by R.S. Grey
“You’re good,” Beau says, leaning down to whisper the words against the shell of my ear. “You must have had an excellent teacher.”
I blush and turn away, praying he can’t see my cheeks in the moody light cast over the dance floor. I want to come up with one of my trademark quick, witty replies, but I’m suddenly tongue-tied, paralyzed by the irrational need to impress him, to make a good second-first impression. I’m grown up now. I’m confident, a New Yorker—yet around Beau, I’ve reverted back to a child, small and meek. Can he tell how nervous I am?
I flush thinking back on the day I kissed him in the apartment, all those teenage emotions boiling up inside me. He could have wrung them out of me like a sponge. It’s embarrassing. I practically threw myself at him—not practically, I DID! I’ve never made such a fool of myself, not even when I marched across the room and tried to dance with Preston during cotillion practice.
It went something like this:
Teenage Lauren kisses Beau.
Beau doesn’t kiss Teenage Lauren.
Beau flings Teenage Lauren off like a cockroach and stares down at her, horrified.
Teenage Lauren thinks maybe there’s still hope? Maybe I need to kiss him better and then he’ll love me?
No, Teenage Lauren. No.
That moment is nightmare-inducing. Even now, my stomach twists into a tight knot.
He rejected me back then, and now look: he’s been back for .5 seconds and I’m dreaming about what it would be like if his hand were between my thighs. I want to buy a bottle of his cologne and douse my pillow. I’ve thought of how we’ll pose for our first Christmas card. It’ll be perfect yet candid, as if we routinely dress up in rustic clothing, wear stylish hats, and cling to each other on mossy woodland logs. We’ll be smiling and laughing. People will tear open the envelope and find themselves inexplicably belting out Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All”.
I need to get a grip.
The music starts to slow down and I’m grateful for the chance to step away from him and regain some composure. I should probably find an exterior door and poke my head out, douse my lungs with some of the cold winter air.
“I’d love to hear about what you’re doing now that you’re back in the city,” he says as he leads me off the dance floor with a palm pressed to the small of my back.
He’s all business.
I probably just imagined we were dancing so intimately.
He turns us so we’re tucked back into the crowd. My eyes skate up to his face. Painfully handsome. Those blue eyes rimmed with the darkest charcoal lashes. How could I forget how handsome he is? No—I never did. In 10 years, I never once forgot what his face does to me, what those perfectly sculpted features can do if only I let myself think about them. My blinders might have been up in New York, but Beau Fortier still snuck right on through. My hand was his hand slipping down into my panties more times than I care to admit. There isn’t a fantasy that takes place in or around my parents’ house that I haven’t exhausted:
Beau and I have sex in his apartment.
We get it on in my old room.
We make love against the side of the pool.
I looked it up one time, and apparently having sex in a swimming pool isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, although I couldn’t read too much about it—Rose interrupted my research and I had to whip my laptop closed so fast, the screen cracked.
“Lauren?” Beau’s trying to get my attention, but I can’t help but laugh.
“I gotta go.”
He frowns. “What?”
Yup. I have to leave—inmediatamente.
I’m Cinderella and the clock is about the strike midnight. I thought I could do this, but now I realize time hasn’t tempered my feelings for Beau. I might have grown up, gone off to college, conquered New York City, but when it comes to him…
I’m still the same emotional teenage girl I always was.
MARDI GRAS IS more about traditions than anything else, some of them better known than others. There are, of course, the beads and boobs accompanying the bedlam on Bourbon Street, but Carnival season and Mardi Gras is so much more than that: krewes, parades, masked balls, doubloons. For a few weeks, the city is painted in purple, green, and gold. Every citizen in New Orleans celebrates Mardi Gras in one way or another, and I look forward to this time of year more than anything else.
However, there’s one tradition that reigns over all the others, one I look forward to the most: king cake. The simple, old-school version is made of Danish dough braided with cinnamon and sugar inside, doused in white icing, and coated in colored sugar. It’s my favorite dessert and I refuse to eat it outside of Carnival season. Every bakery in New Orleans puts its own special twist on it. Marguerite’s Cakes does a Boston Cream Bavarian version. Mr. Ronnie’s deep-fries theirs. Cannata’s has over 60 versions, including snickerdoodle, strawberry cream cheese, and pecan praline, to name a few. I think people who veer from the traditional cake need to check themselves before they…well, you know the rest. There is one version in this entire city that matters, and it’s the original king cake they make at Manny Randazzo, A.K.A. Manny’s. Their recipe is time-tested and a fan favorite. Every morning during Carnival season, there’s a line wrapped around the building, and their cakes are more than worth the wait.
I went yesterday with Rose. We stood shivering in the cold. I lost feeling in my toes, but gained that Mardi Gras feeling in my heart. Actually, that could have been the two cakes I came out with prematurely clogging my coronary arteries. Rose bought four to take back with her to Boston; I thought she was overdoing it. I told her she could get more when she came back down for NOLA’s soft opening, and she told me to watch my damn mouth and mind my own business. Yeah, we both take king cake pretty seriously.
