by Layne Harper
“He’ll be here in an hour.” Doctor Hebert stares at me with pity in his eyes. “I told him what’s going on. He’s going to give you a shot that will get you through the show. In the meantime, I’m going to find the best doctor in the world for you.” He pauses for a beat. “Hey, Johnny?”
I look up from trying to use my non-existent x-ray vision to see through my skin.
“I promise you I’ll take care of it.”
Nodding, I walk over to the desk. Picking up the leather binder, I toss it in his direction. “Here’s the room service menu. Knock yourself out.”
Thirty minutes later, Doctor Hebert lets the guy in with our food on a push cart. He sets up the dining room table like this is a date: white linen napkins, roses in tiny vases, and silverware that could actually be silver it’s so shiny. I’d normally think this was funny and give the doc a good ribbing for ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, but I’m too worried and miserable to have a sense of humor.
My cheeseburger smells damn good though. I pick up a French fry and confirm that this hotel knows how to prepare one of my favorite diet staples.
The silence is heavy. I don’t have much to say and focus on eating my lunch.
Doctor Hebert spends a good five minutes preparing his plate so he can eat. Drives me fucking nuts. Therefore, I usually refuse to dine with him. If Jude was this particular about her food touching, I’d have strangled her many years ago.
“I saw the girl recently.” He finally cuts into his filet and takes a bite.
“Jude?” I ask around a bite of burger. I don’t bother using my hand to shield him from the view of my chewed-up food.
“No. The girl whose face I stitched up.”
Fortunately, I’d swallowed, or the food would have fallen out of my mouth. Instead, at the mention of her, the burger slips out of my good hand and hits the china without a sound.
“Her cut healed beautifully. Just a small line that runs along her cheek bone. She bought some makeup I sell to cover scars.”
The ache in my hand becomes damn near unbearable. I walk to the bar to fix myself a drink. I don’t offer the good doctor one.
“She’s really a lovely girl. Sad that she doesn’t need a follow-up appointment.” He cuts another bloody, rare bite. The sound of the knife scraping against the plate makes me crazy. “Her name on my schedule brightened my day. I think she’s single. Might bump into her at one of her grandmother’s charity events.”
My back stays towards him. I have the overwhelming urge to wrap my hands around his scrawny chicken neck and squeeze.
“God, her name just slipped my mind, but I know she’s a Landry. Her sister’s practice is in my building. Maybe I’ll bump . . .”
“MK. Her name is MK.” Turning around, I walk to where my deserted burger lies. I lean over, placing both my hands on the wooden table. “Stay the fuck away from her. She’d never be interested in you, old man.”
He smiles, and that big bushy mustache hides his top lip, but his bottom lip parts enough that I can see his teeth. “You’re done with her. I saw the picture of you and the young model holding hands while I was standing in line at the grocery store.”
That’s bullshit. Doctor Hebert has never done his own food shopping, but I don’t call him on it. Sitting, I drag a French fry through the cup of ketchup. “MK isn’t what she seems.”
“What she seems is a beautiful, gracious, kind, young lady who was in love with you. I don’t know what happened, but during her follow-up appointments she was sad, pretending to be cheery, but failing miserably. If a girl like MK was in love with me, I’d never let her be upset again.”
Fucking Doctor Hebert. I take another sip of my drink. MK Landry. There’s a name that I tried to drink out of my mind yet she keeps rearing her beautiful brown head.
Chapter Four
MK
August
I’ve been relatively quiet over the past month. There’s actually a very good reason this time, and it has nothing to do with an injury. Pop the champagne! Your girl has officially signed a development deal with a major cable network.
Guys, I don’t even know where to begin. I was approached months ago by two producers who thought my blog would make great television material. At the time, I wasn’t mentally ready to embrace such a crazy endeavor.
After lots of prayers, meditation, and good old-fashioned gut checks, I gave them a call. Thankfully, they were still interested, and the rest will, hopefully, be history.
