“What?” Kiana said.
“Oh, baby,” Genevieve said. “The floats aren’t forgotten or neglected.” She nudged her chin toward the warehouse as the ferry moved past it, approaching the Riverwalk and terminal. “That’s valuable, important stuff. Stored away for when we need it. Every time we need it, any time we need it, there it is, in its own special place, beautiful, safe, and sound. It’s like a holding place for good memories, waiting to be recalled again and again.”
Kiana wanted to put her arm around Genevieve. It felt like the right thing to do after saying something so comforting, so true. But it also felt wrong. She wasn’t there to get wrapped up in the warmth of this new woman, this woman who unsettled her and challenged her outlook of the world. She knew what she wanted, what she needed. She wanted and needed to talk to Michelle. To make right all the things that went wrong. Instead of seeing Genevieve as a threat to that, she should have seen her as a way to change her approach. But in changing her approach, was she changing herself?
At odds with her feelings, she playfully bumped Genevieve’s shoulder and turned away from the railing.
“I’m feeling inspired. I think I’m ready,” she said. She walked toward the exit. She turned to Genevieve. “Thank you,” she said.
“Glad I could help,” Genevieve said with a sigh.
Kiana detected a trace of disappointment in Genevieve’s sigh, but dismissed it. She held out her hand for her as a gesture of friendship. Genevieve took it with a smile. Kiana squeezed her hand in response and held it as they cleared the ferry gates.
Chapter Seven
Kiana sat at Café Du Monde sipping a hot coffee. Genevieve had been right; the coffee, strong and aromatic, was just what she needed to settle herself for her talk with Michelle. The chicory and crème in her café au lait worked just as the breeze on the ferry had; she felt peaceful and relaxed. Unfortunately, every ounce of calm drained from her the second Michelle, dressed in a button-down, salmon sundress and strappy brown sandals, came walking up to the table. Looking flirty and cool, she smiled at Kiana and pulled at the empty chair across from her. A small group of pigeons rustled around the table, cooing as they fluttered out of the way.
“Good afternoon,” Michelle said. She pushed her oversized, Jackie-O sunglasses off her face and onto her head. With her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, she looked young and fresh-faced. Her almond eyes always sparkling with mischief and a ready curve set on her glossy lips, she sighed and looked around. “Surprised you wanted to meet here.”
“Why?” Kiana asked. She looked over her shoulder at the other tables. The place was busy; only a couple of empty tables were available, and everyone there sipped their coffee, munched their pastries, and brushed powdered sugar off their mouths between laughs and joyful conversation. Napkins blew around among the pigeons, and a street performing duo—two women, one on a drum machine and the other on an electric violin—provided a groove in the background.
“They don’t serve alcohol,” Michelle said with a shrug.
Kiana flexed her jaw. “Don’t start, okay?” She had thought briefly, with the first sip of her coffee, how good it would taste with a shot or two of Maker’s, the whiskey giving it just the right bite. She hadn’t brought her flask, and she had promised Genevieve before she left her at the café that she would have a sober conversation. An honest, sober conversation about her feelings.
“I’m just saying,” Michelle said. “It’s not like you.”
“Anyway,” Kiana said. “Can I get you something?”
“No,” Michelle said. “I’m all right. I’ve already had too many beignets. I’ve got a dress to fit into in a couple days.” She giggled and pulled a bottle of water out of her large brown leather bag. She set the bottle on the table and looked around. “It’s so nice out. Don’t you just love New Orleans?”
“Look, let’s not fuck around here,” Kiana said. “What the hell is going on with you? How do you just leave me, tell me you’re not coming back with a fucking text message, then five months later send me a fucking wedding invitation? A wedding invitation, Michelle. Everything about this situation is fucked up.” She exhaled. She’d already messed up. She was supposed to be calm and non-confrontational.
Michelle’s eyes widened. She leaned back in the green vinyl chair, the metal legs squeaking slightly. She placed a hand on her chest, just above her breasts, which were plumped in a teasing swell of cleavage at the unbuttoned collar of her sleeveless dress.
