Come Again

by Kate, Jiffy

  “I’ll call you whenever I get where I’m going,” I tell her.

  “You sure do know how to make a mama worry.”

  That makes my stomach hurt for a new reason. I know she worries. She’s told me time and time again that it’s her job. But I also know she wants me to be happy. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  She sighs heavily again. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll just have to pray a little harder.”

  “I love you.” I love that she lets me be me. She’s always done that. She’s never forced me into a box or made me be something I’m not. If I pull up in her drive right now, she’d hug me and kiss me and take care of me, but I also know her heart would break.

  I’ll go home soon, when I’ve had a chance to process what happened and what I’m doing with my life. And I’ll come clean about Brant and what really happened between us. But not right now.

  “I love you, baby. Promise me you’ll be safe.”

  “I promise.”

  “And Avery?”

  “Yeah, Mama?”

  “You know you always have a place here. No matter what.”

  “I know.”

  After I end the call, I pick my coffee back up and take a slow sip, eyes on the road ahead. When I left Houston, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision. I could’ve gone in any direction. I could’ve driven to the gulf. Galveston is only a short drive from our apartment. I could’ve headed to one of the smaller islands, finding solace there. Dallas is a big city and I could’ve easily driven there and got lost in the crowds of people. But I wanted more than that. I wanted to escape and I needed somewhere that would feed my soul.

  I was craving color and life.

  There was only one place on my short list of possibilities that offered all of that and more: New Orleans.

  When I was in the McDonald’s parking lot, I pulled up my Airbnb app I’m always searching through, dreaming of places to go. It didn’t take me long to find a room for rent just a few blocks from the French Quarter. With it being the end of July, I knew my chances of finding something was a crap shoot, because it’s summertime and that means family vacations and the peak of tourism. When I saw a room available for less than forty dollars a night, I jumped on it. It’s only available for the next two weeks, so I’ll have to find something else eventually, but it’ll work for now.

  Hopefully, within a couple weeks, I’ll be able to find a job and begin figuring out what I want to do—what makes me happy. The money I had stashed, plus the additional thousand I was able to pull out of the bank at the ATM before I left the city, will get me by until then.

  I know Brant. He’ll track where I withdraw money.

  When he wakes up and realizes I’m gone, he’ll be furious.

  When he finds out I didn’t go home, he’ll be livid, but also relieved. Relieved, because he’ll be glad everyone else doesn’t know I left. Furiously angry, because he won’t know where I am.

  That won’t have anything to do with his concern over my well-being, but everything to do with his need to control me. Plus, he’ll see my leaving as a failure, as he should, because if there’s one thing in life Brant Wilson isn’t good at, it’s loving me.

  He made the biggest mistake of his life by taking his frustrations out on me.

  I’m never going back.

  A couple hours later, I’m exiting off of I-10 and onto Rampart Street. After a U-turn and another turn down a side street, the typical city view turns unique as I get closer to the French Quarter.

  My heart stops at its first glimpse of the bright colors and old-world exteriors. And then it starts anew, beating stronger and truer than it has in a long time.

  Chapter 1

  Avery

  I’ve been in New Orleans for about forty-eight hours and I’m already in love.

  The jazz music.

  The food.

  The people.

  So many people. Interesting people. Street performers galore—singers, musicians, wannabe singers, and wannabe musicians, mimes, one-trick ponies. Palm readers, Fortune tellers. Voodoo priestesses.

  Now, that one, I seriously considered. The thought of putting some sort of voodoo spell on Brant pleases me greatly.

  On my first day, I checked in and crashed on the soft bed in the airy, bright-colored bedroom. Exhaustion didn’t allow me to think much, thankfully, because when I woke up yesterday morning, the heaviness of everything hit me hard.

  The adrenaline rush was gone.

  The fight-or-flight mode had been neutralized with the warm breeze off the Mississippi. I was left with the bruised face and memories of Brant’s words and heavy hand. It left a mark that’s more than skin deep. Now that my fury has subsided, the pain and insecurities have surfaced.

