by Lena Black
I walk back into the living room and flop onto the couch, keeping a few feet between us. I kick my feet up on the table and take a draw of my beer. I don’t normally drink it. Hell, I don’t normally drink. But, you know, when in New Orleans.
“What’s her name?” I ask, staring down at our feet. Not that they’re particularly interesting, but easier to look at than his eyes.
“Who?” I sense his eyes turn on me, drilling into my profile.
“Your ex,” I clarify.
“Depends on who you ask. My friend, Izzie, calls her Skankenstein. If you ask the cock she’s spreading her legs for, probably dumb whore. Since that’s all she’ll ever be to him.”
This girl burned him bad.
“What should I call her?” I press, trying to pry more out of him.
“Nothing.” He tips his head back, the sudsy brew pouring down the neck of the bottle and into his mouth. He wipes it with the back of his forearm. “We never need to talk about her. So, there’s no need to know her name. Not to be rude. You don’t need to get wrapped up in that drama.”
“Just her clothes,” I remind him. “And if you haven’t noticed,” I continue to refresh his memory, “her things are everywhere.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to trash some stuff.” He dips his head. “And I’ll buy you some clothes.”
“Not necessary. I’ll do it myself when I get the cash.”
“If you want.” He shrugs his shoulders.
Typically, I’d have to fight tooth and nail for the chance to make my own choices. Often, I’d lose. Freedom is refreshing.
“Did you get enough sleep?”
“Mm-hm. I woke around nine.”
“You needed it.”
His concern for me is nice. Gives me a fluffy feeling in my gut.
“It’s kinda late,” I mention, shooting for disinterested and aloof, hitting desperate and naggy. “Where have you been?”
“Dealing with,” he pauses, contemplating his words, “someone.”
Whoever this someone Greier speaks of seems to have an ill-effect on him. It’s in the crease of his brow, the tick in his jaw, the brief flash of pain in his eyes.
I take the hint. Subject off limits. That’s fine by me. He doesn’t owe me a step by step of his every move.
“You must be exhausted,” I comment.
“Nah. I’m going down to the office for an hour or so. I have to finish a few things. Will you be alright?”
“I’m a big girl.” I scrunch my nose at him. “I can watch myself.”
“Ha ha.”
“Really, I’ll be fine, Greier.”
“Yes,” he agrees, “you will.”
The next morning, I wake feeling strangely happy and optimistic. Honestly, as miserable as the other day was, I’m anticipating what’s next for me. I’ve never been surprised by life because it was always planned well in advance. It was textbook.
I shower and then put on a floral day dress that fits me alright. It’s loose in the bust, but a fashionable scarf fixes that. I rummage a pair of cowboy boots from the closet, the only shoes capable of staying on my feet. Not my usual style, but what the hell? I’ll shop for clothes once I’ve made some money. Since I have no makeup, I leave my face au naturel. I knot my inky hair atop my head and pin it in place.
I look worn down. But presentable.
When I’m finished, I head down to the restaurant, nervous about my first day of work, and locate Greier behind the bar, filling the icebox with a tub full of, well, ice.
“Well, that’s much better,” he says, smiling up at me from his task. I like the way his eyes light up when he does.
“I feel better,” I admit. “You want me to start today, right?”
“Yup,” he answers, shutting the lid and walking over to me.
“Where do I start?”
“Let me show you around, get you acquainted with everything before we open, which is ten by the way. We don’t start serving drinks until noon.”
“Mornin’, sug,” an aquamarine-haired beauty greets him, her voice dragging out the words with her Weeziana drawl, her gait equally as sluggish and flavorful.
Please, don’t let her be his ex.
I study her with stealth. She’s stunn-ing. STUNNING. Her intense eyes match her intense hair. And there’s a shot of coffee in her cream. She’s curvy and tatted and badass and the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Nothing like me. I’m prim and proper and raised to be a mindless drone.
She flashes me a brilliant smile between two red-velvet lips. “And who are ya, suga’?”
“Izzie, this is Reagan,” Greier steps in and introduces us. “She’s our new waitress. Rae, this is Izzie, my best friend, head bartender, and co-owner of the Magnolia.”
For some reason, I want to kiss and hug Izzie. Maybe it’s because she’s not his ex. I’m wearing the woman’s clothes, sleeping in her bed, and screwing her man. I have a profound desire to never EVER meet her.
“Takin’ over for that train wreck of an ex, I see.” Clearly, she isn’t referring to the waitress position. Holding out her hand, which I take, she gives mine a firm shake. “Enchanté.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Iz,” Greier chimes in, “familiarize Reagan with things around here. I’d do it myself…”
“I’m sure ya would,” she quips, one side of her ruby mouth snaking up into a challenging smirk.
