by Johi Jenkins
“I just wish I knew for sure. Why won’t she answer my texts?”
“She probably can’t hear her phone, is all.”
As we get farther away from the parades and closer to his apartment, I get more anxious. Not only I feel like a traitor for having left my friends in the middle of a brawl, and Kerin by herself, but I’m also afraid. I dread what awaits me in his apartment. I haven’t asked Thierry about Corben.
He sees that I’m still nervous and takes another stab at it. “By the way, Tori… my brother’s gone.”
“Gone? Where, to Illinois?”
“Probably. I’m not sure where. He wants me to be happy, and… I told him how I feel about you.”
“I still don’t understand why he—”
“No, shh, Tori. Please,” he interrupts me, almost pleadingly. “I just got you back.”
My heart likes his last words. He just got me back. As if it sucked as much for him to be away from me. But then…. If that’s the case, what was it that Corben said that made Thierry leave me in the first place?
I look at him questioningly. “What happens if you tell me? I run away, screaming?”
“Maybe. So you first have to love me so much that you can’t live without me.”
How do you know I’m not there now? I want to ask him. But I don’t, because that would be unwise and clingy of me. Instead, I say, “You’ll explain everything to me, though, right? Someday at least?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Yes… maybe. But for the time being, why don’t you believe what you want to believe? I warn you, though; you’re going to be wrong.”
“Am I?” I ask dubiously.
“Oh yeah,” he says, and he’s almost smiling.
We walk to his apartment and I’m having a hard time keeping my heart from bursting through my glittery purple shirt. I’m playing steamy scenarios in my head as we get closer and closer to his empty apartment, on a day I have all the time I could ask for, and accompanied by my newly admitted love. Also, the alcohol is not helping.
What if he asked me to have sex with him? My first thought is to say no. But the problem is coming up with reasons to back up the denial. I’m too young? No, pff. I’m seventeen. Girls in my old school started doing it at sixteen, some at fifteen. I’m underage? Right. Like turning eighteen this October is going to make a difference in my maturity level.
But how about the fact that I haven’t really dated him? That I know there are things about him which I don’t know? I think it through but I don’t have an answer. If only I didn’t have these unconvincing, questionable preconceptions associating sex with something you don’t just do with anyone.
I’m spared the internal struggle because when we reach the courtyard, right as we pass the hot tub and I’m imagining myself in it, Thierry turns to me and tells me in so many words that we won’t remove a single item of clothing.
“Now Tori, you don’t have to worry about anything. I know there are things we haven’t talked through, but I assure you, we won’t be doing anything wrong. I do love you,” he says. I’m guessing he thinks I’m worried about us being alone, which is why he’s trying to assuage my fears.
“I trust you, Thierry,” I say, hoping to convey a little bit that I’m willing to be open minded about everything.
But he just smiles and kisses me softly on the lips. We climb the stairs to his apartment while I can’t figure out how I feel or what I want. In the end we just end up watching a TV show while I drink a lot of water to compensate for the slight dehydration caused by my three beers. I lie on the couch with him drinking my water, waiting for my buzz to subside and for Kerin to text me back. It feels great to be so close to him and not have to worry about anything for now. I should worry about the future, but I don’t.
The past is a different story, though. The memory of the last time we sat on this couch is in the back of my mind, bothering me. But when he kisses me, everything disappears. The present is so much sweeter.
13. Trespasser
A week later I’m still in dreamland. At home I haven’t exactly said that I’m seeing an older guy. I’m not sure what the Harrises’ reaction would be. Fiona’s not my best pal so I don’t trust her to defend my rights, and even worse, she’s been mad at me all week. I’m assuming it’s because she suspects I got her and her friends kicked out of their privileged spot in the coveted bar balcony. The only time she’s gone out of her way to talk to me was when I came home later that Saturday.
“Who was the guy you left with?” Fiona asked that night. She came to my room, one of those rare visits.
Since I didn’t remember seeing her when Thierry showed up, I assumed she got the information from Kerin. “Oh, that guy. He’s the guy that broke the fight at the bar,” I answered, which was totally the opposite; Thierry started the fight by punching Trent. “I left with him but then I met up with the rest of the group I was with.”
“Well, we got kicked out right afterwards, thanks to that Trent guy. But the next bar was better anyway,” she said.
She didn’t bring up my defection again, and didn’t bother to ask me what I did afterwards. She also didn’t stop to think that it’s weird that I would go back to the group I was with and leave Kerin by herself, but bless her self-centered heart, she believed me.
And ever since then she’s barely spoken to me.
I don’t really know why I lied to her. I could just tell her the truth; what would she care? But I wonder if she’d make a motion to ban all boyfriends and afterschool shenanigans. I’m only afraid because I can tell she’s a little competitive with her friends in school; she’s the prettiest, she always has to have the cutest guy, and she has to be the most popular one. If she were ever to set eyes on Thierry she’d probably feel like I won some battle she didn’t even realize she had with me. After all, I’m just the orphan that lives in her house. I’m not a threat. I don’t have hotter boyfriends than she does.