  It hit me, like really hit me.

  He hit me.

  And he didn’t apologize. Not that it would have mattered. The damage was done, but if he cared, at all, he wouldn’t have left me on the floor alone. He would’ve reached out.

  My phone hasn’t rung since I’ve been here.

  I called my mama once I was in my room and told her where I was, much to her distress and disapproval, and I promised to call her again tonight. She wants to know what happened. She said when Brant called the house yesterday morning he sounded nervous. “It’s not like him, Avery. What happened between you two? You used to be so good together.”

  Not anymore, Mama. Not anymore.

  She promised she didn’t tell him where I was and for that I’m grateful, but I know it’s only a matter of time before word gets around. Mine and Brant’s families frequent the same places. My mama and his mama are good friends. They’ll eventually talk.

  When I woke up this morning, I set out for beignets and café au lait. Café Du Monde was calling my name, so I walked there. I had seen it on Instagram, but other people’s photos never do anything justice.

  The room I’m renting is in Marigny, which is only about a fifteen-minute walk to Jackson Square. It’s a great walk. Everything about this city draws me in and makes me breathe better—freer, lighter.

  After breakfast, I made my way around the square and poked my head into a few places, asking if anyone was hiring, but came up empty handed. One shop said they might be looking for someone to work weekends. If I’m staying here for a while, I’ll need more than fifteen or twenty hours a week, so I told her thank you and continued my search.

  Bourbon was intimidating. Even in broad daylight, it’s full of people from every walk of life. There are suits and sororities, people of all color and levels of nudity—lots of boobs and butts—and everything in between. A couple of the bars had help wanted signs, but I kept walking, deciding Bourbon would be my last resort.

  Actually, I think I passed a bar named that.

  Now, I’m approaching Canal Street and when I get there, I stop to take it all in. The passing streetcars, the palm trees, the restaurants—everything is giving me life. Standing on the corner, people brushing by, cars driving in haste, yet everything still feeling slow and easy, I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

  This.

  I needed this.

  Maybe I’ve always needed this.

  The sensory overload is helpful in pushing what happened with Brant and the state of our relationship over the past year to the back of my brain. I don’t have to think about his hateful words or angry stares. I don’t have to remember the way I can still feel the back of his hand making contact with my cheek, rattling my brain. I also don’t have to think about the way my soul shrank each time he belittled me or made me feel unimportant or a burden.

  Here, in New Orleans, I feel like I can reinvent myself, be the Avery Cole I’ve always dreamed of being. The Avery I’ve always felt inside. The one who came out with crazy hair colors and out-of-the-box clothing choices. Here, I’m just one of the thousands of unique people.

  “Excuse me,” a lady mumbles, bumping my shoulder and pulling me out of my thoughts. It’s then I realize I’ve been standing on the corner through t
he light, but that’s okay. I don’t have any hard and fast plans. Sure, I need a job, but that can wait a day.

  “Excuse me,” I say back to the lady who pressed past me to get closer to the street. She turns a small smile on her lips. “How do I get on one of those?” I ask, pointing at the cheerful, red streetcar coming our way.

  “Where you wanna go?” she asks, keeping one eye on the light and one on me, shifting her head as she watches and waits.

  I shrug, taking another deep breath, looking one way and then the next. “Anywhere, everywhere.” I can’t help the light chuckle that escapes. I just want to absorb my new surroundings, become one with the rich, vibrant city.

  “Just hop on over there.” She points across the street. “It’s a buck twenty-five. You’ll need exact change. This one takes you up and down Canal.” She glances at me, motioning for me to follow her across the street. “The St. Charles line takes you down into the Garden District. I recommend that. Pretty parks and gorgeous houses.” She smiles over her shoulder as she walks quickly in the opposite way. “Bonus: they’re air conditioned.”

  I chuckle, nodding my head. “Thanks!” I call out after her. Air conditioning? They should charge extra, because it’s still early in the day and I feel like I’m literally melting. I thought Houston was hot and humid, but it has nothing on this.