This morning, I’m enjoying a slice with my morning coffee at my parents’ house. I’m allowed to eat cake for breakfast during Carnival season—why do you think I look forward to this time of year, people? It ain’t for the beads.
“Found the baby yet?” my mom asks when she steps into the kitchen.
“No.”
Each cake comes with a tiny plastic baby baked inside that’s supposed to symbolize baby Jesus (though why we’re baking him into cakes, I’m not sure—I mean, hasn’t the little guy been through enough?). Whoever finds it in their slice of cake is usually tasked with something. At my dad’s work, the person who finds the baby has to bring cake for the staff the following week. When I was little, if you found the baby at a king cake party (an excuse for parents to get together, drink, and eat cake), you were crowned the king or queen of the party. It was a role coveted above all else. I used to hunt down baby Jesus like a little Roman bounty hunter.
Now, it’s just sort of annoying. Until we find it, I have to take small bites and gently probe the baked good just to make sure the baby isn’t inside. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve nearly choked to death on the tiny plastic prophet.
“Didn’t you just get this yesterday?” she asks, pointing at the half-eaten cake on the counter. “Where’d it all go?”
“I am so glad you noticed it too,” I say in a conspiratorial tone. “Are you sure all the windows were locked last night? I think we oughta get the cops down here to dust for prints.”
“Uh huh. Are you sure it wasn’t more of an inside job?”
“Hmm, could be…but if it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t you, guess it must’ve been Dad.”
I’m so caught up weaving my web of lies that I don’t check my next bite. I bite down and nearly crack a molar.
“Found him.”
My mom throws her arms up in celebration. “Woohoo! You’re queen for the day!”
I look around theatrically. “So where’s my king?”
She smiles knowingly as she leans down to cut a slice of cake for herself. “Working on it.”
My fork drops to my plate. “MOM!”
I sound petulant, but that’s the only way to get through to her. She should ha
ve learned her lesson after the masked ball: no more meddling in my life.
“What are you talking about?”
“I invited Beau over for brunch later this week.”
“What? Why? When!?”
I sound like a 1930s reporter fresh on the scene of a crime.
“I saw you two dancing the other night.”
She winks like she and I are in on a secret together, but we are in on nothing.
“Well enjoy having brunch with Beau. I hope you two have a lot to talk about.”
She shrugs, seemingly unperturbed. “That’s fine if you don’t want to come. I’ll just tell him you have diarrhea then talk about you the whole time, brag about all your accomplishments. Don’t worry, I’ll assure him that your bathroom habits are normally very regular.”
My face crumbles. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I like Beau, and”—she points her fork at me and a tiny fleck of icing flings onto my face—“I’ve always had an inkling that you do too.”
I SPEND THE next few days knee-deep in work at NOLA. I thought I had an idea of what it takes to open a small business, but as it turns out, I wasn’t even close. My budget—shot. My timeline—delayed. My marketing team is behind, and I think I found a gray hair on my head this morning. I plucked it out and burned it on my stove to make an example of it to its compatriots. If Rose were in town, I’d ask her for some kind of voodoo spell to ward off any others.
Shockingly, the space is coming together really well. The design team is professional and timely. Delays in construction have come from unexpected circumstances, like when the bathroom tiles arrived in crates and every single piece was cracked down the middle—two-week delay. The city needed an extra building permit—four-week delay. The crew found rotted wood behind some of the sheetrock—one-week delay. Electrical, HVAC, lighting—delay, delay, delay.
Every problem shaves another year off my life. I will die at 30, but in the end the space will look just like it’s supposed to: hip, cool, and worthy of an Instagram post. Bloggers will eat out of the palm of my aesthetically pleasing hand.
I’m in the space now, unpacking a shipment of coffee cups we got in yesterday. They’re millennial pink and amazingly, I’ve only found a tiny chip on the rim of one of them so far. My luck might be turning around.
It’s late, nearly 8:30 PM, and normally I wouldn’t be here. By now, I’m usually in my pajamas back at my apartment, either on the phone with Rose or finding a new binge-worthy show on my small TV. But tonight, I’m avoiding going back until I’m ready to crash. Brunch is in the morning. My mom refuses to disinvite Beau, and she is no longer moved when I text her links to budget retirement homes in the area.
Her most recent response was something like, That’s nice honey. Do you think I should whip something up or have Another Broken Egg delivered?
I sighed, told her to order me a Monterey omelet, and slammed the phone down in a fit of fury.
I’m here working late, trying to distract myself from another encounter with Beau. It’s been a few days since the masked ball, so I should have reverted back to baseline. In New York, Beau was there in the back of my mind, but not all-consuming. In the days since we danced together, I’ve been procrastinating dealing with my feelings. Instead of asking myself how I really feel about him, I’m choosing to channel all my energy into work and digesting king cake. It feels good to live rent-free in delusion—I highly recommend it.
“You really shouldn’t leave this door open.”
His voice surprises me and I jump, dropping one of the coffee cups on the floor. It shatters into a million tiny pieces and I do the mental math of what that will cost me. What does it matter? At this point, I’m just flushing money down the drain.