I’m not moving to LA or New York. Because New Orleans is such a prominent feature in No Pink Caddy, it will be filmed here in my beloved city. For that, I am so grateful. My attorney had warned me that they might want to recreate my carriage house kitchen on a sound stage in some warehouse. Even as I type this, I’m making a gagging noise.
I held firm. It felt unauthentic. After lots of negotiations, the network agrees that No Pink Caddy will be more successful if it’s filmed in New Orleans.
Location is still to be determined. Although, you know me. I’ve got plenty of ideas. I can’t wait to share with you when the lease is signed. Hint . . . Hint . . .
Here’s the sappy part . . . thank you! I know that following my site over the past few months has not been easy. When I go back and read the things I’ve posted, I pity me. I went through a dark patch after a difficult break-up and was forced into a spotlight I wasn’t ready for. However, I finally feel like I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Good things are happening again. My mood has switched to one of hopefulness.
I love you guys!
Muah,
MK
Since the initial lunch with Janet and Cindy a month ago, my life has been a blur of activity. I have a lawyer named Aiden Montgomery. He was a sports agent and is now an entertainment attorney. He was highly recommended, and so far, we don’t want to kill each other even when I remember just one more thing after an hour-long conversation and text him in the middle of the night.
My manager is another story. Shannon Saks, which I’m sure isn’t her real name, couldn’t be any more different than me if she tried. She looked camera-ready even when I dragged her to Eddy’s Bar. She has schedules and timelines and argues about everything. I don’t wear enough makeup. My clothes make me look like a middle-age housewife. My Cajun accent is too thick, and no one will understand me. Bella thinks I should fire her, but Shannon’s awesome when it comes to ensuring I’m happy with the decisions that are being made. There’s also a tiny part of me that views her as a challenge. One day, she will wear yoga pants and a baseball cap and go out in public without her makeup on. I just know it.
“I adore this space,” Cindy says. While Janet was working out the details with the cable executives back in Los Angeles, Cindy was tasked with finding a suitable location to film. I suggested a retail store on Magazine Street, a bit self-serving, but she loved the idea. She had heard of Magazine Street, but was convinced once I gave her a tour. Late ninetieth century homes are built next to retail stores from the same period. An upscale antique store catering to the wealthy of the south might be next door to an incense shop or make-your-own pottery place. It’s eclectic and, in my opinion, reflects exactly why I adore my city so much.
We’d made them an offer they couldn’t refuse, and just being inside these four walls gets me a bit choked up. I swallow the extra saliva. “When I worked for my ex-boyfriend’s father’s company, I’d walk by this location every day on my way to work and dreamt that one day this would be where I opened my retail store. It’s been vacant for a really long time.”
Cindy, Shannon, and I are standing inside of the old record store where I purchased my first Madonna CD when I was nine. The store faded to black when everyone switched to digital music some time ago. Many businesses have tried and failed in this location since then. My theory is that they didn’t embrace the energy of the building. It’s cool and chill.
Of course, I made up a backstory. Back in the 60s, this is where local musicians wo
uld bring their demos to play. People would crowd around the record player and listen to the sweet sounds of jazz. That’s how the owner decided if he would buy albums from the un-signed musicians. Artists were single-handedly turned into stars or forced to keep their day jobs based on the crowd’s reaction. Dreams were made or broken inside these four walls just like mine will be.
I walk towards the back of the building. “This’s where I see putting in the kitchen. I think the white marble will contrast beautifully with the raw brick walls.”
Cindy nods. “We’ll need an idea of cost to make sure it jives with the budget, but I think it’s a good idea.” She walks back towards the windows. “The opening of a retail store is a great idea. It shows your creativity and will allow fans a chance to interact with you. It’s going to be great.”
“I agree.” I’m so excited I might just wiggle out of my skin. Excitement is a foreign emotion, but it’s one that I’m becoming reacquainted with. “I’d also like to hire some local artists to paint a mural on this wall.” My heart warms. “I want to make sure that the store feels like New Orleans. I’d also like to pay homage to one of the former tenants, which was a music store. Once it’s open, I’d like to invite local musicians to play here on the weekends. Who wouldn’t want to listen to live jazz while they shop?”
