though I don’t think any of these photos will turn out. Most of the places we’ve been tonight are too dark, and if I use a flash I’ll end up with a washed out, squinty Finn.
I should have told Finn as soon as I realized this was a waste of time, but I thought maybe he’d eventually let his guard down and give me something I can use for the False Prophet story.
It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that maybe I like spending time with him.
Because I don’t. I absolutely don’t. He’s only gotten more stubborn and arrogant with age.
And those little snarky jokes of his aren’t as funny as he thinks they are.
He had a broken heart.
What would Finn’s heart ever have to break about? He’s a fucking billionaire rockstar. He has stadiums full of people adoring him every night. I shift restlessly in my seat.
The only thing on the powdered-sugar stained menu is beignets and chicory coffee, so that’s what we order. I think of the powdered sugar and pack my camera away for safe-keeping.
Something about the camera going away seems to relax Finn.
“You really don’t like being photographed, do you?” I ask, wonderingly.
Finn shrugs.
“You never used to mind me photographing you,” I say.
“You were the only one who ever looked at those photos,” Finn says.
“Ouch,” I say.
“You know what I mean. No one used to hear my songs either. It’s different now.”
“I’ll say.” The legions of fans. The exposé I’m doing. The break up we can’t seem to talk about.
Even the way he’s looking at me. Years ago, he looked at me in a way that thrilled and confused me, until I realized what it was.
Want. Pure, unadulterated desire. It was addicting, to have someone you loved want you like that.
There’s still want in his gaze—at least I think there is—but now it’s buried under mistrust and years of distance and a host of other things I can’t identify.
It is, if I'm being honest, both thrilling and confusing.
So maybe it’s not so different after all.
I’m rescued from that uncomfortable thought by the arrival of our beignets and chicory coffee.
The smell of butter and carbs fill the air as I take a bite. Powdered sugar and delicate flakes of pastry melt on my tongue.
Across the table Finn gives me the ghost of a smile, “Better?”
“Apparently, I was hungry?” I say, licking my fingers. The beignets come three to a plate, so technically we should each get one and a half but …
“Go ahead. Take the third one. I’ll order another plate,” Finn says, laughing.
The roll of his laughter is as rich as the butter-drenched beignets and, for once, utterly free of sarcasm. I feel myself relaxing under its warmth.
I know it’s dangerous to relax. To let myself get used to having that laugh in my life again. Even if I wasn’t working on the exposé, we live in fundamentally different worlds now. We couldn’t even stay in each other’s lives when we worked across the street from each other. There’s no way Finn Ryan is in my life to stay.
But his smile is easy and open as he slouches in his chair and smiles at me over his coffee.
It’s 1:00 A.M., the moon is full, and I’m in New Orleans sitting across from the first man I ever loved.
I don’t want to fight anymore. And I don’t want to fight liking him anymore.
I take a sip of my own coffee, which is richer and smokier than I’m used to.
“What do you say?” I ask. “Truce until dawn?”
His smile fades, and for a moment I’m worried I’ve ruined the moment, but then he nods seriously, and holds up his mug, like we’re toasting, “Truce until dawn.”
We clink mugs then drink, like medieval knights formalizing an oath. I feel silly as I set down my mug, but also like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest.
“So,” Finn says, tearing off a piece of beignet and popping it into his mouth, “what have you been doing for ten years?”
We talk for hours and hours. I’m drunk on sugar and coffee and Finn, and I know it will hurt when I land—there’s no way we can really be friends—but for right now I don’t care.
I tell him about meeting my best friend in college and the horrible bridesmaid dress I wore for her wedding last summer. I tell him about my first grown-up job, about my photography business. About how it’s almost what I want, but not quite. About how I still get homesick for my family sometimes.
He tells me about the summer he spent traveling the country, broke and lonely, slowly building connections and getting experience, until someone introduced him to Bridget. I bite my tongue, refusing to point out that he made the choice to be lonely that summer, because we’re inside the truce and I don’t want to pop the bubble.
He tells me about how he met Owen and Mariana, and recording his first album, and how great that was. He tells me about his brother’s divorce, and recording his other albums with Zane, and how horrible that was.
When I tell him it’s a good thing he never has to work with Zane again he hesitates, like there’s something he wants to tell me. My senses prickle, and I wonder if this is it, if this is my story. But then he changes the topic abruptly.
It might be a truce, but there are still things we’re both holding back.
Like, for example, that I’m fantasizing about leaning over the table, and licking that powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. I wonder if he’d taste sweet like sugar or rich like butter.
It’s the grey of pre-dawn when Finn realizes we’re a block from the Mississippi and decides we should watch the sun rise over it. I agree because I don’t want the night to end. So he pays, and we wander behind Cafe du Monde and toward the river.
The Mississippi is flat and wide, and somehow more still than I’m used to rivers being. I lift my camera from the place where it’s still hanging around my neck and turn it on to capture the water.
Finn groans, “Oh come on. You’re off for the night.”
“This one’s for me,” I say, peering through the lens. It’s almost dawn now, and there’s just enough light that I think this one will actually turn out well.