I look up and Beau is already in motion, grabbing the broom and dustpan that are leaning against the counter. He’s polished and professional, dressed in a long camel-colored coat over a black suit. His hair is the color I see when I close my eyes at night.
He steps close, pushes me back, and starts to sweep up the mess.
Okay then.
“Sorry about that,” he says, glancing up.
I fiddle with my oversized Wellesley sweatshirt. “It’s fine.”
“You really shouldn’t leave that door open though.”
I look up to the front door, held open by a heavy box. “It gets too stuffy in here if I don’t.”
It’s the plight of every southerner in winter: it might be freezing cold in the morning, but by the end of the day, it’s always sweaty-sweater weather.
He looks up. “Don’t you have A/C?”
“They’re replacing the condenser. It’s delayed.”
Despite myself, the word makes me smile. Then I shift my expression to neutral, realizing that Beau is looking at me like he likes the way I look when I smile. I narrow my eyes, skeptical. “What brings you here?”
He tips his chin up, arms spread to encompass the room around us. “I heard you were opening up a business. I wanted to see for myself.”
I glance around the half-finished space, angry that he’s seeing it before it’s done. The coffee bar looks lonely and bare without an espresso machine. The walls are still covered in bright white primer. As is, it’s hard to imagine the finished result.
“It’s going to look a lot better than this,” I promise.
He bends low to scoop the shattered ceramic into the dustpan and when he’s finished, he stands up, eclipsing me. “I have no doubt, but I wanted to see it now.”
The way he says it, dark and husky, makes me think he wanted to see me now.
There’s no way that’s the case, though—look at me. My outfit is hilarious compared to his. I threw on leggings this morning with no regard for fashion. They aren’t even my best pair, the ones that hug my butt. These are my giving-up-on-life leggings, the pair I put on when I’m stressed. There is a hole on one of the calves.
I sigh. “Well, you’ve seen it.”
I take the full dustpan from his hand and dump it in the trash behind the bar. When I turn, he’s watching me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. From this moment forward, I decide I will only leave my apartment decked out in my finest clothes. I refuse to run into him dressed like this again; I need to be on an even playing field. I want him to see me like I used to look in New York. I was polished too. I primped. I preened. I even have the female version of that coat in my closet…somewhere.
A crowd of people cross in front of the building, loud and rambunctious. They all carry yard-long frozen drinks in their hands like they’re at an amusement park. Hurricanes, I believe they’re called. It makes Beau frown.
“How late do you plan on staying?”
“As long as this takes.” I hope he’s impressed with my entrepreneurial spirit.
He eyes the boxes near my feet. “That can probably wait until morning. You shouldn’t be in here alone this late.”
I laugh off his concern. “There are a million people out right now.”
“Exactly. We’re only a few blocks from Bourbon—it only takes one drunk guy to do something stupid.”
I want to ask him why he even cares, but that’s a silly question. He’s my friend, my old friend, and he doesn’t want me in what he perceives as a dangerous situation. It’s tempting to fight with him, to explain that I’m a native and I know those drunk college kids are mostly harmless, but I throw up my hands. “Fine, I’ll finish in the morning.”
Besides, I was only working late to avoid thinking about him. So much for that. My pajamas—A.K.A. slightly stretchier leggings—are calling my name.
I grab my keys and phone off the counter.
“Satisfied?”
It takes me a few minutes to check the back entrance and confirm it’s locked, turn the lights off, and head toward the front door. Beau waits for me, though it hasn’t been established why. He said he came to see the space. He saw it. We’re in uncharted territory.
“After you,” he sa
ys, allowing me to walk outside before he lugs my doorstop box back inside.
It’s not that cold, but the wind makes it feel worse than it is. It picks up right away, tousling the curls that have slipped out of my ponytail. They’re stubborn and annoying. Worst of all, according to Rose, they make me look younger than I am. I swipe at them in vain.
Once the door’s closed, I step forward to lock up. My key’s half-inserted into the slot when he speaks up.
“I’m thinking we should go on a date.”
His voice is both smooth and gravelly. My laugh that spills out after is awkward and clunky.
“Oh, is that what you’re thinking?”
My key stays right where it is. My hands are frozen.
“Yes, a date. A meal, perhaps a movie.”
It’s like I’ve forgotten the meaning of the word and he’s trying to teach it to me. Language of origin, please.
“Saturday.”
I laugh some more, my focus still on my key. “Hold on, my inner 17-year-old is crying right now.”
He sighs and steps forward, taking the key out of my hand and finishing the job himself. Very dexterous, that one. When NOLA is all locked up, he holds the keys back out to me. I take them without touching his hand—I know my limits.
“Why now? You don’t even know me anymore. It’s not a good idea.”
His eyes narrow for a brief moment before he catches himself. “It’s a very good idea, and a better way for us to get to know each other again. You wanted this back then, but it wasn’t the right time.”
I throw my hands up in defeat. “Of course I wanted you to pursue me back then! I think I remember cycling through all the major world religions, praying about it like three times a week.”
“So what’s holding you back now?”
Now I do something else three times a week, and it has nothing to do with praying. I blush and turn in the direction of my apartment.