Shannon turns up her surgically altered nose. “Logistically, it’s a nightmare. They would be on-camera so they’d have to sign releases, and it’s not like we’re going to pay them. If someone sings something inappropriate, it will ruin the scene.”
“Buzzkill!” I laugh. She’s so negative.
Cindy shrugs. “I think we can work all of that out, MK. But, let’s do first things first. Let’s hear what the contractor says, get a quote, and go from there.” She checks her watch. “He should be here in a little over an hour.”
Sunlight streams through the dingy windows creating the most beautiful pattern on the worn grey and mint green checked linoleum floor. If I squint, it looks like the amoebas we found in swamp water which we examined under a microscope in seventh-grade science class. Or maybe it’s a paisley pattern that I’ve caught God doodling.
“What do you think about painting these floors instead of replacing them?” The landlord said that he’d give us a renovation budget to update. After seeing the paisley pattern, I think I’d rather keep the old and just give it new life.
Shannon shakes her head. “MK, this floor is garbage and probably asbestos filled. We could be developing lung cancer just by standing here.” She makes her way to the door. “On that note, I’ll be outside.”
Poor Shannon. She’s admitted a couple of times that she doesn’t have a creative bone in her body, or at least, not the same creative bones that I have. “If you think it will be beautiful, I’m sure it will.” Cindy winks. “I’m starving. Let’s get some lunch.”
Before I reply, she turns and joins Shannon outside.
I’m reluctant to leave my store. Technically, it’s not mine, and I shouldn’t get my hopes up that I get to keep it. It’s leased to the production company, not me. However, there is a clause in the contract that after the show is finished filming, I can take over the lease. God, I love this space. It feels like home and where I want to spend every second of the rest of my life. My mind is already decorating it. But not wanting to seem difficult, I join them outside.
It’s hotter than hell today, and the humidity must be at least at rainforest levels. I grab my long hair and grasp it in my hands, twisting it into a knot. My neck instantly feels marginally cooler. Digging in my bag, I locate two pencils and stick them through the make-shift bun.
“Shannon, don’t you want to put your hair up?” Her long black hair lays board-straight against her shoulder blades. Once again, I dig back in my bag to find her a rubber band.
“No need. The heat doesn’t bother me.”
Maybe she’s a reptile. That would be the only explanation for her not being hot and explain a lot of the facets of her personality.
Cindy, whose hair is a short, blonde, pixie cut, begins walking up Magazine. Shannon and I join her. We cross the street and stand in front of La Petite Grocery. I haven’t been back since my disastrous first date with Aaron. Keeping my head down, I focus on not tripping over the uneven sidewalk.
“What about this place?” Shannon asks.
The thought of entering makes me queasy. I don’t know why. Since I’ve been so busy focusing on the show, I’ve really not thought about him. Or checked the Google news alerts. Or peeked at how his album was selling on iTunes. Or replied to any of the messages or comments about the album being about me. I haven’t even checked to see how he’s responded when he’s been asked about the album’s muse. I’ve had my first Aaron-free month.
“Heard the food is bad.”
Cindy’s incredulous. “Janet and I ate here last week; it was great. MK, you should try it.” She gives me a squeeze around my waist. “They’re your new neighbors, right?”
My heeled sandals are attempting to imbed themselves into the concrete.
Cindy opens the door, and I manage to persuade my legs to follow Shannon in. The restaurant looks different in the daylight. It’s cheerier. Memories of that night, which seems so long ago, flash in my brain. A chill overcomes me as I remember the drafty table by the windows. Aaron’s searing-hot touch. A bottle of wine, and a meal that I didn’t eat. Aaron’s words that shook me to my core.
Following blindly, I take a seat on a bench in the front room. Shannon sits next to me and across from Cindy. They chat non-stop about anti-aging procedures, makeup, some jewelry designer I’ve never heard of, and other meaningless things.