  Jogging to the corner, I dig in my bag and count out five quarters. I’ll start on Canal, then everywhere else. Tomorrow, I’ll pick up my job search, but today, I’m exploring.

  Waking up to the early morning sun shining through the sheer curtains in my room, I stretch. I intentionally didn’t pull the shades last night, wanting to feel like I was surrounded by the sights and sounds, even laying in the quiet, cool bed of the room I rented. It’s part of a larger house, with several rooms being rented out, so I’m not alone, but yet, I occasionally feel it. It’s not a horrible feeling, just different. I’ve never been completely on my own. I went from living with my parents to living with Brant.

  I always thought alone would feel depressing, but it’s actually kind of refreshing.

  After my excursion yesterday, riding the streetcar up and down Canal Street, stopping at a few places—window shopping, grabbing a bite to eat, getting a coffee. I eventually got off and walked back to the French Quarter, finding myself across from Jackson Square standing next to the Mississippi. The Mighty Mississipp’. The Ole Miss.

  I can’t help singing, “Deep River” in my head, doing my best Clark Griswold impersonation.

  Blame that on my daddy. He’s a National Lampoon’s Vacation junkie.

  Today, I’m going to take the St. Charles line down into the Garden District. I’ve always wanted to see the big, beautiful houses, and there’s no time like the present. In a couple days, I should have a job, and I won’t have the luxury to walk around like a tourist all the time, so I’m making the best of my freedom.

  After showering and tossing my damp hair into a messy bun, because humidity, I opt for some cutoffs and a flowy top. Slipping into my flip flops and grabbing my sunglasses to finish off my ensemble, I head out the door with my trusty backpack in tow.

  Being in a rented room, I haven’t felt comfortable enough to stash any of my money, so I’ve been carrying it around with me everywhere I go. It feels safer in a backpack.

  The walk to Canal Street takes me by a small, local coffee shop, so I stop in and grab an iced coffee. When I step back out onto the sidewalk, I smile at the contents in my hands—a coffee and scone. A buzzing city surrounding me. I feel alive.

  It’s not until I get onto the streetcar at St. Charles and slip into the bench across from an older gentleman and he gives me a sympathetic smile that I remember my face. I guess I should’ve used some concealer, but really, I’m not trying to hide it.

  Who is there to hide it from?

  It’s not my fault Brant decided to be a world-class asshole and take out his frustrations on me.

  It’s not.

  I’ve had to convince myself of that a time or two over the last few days. I didn’t do anything to deserve this. I’m not to blame. I don’t think it was too much to ask to know when he was coming home late.

  After I finish my scone and crumple up the wax paper it had been served on, I take a drink of my coffee and offer the older man a smile.

  It says I’m okay.

  “Nice day today,” he says with a nod of his head.

  I smile a little wider. “It is. Hot, but nice.”

  “Hot should be New Orleans’ middle name.” He chuckles to himself, looking out the window.

  I sit back and watch the big, beautiful houses go by. The Garden District is enchanting. I can’t think of another word to describe it. The trees are huge and dripping with moss and some have beads in them, which I assume are leftovers from Mardi Gras. Most of the houses have large columns and shutters. Some have a porch on the second story. All of them have character and seem full of wisdom, like they have a story to tell.

  I want to sit on one of those porches. And drink sweet tea. Maybe rock in a chair.

  Sighing, I scoot closer to the window and lean my cheek against the glass.

  The streetcar eventually comes to the end of the line and I hop off and look around. The area is more modern, more suburban. Not seeing anything that strikes my fancy, I decide to turn and start walking back the way we just came from. I remember seeing a park not too far back the other way and a small café on the corner a little past that.

  A stroll in the park doesn’t sound bad, so I head that direction.

  The park is a lot like everything else in this area—old, green, and charming. I walk through the gardens, sit on a bench, contemplate life, until I’ve worked up an appetite. My coffee and scone are long gone. So, I make my way to the café.