“Really, Kiana?” Michelle said. “You’re going to make this about me leaving?” She spoke in a hard whisper, her eyes darting over her shoulder at the crowded tables.
“What else would it be about? You left me. Just left me and didn’t come back or explain anything or—”
“So you’re the victim,” Michelle said. She shook her head in disbelief. “Of course you are. What was I thinking? Nothing could ever be your fault.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Kiana placed two hands on her small coffee cup, wrapped her fingers around it to keep them from trembling. She bit at the inside of her cheek and tapped her foot. She felt a nameless but familiar frustration building. She took a deep breath. “Maybe you need to tell me what you think happened because what happened to me was that my girlfriend, my lover, my partner, left me for a vacation to visit friends then called me days later to tell me she wasn’t coming back.”
Michelle shook her head with a smirk. “You are pathetic, you know that? You always find a way to tell a story as if everything happens to you. It’s like you have no responsibility for what you do, what you say. You only hear what you want to hear. I’m done letting your drunk ass rewrite history.”
“What?” Kiana said. She pulled her hands back from the coffee mug, afraid she’d crush it in rage. Her face hot and jaws so tight her teeth ached, she wanted to scream.
“Do you have any idea what it was like being with you?” Michelle leaned forward. “You’re broken, Kiana. The sulking, the rage, the negativity. Everything was glass half empty with you. And you kept drinking it down. I wasn’t going to let you bring me down.”
Kiana caught her bottom lip in her teeth and bit down hard. She cut her eyes at Michelle, wanting to grab her and shake her for the things she said, the lies. She needed to get up. She needed to break something. She needed a drink. She looked around the café. A few customers were staring in her direction, raising their eyebrows and frowning. She returned her gaze to Michelle.
“Fuck you,” she said in a low grumble through clenched teeth.
“See?” Michelle said.
“See what, Michelle?” Kiana clasped her hands together beneath the table. “If I was so difficult to be with, if everything was so terrible with me, why did you stay in the first fucking place? Why even be with me at all?”
Michelle’s eyes watered. “I saw something. I thought I saw something. Your passion, your creativity, your smile. I thought you’d be great. I thought we’d be great, Key.”
Key. She hadn’t heard the nickname aloud in forever. It softened her, melted the block of ice that sat in her chest. Kiana thought about when she and Michelle first met. She wanted to know her the second she saw her, struggling up the stairs with an oversized, army-issue duffle bag, a crate of books, and a pair of roller skates slung over her shoulder. Kiana put her small bag of groceries on the landing—a plastic shopping bag with two limes and a six-pack of Coronas from Dominick’s—and rushed to help her.
“Moving out or in?” Kiana had asked.
“In,” Michelle said. “The elevator worked when I came to look at the place. Please tell me it’s just bad timing and not a regular occurrence.”
Kiana laughed. “It’s a very temperamental contraption. A pain in the ass, but you save a fortune on gym memberships.”
Michelle rolled her teasing, dark brown eyes then smiled, her lips moist and full and made for kissing. Kiana offered to help, and without hesitation, Michelle had offered her bag and box of books to her
, leading the way up the remainder of the stairs to the third floor. That afternoon, Kiana helped Michelle move into her new apartment, a floor below her own on the opposite side of the building.
“You are amazing,” Michelle said. She put a hand on Kiana’s shoulder, and Kiana felt the heat in her palm, the strength in her fingers. “Let me make dinner for you. As thanks.”
Kiana had shrugged as if she could take it or leave it, but in reality, the touch sealed the deal. She was smitten and trying to play it cool. Out of breath and body aching, she tried to remember the last time she had done so much heavy lifting. She could barely find her voice. Her head hurt. She remembered her abandoned bag of beer and limes in the stairwell and sighed. Yet, if Michelle needed it, she would carry a hundred more boxes up a thousand more flights of stairs.
“Okay,” Kiana had said. “Dinner sounds nice.”
“Good! I’ll make nachos,” Michelle said. “Give me your beer and I’ll put it in the fridge. They’ll be nice and cold by the time you make your way back down here.” She smiled and ran her hand down Kiana’s arm.