So I’m torn between wanting Fiona to know and wanting to keep her in the dark. I feel like sharing this victory, but then, I see June demanding, as my guardian’s wife, to meet Thierry. And then she’d convince Uncle Roland that he’s too old for me, and tell me I can never see him again. I’d of course rebel like the problem orphan child that I am and move out to Thierry’s apartment in the French Quarter. June would try to have him jailed for statutory rape, even though we haven’t even gotten to second base. And then I see Fiona coming to my room, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, a smug look on her face. No one has hotter boyfriends than I.
No, thank you.
The only person I really talk to is Kerin. Lynn too, sometimes, but I have a feeling that Kerin and Lynn aren’t as close as they used to be. Not because of me, though. Lynn’s just in a different world. They are, in fact, so different that I wonder how they became friends in the first place. Other than the color of their eyes, hair and skin, they’re opposites: Lynn’s short and plump while Kerin’s tall and lithe. Kerin likes to take chances and have fun; Lynn’s a little more conservative and reserved. Lynn’s extremely applied in school while Kerin’s more of a slacker like me. Sure, we do our homework, but if the difference between a good grade and an okay grade is extra sleep, guess what, we’ll both choose the extra sleep.
Because we’re similar in more than a few ways, Kerin and I have bonded more than I thought we would. So of course she asked me every single detail about the guy she saw me with, and I told her it was the guy, Thierry. She was half excited to have seen him and half angry that she didn’t get a better look. But from the bit that she did see, she agrees that he’s really striking.
With her I talk freely and constantly about Thierry. Or rather, I’ll mention something I did with Thierry and she will ask for details. I have a feeling that she doesn’t quite believe me, but that’s okay with me. The less she believes, the less likely she is to spread the news that I’m seeing someone. Even though she saw Thierry briefly with her own eyes, she acts like she doesn’t
fully believe me, and will sometimes laugh at something I say and accuse me of making it up. I don’t blame her. Even I don’t believe the stuff that comes out of my mouth when I think of the description of the guy I’m talking about.
Thierry himself has been so wonderful. I see him every day, at least for an hour. If nowhere else, at least I’ll see him when he comes by after work; he takes me home every night. I’ve come up with a bunch of favorite ways to kiss him. I’m getting pretty good at it, since that’s all we do. He won’t touch me, and even when kissing he’s been a little guarded. But I’ll take any amount of Thierry that Providence will allow me. I just wish he was more open with me. About what’s been bothering him, and about what happened with his brother.
I’m tired of not knowing.
The weekend comes by, but I’m not excited at all. I have to work both days. Normally that wouldn’t be so bad; even though working both days is tiring, I get to see Thierry after work. But this weekend Thierry’s gone. I was looking forward to spending every one of my breaks with him, but no; he’s supposed to be in Chicago from Friday through Monday. I asked him about school and he shrugged, like college is something he can do in his sleep.
He said he’s working some estate thing, figuring out a financial deal with Corben. He acts all grown up. I suspect that it has something to do with being an orphan; as if not having parents to tell you what to do would make you wiser. Then I remember me, living with my uncle, and how I can’t take care of myself. Nobody expects me to.
No, being all grownup is a Thierry thing.
Whatever the case, I miss him and I can’t wait for Monday. It’s Saturday and I’m at work with John. We have the morning shift, so work is slow, and John and I are looking for ways to entertain ourselves.
John has kept good with his promise of being friends. Every now and then he’ll joke about it, but he doesn’t sound miserable. He’s as over me as I’m over him, I hope, which makes me wonder why we even considered dating. Well, me, I guess I liked him. I’d still like him… in a world where Thierry didn’t exist. But Thierry does exist, even when he was ignoring me, so it could’ve never worked out with John.
What John’s reason is for our relationship not working, I don’t know. But we’re friends, which is good enough for me.
In fact, presently, we’re looking at apartments online during the gaps between the occasional patrons. I told him I’ve dreamed of having my own place, because my situation with the foster parents is not stellar. He says he’s thought of moving out, too, because he’s not happy at home. We both know that neither of us can move out. We’re minors, in high school, and anyway we can’t afford anything decent. Still, it’s fun to see what’s out there.
So we fake-shop for apartments, looking for studios or one-bedrooms for each of us, and sometimes drooling over a two-bedroom. He says when we go to college we can share a two-bedroom, that it’d be cheaper to be roommates. I tell him there’s no way I’m going to be roommates with him.
“Why not?” John asks, and he looks like he’s wondering if he should be offended.
“Because. First of all, if we learned anything from reality TV is that guys and girls living together is always awkward. And second, in this case, it’s worse, ’cause it’s you and I.”
“Oh, come on,” he protests. “You can’t even count that. It’s not like we dated… it wasn’t even a thing, what we had, that one day.”
“Day or week, John, once you take that step you can’t un-take it. So you and I are not living together.”
“Fine. I didn’t want to live with you, anyways,” he says, but he’s joking. “I hear girls like to clean all the time and decorate with lemons.”
“What?” I laugh at his inanity. “Who told you that?”
“TV,” he says with a shrug.
“Oh! Then it must be true,” I say mockingly, and turn my attention back to the screen, continuing to look at apartments.