  Crossing the street, I see the sign up ahead. Crescent Moon Café.

  It looks appealing and quaint. There are a few bikes parked out front and it makes me want to get one. I can see that being a good way to get around the city. Between a bike and streetcars, I might not even need a car, which is a good thing, because I’m sure Brant will want mine back.

  I know I need to call him and make things final between us, but I need a few more days.

  “Welcome to The Crescent Moon,” a chipper girl, probably my age, calls out. Her high pony tail sways as she walks over and grabs a menu from the hostess stand beside the door.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, taking inventory of my surroundings—a few booths by the windows and small tables in the center. It’s small and cozy. And whatever is being cooked in the kitchen smells amazing.

  “Corner,” I hear a deeper voice call out as a guy rounds the corner with a tray full of food.

  “Will anybody be joining you?” she asks.

  “No, just me.”

  “Right this way.”

  She takes me to a booth in the corner, the window looking out over the street, lined with large trees with low-hanging branches. “How’s this?”

  “Perfect,” I tell her, my eyes drifting outside, before I toss my backpack into the seat across from me and then slide in.

  “Here’s the menu,” she says, placing it on the table in front of me. “Our specials today are the shrimp po’boy and chicken and shrimp gumbo. Oh, and the dessert is our award-winning bread pudding with warm rum sauce.” Her eyes light up. “It’s to die for.”

  I smile, laughing lightly at her enthusiasm. “Sounds great.”

  “I’ll grab you a water. Tripp will be your server.”

  Picking up the menu, I give it a glance, but the second she mentioned chicken and shrimp gumbo, my mouth started watering. And I plan on saving room for that bread pudding. In a couple weeks, I might be eating ramen and living out of my car, but today, I’m living my best life.

  “Hello.” The guy who was carrying the tray earlier is standing beside my table with a crooked smile. His hair is longer in the front, swept to the side, giving him a bit of a mysterious vibe, almost like he’s try
ing to hide. But he couldn’t. Ever. He’s kind of a hottie. Not that I’m looking, but I am a warm-blooded female.

  “Hi,” I offer back.

  “Have you decided what you’d like or do you need a few more minutes?”

  “No, I think I’m pretty solid. I’ll take the gumbo and a sweet tea,” I tell him, handing the menu back. “Oh, and bread pudding.”

  He gives me the crooked smile again and dips his chin to his chest in acknowledgement. “Solid choices.”

  But as he turns to leave, I call out, “Could I have the dessert first?”

  He turns back, his hair falling over one eye and smiles knowingly, a nod of his head the only response I get.

  I don’t know why, but I feel the need to eat my dessert first today. Maybe I’m subconsciously comforting myself since no one else is here to do it? It’s like retail therapy, but with dessert.

  When he disappears behind the doors leading to the kitchen, I turn my attention back to the window, watching as people walk by. For a few minutes, my mind drifts to Houston and Brant and I wonder what he’s doing...what is he thinking? Does he miss me? Is he sorry?

  I don’t care.

  I don’t.

  I can’t.

  It wouldn’t matter.

  Part of me feels sick when I think about how unhappy I’ve been and that I didn’t leave. Why did I wait for it all to blow up? It’s so stupid. I feel so stupid. Another part of me says that if I would’ve left earlier, Brant would’ve sweet talked me back into his good graces.

  How embarrassing that I was so forgiving of him.

  How humiliating that I stayed.

  How disconcerting it took him hitting me for me to leave.

  What does that say about me?

  “Solid, solid choice,” the same deep voice says, interrupting my internal debate, as a piping hot piece of the most amazing bread pudding I’ve ever laid eyes on comes into view.

  The rum sauce is literally dripping off the side of the plate.

  Melted butter is pooling at the sides.

  And my mouth is watering.

  “Oh, my God,” I groan. “This looks amazing. Like, awe-inspiring.” I laugh at my overzealousness, but I can’t help it. This bread pudding could very well change my life.