They shared a single paper plate heavy with chips, salsa, seasoned ground turkey—Michelle didn’t eat red meat—and gallons of cheese sauce. And after sipping their way through four bottles of Corona, two each, Kiana and Michelle made love in the middle of the living room, the makeshift picnic dinner serving as an appetizer for the real meal, Michelle, who was as soft and sweet and tight as she looked. While Michelle slept, on her back and gently snoring, Kiana drank the last two beers and looked out the window, already breaking her usual rules—her job and her apartment were supposed to be off limits for romance. Yet, instead of leaving, she slid behind Michelle on the floor and held her, inhaling the wild curls at the base of her neck, a spicy sweet like gardenias lulling her to sleep. Over the next few months, Kiana would slowly help Michelle move her things up one more floor.
“I thought we were great,” Kiana said. She forced herself to push past the memory. It made her bones ache. “And so this…this Michael…” She sighed and looked away. She wanted to know how Michelle had met him. How he entered the picture. If she knew more about him, she could use him. She could blame him. And if she could blame him, she could blame Michelle. She could be a whore. A dick-riding whore who never loved her, and everything Michelle said about her could be convenient lies to shift blame.
“He’s nice. We have fun together.”
“I’m nice. We had fun together,” Kiana said. Her mind flooded with memories of Michelle, dark hair an explosive crown of red-streaked coils, tight jeans hugging her hips, and braless breasts swelling against the faded screen print of her favorite tee as she danced and laughed, always, always throwing a glance and smile to Kiana at the bar.
“He’s easy,” Michelle said. She sat back in her chair. “No surprises. No disappointments. He’s less complicated and less needy. He’s not sad.”
Kiana didn’t know what to say. She felt sick. She felt tired. She couldn’t fully process what was happening, what Michelle was saying to her about her.
“Did it ever occur to you that I needed you? That I needed your help?” Kiana’s voice caught as she spoke. Tears burned her eyes.
Michelle took a deep breath and shook her head. She pulled her glasses down on her face and crossed her arms. “The kind of help you need, I can’t give you.” She stood and grabbed her bag from the table.
“Wait!” Kiana slammed her fist on the table. Michelle’s bottle of water teetered, and several people turned in the direction of their voices. She pushed herself up from the table with so much force, her chair toppled over. Michelle looked around nervously.
Michelle sighed and shook her head. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got another appointment.” She swiped at a dust of powdered sugar on the bottom of her bag.
Kiana took a deep breath, tears blurring her vision and her heart pounding in her chest. She bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m not done, Michelle. We’re not done.”
“Oh, Key,” Michelle said. She pressed her lips together. “But we are done. We’ve been done for a long time. I just hope that we can be friends. I guess that’s why I invited you here, to my wedding, so that we could work on that.”
“I don’t want to be friends,” Kiana said. “I want—”
“I’ve really got to go,” Michelle said. She turned quickly and walked away from the table.
“No!” Kiana yelled, ignoring the stares and whispers, the gawking and pointing.
But Michelle didn’t stop. She slid between the tables without turning around, a wave of pigeons taking flight as she pushed through them.
Chapter Eight
Kiana didn’t remember calling Genevieve, so it surprised her when she opened her eyes to both Genevieve and the hotel bartender standing side-by-side in the last stall of the women’s bathroom down the hall from the lobby.
“Genevieve,” she slurred. “You’re here. You came.” She reached out a hand, but her arm, heavy with drunkenness, flopped back to her lap. She sat on the toilet, her pants intact, but her belt undone.
“Are you sure you have her?” the bartender said to Genevieve though he stared at Kiana, who cut her eyes at the both of them. Genevieve crossed her arms over her chest, the relaxed drape and invigorating brightness of her orange dress clashing with the tension of the moment.
“I’ve got myself, buddy,” Kiana said. She struggled to stand, pressing one hand against the stall and gripping the toilet paper dispenser with the other.
“I’ve got her,” Genevieve said. She put a hand on the bartender’s shoulder. “Thank you for letting me come back here to get her.”