All the ones we can potentially afford are awful. They’re mostly in what John describes as bad neighborhoods. They don’t even show pictures in most of them.
This exercise has been good in one thing at least. It has made us realize that we can put up with a little bit of extra drama in our homes.
Having accepted our fates, we look at the pricier section, just for the fun of it. This is for people who work full time and make decent money. We look at this section to drool over what we’re missing.
An address catches my eye.
“Man, this looks so nice,” John says.
“Pricey,” I say, looking at the rent. But I’m more interested in the street name. It’s Thierry’s street. I read the description, and the place sounds heavenly: a two-bedroom apartment on a second floor on a secluded French Quarter street, walking distance from Jackson Square. That’s near Thierry’s building. Wait. No—it is Thierry’s building. This is one of the front apartments he rents.
Oh my God. I have to see it.
I can’t pass up this opportunity. Opportunity for what, I don’t know. All I know is I’m suddenly nervous, and don’t want to look at apartments anymore. John asks me if I’m okay—he catches on to the fact that I’m acting weird—and I pretend like there’s nothing going on. However, the second he’s looking the other way I google the listing again. I look at the picture closely. Yes. It’s Thierry’s building. From the picture of the front I can even see the wrought iron gate off to the right, the one that leads to Thierry’s courtyard.
I spend the rest of my shift coming up with lines to say to the listing agent, a woman named Lucy Park. I finally call her when I’m on the bus on the way home. I think I make a fool out of myself, but I manage to set up an appointment for the next day, Sunday. I have to work from 4:00 to 6:00 PM, so I set the appointment at 6:30 PM.
The next day I’m a mess while working. I keep missing what patrons say, and getting questioning looks from John, but I can’t even respond graciously to him. I’m absolutely nervous. Why? I’m only going to see Thierry’s apartment that he rents. It doesn’t mean anything.
Finally, my shift ends, and I walk to the apartment finders’ service office, trembling. I try to get a grip on myself. The agent, Lucy, is a little reserved when she meets me, which is a change from yesterday on the phone when she was all chipper and assured me I was going to love it. Maybe she thinks I’m too young, and can’t possibly make enough money to rent the apartment.
Which is totally true. However, I have a rich boyfriend, who I’m sure would be able to afford this apartment, if it weren’t for the fact that he already owns it.
So, to pacify her fears, I pull out my phone and pretend to text said rich boyfriend, showing off my phone in the process. I make sure to mention that my boyfriend bought it for me. Then I excuse myself out loud, explaining that I’m texting him about dinner at Galatoire’s, which I once heard June say is a fancy restaurant. Lucy gushes over how amazing the restaurant is. I fear she’s going to ask me about a dish, so I say it’s my first time going there. She tells me I have to get the banana bread pudding. I say I’ll make sure to do that.
I think my crappy plan must have worked because after that, Lucy is significantly warmer towards me. At least, she’s not as reserved as she was before.
As we make it to Thierry’s building, we pass his gate and I look in, wistfully. Lucy takes me to the front of the building which I’ve never really noticed before. But now that I see it, the front of the building is lovely. The apartments have a first floor porch that wraps around to the left side of the building, opposite from the courtyard leading into Thierry’s apartment.
The apartment that is being rented is on the second story, and it is accessed from stairs off the side porch. As we get there Lucy explains little details about the building, including tidbits about the first floor apartment, but doesn’t mention the courtyard or the apartments towards the back. Or the dashing young landlord.
At the top of the stairs, I notice she only unlocks the door but not the dead bolt to get inside. W
hich could mean she’s tired of locking and unlocking multiple times per day.
That gives me an idea.
We walk inside, and the apartment is indeed a dream. It’s spacious like Thierry’s, and has much of that same antique feel with the high ceilings and wide crown and base moldings, and details revealing French and Spanish influence. I’m not into architecture but I do appreciate the old buildings here, since I grew up in flat Iowa.
This apartment is something else. You can tell it’s professionally maintained. The ceilings are ten-foot high and the windows are tall, covered with white curtains made of a thin fabric that lets light in and bathes the apartment in the remnants of the afternoon light.
The kitchen has updated appliances, beautiful wood cabinets and stone countertops. The hardwood floors almost shine, they’re so finely polished. The bedrooms are both enormous, and the bathrooms are spacious and bright, with neutral colors and stone floors. The smaller bedroom faces the brick alley that leads to Thierry’s courtyard; the master bedroom the opposite way, facing the porch roof. The master bath includes a shower and a freaking clawfoot bathtub.
This is too much. I have never been in Thierry’s bathroom, but I know his bedroom is the master bedroom. I wonder if it also has a clawfoot tub…. I’m suddenly very curious.
I thank Lucy and babble about how fantastic and perfect it is, and how I can’t wait to tell my boyfriend. She tells me to act quickly because this gem is not going to be available for long. I agree with her and tell her she will hear back from me, as we head back to the door.
I’m prepared. On the way out I purposely hang back, as if giving one last look, admiring the splendor. I let her go out first, then I pretend to admire the stained glass panel above the door, which she calls a transom. While looking up, I stash her business card, which I’ve pre-folded during the tour, inside the sill plate hole so that the door won’t lock when it closes.