I think I act normal. I think I interject in the conversation and don’t reveal that I’m a mental case. I know I order and consume food, but I’m not sure what it is. My lungs don’t seem to be able to inhale enough oxygen or expel carbon dioxide. Being confined in these four walls brings back a storm of emotions and feelings that I thought I had either packed away or gotten over. I didn’t realize, until right this moment, just how much I miss him and how angry I still am that he cut me out of his life.
Checking my phone, I note that I’ve survived for a good forty-five minutes. That’s long enough, right? I need to remove myself from this space.
“I’m going back to the store,” I announce as I throw my napkin on the table.
Not waiting for them to respond, I rush out the front doors, now basking in the heat and humidity of a New Orleans August, instead of running for AC like the rest of the Cajuns. Leaning against the restaurant’s brick wall, I find a spot of shade and sink to my bottom, finally feeling like I can breathe again. My hands lock behind my neck, and I stare at the concrete, so mad at myself for behaving this way. I repeat the words I’ve said at least a million times. It was only two measly weeks. He’s just another guy showing you what you want and don’t want in a partner.
Apparently, my fingers didn’t get that message because without thinking, I take my phone from my bag and fire off another text to Aaron. I know it will go unread just like all the ones before. I’m sure he has my number blocked so they’re hidden from view. I haven’t messaged him since right before I made the break-up post live.
Me: It’s been nine months since I’ve seen you. If I’d known it would have been the last time, I’d have asked for my necklace back. I know that sounds petty, and right now that’s how I feel. I’m so angry at you. How dare you let me fall in love with you? I thought you wanted me like I wanted you. I thought what we had was real. I thought it was going to be tough, but we’d find a way to make it work.
Now, I think I’ve moved on. Good stuff is happening to me. Yet, I can’t visit a place that we’ve been together without feeling like I want to die. I hope the girl you’re pictured with makes you happy. If so, mail me my ducking necklace back.
I send it before double-checking. Stupid spell check changed fucking to ducking. Whatever. It’s probably one of the most inarticulate things I’ve
written, but it’s honest. It’s raw. I am mad at him. I’m mad that he still has such a strong pull over my emotions. They say you can only hate someone you love. God, I know I am walking that razor-sharp edge.
Feeling marginally better, I stand, brushing off any dirt from my behind. This is one of the few times in my life that I wish I smoked. It would be nice to have an excuse for hanging out in front of a restaurant when it’s like ninety-eight degrees outside while I wait for my party to finish their meal.
Shannon doesn’t keep me waiting. Her perfect shade of black hair is now affixed high on her head in an equally-perfect ponytail. There’s not a bump or strand out of place. I should have known that she couldn’t just put her hair up without a brush and mirror.
“What was that that just happened in there? Are you on something?” If her forehead wasn’t so frozen, I’m sure a V would be between her eyes.
“Nope. I’m fine. It was just so stuffy that I had trouble breathing. Needed some fresh air.”
Her hand rests on her paper-thin hip. “What does that even mean? MK, this air is so thick out here that it’s like breathing underwater. I feel like a fucking fish.” She walks right into my personal space and whispers in my ear, “Get it together, sister, or Cindy and Janet will walk. Do you really think that they’re going to invest in you if they believe you’re a nut job?”
As she steps back, I sigh. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll do a better job. I promise.” Swallowing my pride, I feel like the bad puppy who just peed the rug.
Cindy joins us with furrowed brows. “You okay?”
“She’s a bit under the weather. Maybe we should send MK home, and we’ll talk to the contractor,” Shannon answers for me.
I’ll be damned if I let anyone else make choices and decisions about my dream. “I think I’ll be fine. I apologize, ladies. Just so distracted by the show and opening a store.” The saying fake it until you make it plays in my head. “It’s like that hour on Christmas morning when you’re awake, and you want your parents to wake up so you can see what’s under the tree. That’s how I feel about meeting with the contractor.”