“You came right on time, baby,” the bartender said, shaking his head. Tall and skinny with a thin goatee, he pulled his gold vest down and stuffed his hands into his tuxedo pants. The fluorescent overhead light in the bathroom bounced off his bald head. “My manager told me to call the police.” He looked down at Kiana as she continued to struggle to her feet. “Is she going to be all right?”
“I’m gonna be fucking fine,” Kiana said. “And I’d appreciate it very much if you would stop talking about me like I’m not right the fuck here.”
The bartender sighed and raised his hands in surrender. “Baby, good luck with this one.”
“Thank you,” Genevieve said.
The bartender whistled as he exhaled and shook his head at Kiana before he turned and left the bathroom.
“Can you believe that dude?” Kiana said. “Why was he even in here? This is the women’s room. He’s not even supposed to come in here. Men are not ALLOWED!” She yelled the last in the direction of the exit, her voice echoing in the empty bathroom.
Genevieve took Kiana by her arm and helped her stand. “Would you hush?” she said. She pulled at Kiana, who finally stood and leaned on her, trying to find balance on wobbly legs.
“My leg is asleep,” Kiana said loudly. She stomped her foot. The pins and needles sensation made her wince. “Shit that feels weird.” She laughed. “Don’t you hate when that happens? When your foot or hand falls asleep? You know how it gets all tingly and shit. Crazy, right?”
Genevieve sighed. “I need you to shut up and concentrate on walking.”
*
Kiana opened her eyes and sat up in bed. The darkness of her hotel room betrayed the hour; with the heavy beige drapes pulled closed, it looked much later than five thirty in the evening. She stared at the digital clock beside the lamp and phone, trying to figure out how she got up to her room. She remembered Michelle and her teasing beauty, her unkind words, and her cruel smirk. The kind of help you need.
“Fuck her,” she said aloud to herself. She belched and grimaced at the acidic bite of bile that jumped up her throat and burned the back of her tongue as she swallowed. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet toppling the empty wastebasket set beside the nightstand. She furrowed her brows at the carefully placed puke bucket then looked around the room. The bathroom door was closed.
“Hello?” she said into the darkness. “Hello?” She pushed herself up from the bed, her head swimming and pounding at once, a ship battered by a storm, a swell of whiskey curling and crashing in the pit of her stomach.
The door opened and orange light spilled into the room. Genevieve came from around the corner of the doorjamb, a wet washcloth in her hands.
“Oh, it’s you,” Kiana said.
“Who else would it be?” Genevieve said. “You haven’t got a single friend in this town, baby.” She shook her head and walked toward Kiana. “Sit down,” she said, pushing Kiana down by the shoulder.
Kiana plopped on the bed, her knees weak and back sore. “When did you get here?”
“You called me,” Genevieve said. She helped Kiana lie down and placed the warm towel on her forehead. She reset the toppled bucket beside the bed.
“You know, I don’t really need that,” Kiana said. “I haven’t thrown up from drinking since…since…shit, maybe my first time getting loaded.” She closed her eyes against the warm, moist towel. At twelve, she had stolen a bottle of watermelon Boone’s Farm from the corner store. She drank it all, gulping it like juice while crouching beside a trash can in the alley behind the house she lived in with Karyn and Mrs. Joyce, the old woman who took them in when their mother died. Karyn’s friend Tasha, seventeen and all legs, caught her and snatched the bottle away. She threw it in the trash. Kiana cried, and Tasha pulled her into a tight hug, rubbing her back and whispering into her ear that everything would be all right. Kiana squeezed the older girl back, burying her face in the warmth of Tasha’s neck. Jean Nate. Baby powder. Comfort. She had inhaled deeply and pressed her lips against the hollow of Tasha’s neck. Tasha pulled back, startled. Kiana thrust her face forward and kissed Tasha on the mouth, a frantic smash of lips and teeth. Tasha pushed Kiana off her and smacked her across the face. Kiana’s stomach lurched, and she had thrown up, ground chunks of Chick-O-Stick swimming in orange and red swirls at her feet.
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