“Down girl,” he warns. “I’ll be in the back placing orders.”
“Don’t ya worry yourself.” She steps next to me and swings an arm around my shoulders, “I’ll take good care of our girl,” giving me a slap and a hard squeeze on the bicep. She’s strong and can probably take care of herself when the drunks get rowdy.
Greier nods to her and then asks me, “Are you going to be alright?”
“Va-t’en,” Izzie mumbles in (what I assume is) French. I studied it in high school. I understand better than I speak though.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Greier grumbles back to her.
She laughs.
He looks at me again. “Well?”
“Go make your order.”
He smiles at my crude assurance.
“Alright.” He turns and strides toward the back. I watch him until he disappears down the hallway.
“Well, well, well. What was that about?” my blue-headed coworker-slash-sorta-boss asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask, going for blasé but bombing epically.
“Ya’d make a terrible fuckin’ actress,” she states. “Don’t eva move to Hollywood.”
She playfully scrunches her nose.
“Tell me what you really think.”
“Alright.” She sets her hands on her rounded hips. “I think Greier’s actin’ all kinds of funny ‘round ya.”
“Seems normal to me,” I observe, bobbing my shoulders.
“Sug, ya don’t know Greier.” She isn’t wrong. “That boy neva smiles.”
“He’s probably happy I came when I did,” I suggest.
“Oh, I bet he is.” She winks at me.
I chuckle at her forwardness, hoping she doesn’t notice the blush painting my cheeks. “For the waitress job, I mean.”
“Whateva ya say, darlin’. Whateva ya say.”
After Izzie has shown me the ropes (where to locate condiments, how to approach customers, which table numbers are which, who’s sleeping with who), she hands me the menus to go over. She said the day shift was the easiest depending on the time of year. Once I had it down, Greier would move me to the night shift, where the money comes in. But, for now, slower is perfect. It offers me time to find my footing.
We set tables and chairs out on the sidewalk-patio and open the French doors, which wrap around the corner building, opening it to the streets.
Now sober and aware, I’m able to take in the Black Magnolia. The rich carved woods, the brick walls, the aluminum paneled ceiling, the octagon tile floors. It’s dark and masculine, like it’s owner.
&nb
sp; Two other girls and three guys are scheduled for the day shift. I’m expected to shadow one until I feel ready to fly solo. Since Izzie only came in to check on things and isn’t supposed to work until the night shift, she leaves me to it, wishing me luck.
The customers start to cram in not long after she leaves.
If this is the slow shift, I can’t imagine what busy looks like. An unrelenting current of patrons flow in, and there are always parties waiting to be seated. One group finishes, another pops up in their place. It’s hard work, but I manage the pace pretty well considering it’s my first day. When my “mentor” steps aside to watch me work, I mess up one order and spill a drink on the floor, but other than that…
Greier mingles with customers and handles any crises that occur with an authoritative poise. I catch myself watching him when I should be taking an order or waiting for a drink at the bar. Izzie was right. He’s friendly, but he never once smiles. Not really. Maybe a twitch now and then.
Then his eyes catch mine, and his lips widen prominently.
It isn’t easy being around him when images of his unclothed, perspiring body strike my brain like bolts of X-rated lightning. He allowed me to take charge, guide what we did and how fast we went, even though he was in control the entire time. Whether in the bedroom or the bar. He handles people and issues with an assertive confidence that comes from experience and knowhow. No surprise this place is the success it is.
By the end of my workday, I almost can’t make the climb to his apartment. I flop on the couch in the living room, unable to take the thirty paces to the bed. I close my eyes, mentally insisting I’ll only shut them a minute.
When they open again, Greier’s carrying me to the bedroom, the outside light soft and pink. I lift my heavy eyes to his, and they’re already on me.
“I thought,” I yawn, “we were keeping this platonic.”
He lies me down on the bed, his hand cradling the back of my head and pulls the covers over me, tucking me in snuggly.
“I didn’t realize putting you to bed was crossing that line.”
I’m so snug in my cocoon of comforters, pillows, and the scent of Irish Spring, I’m asleep before I come up with a response.
“You’re going to think it’s crazy.”
After we close for the night, Izzie and I shoot the shit over a drink down in the bar. It’s a weekly ritual. Has been ever since we opened the place. We usually go over how the restaurant is performing, things we need, ways we can improve. But naturally the conversation turns to my mysterious guest sleeping in my bed this very minute.
“Try me.” She sips on her bourbon, swishes it in her mouth, and then swallows with a hiss. “Where did ya come across her?”
“She appeared out of nowhere. Like a dream or a wish come true.”
“What’s hard to believe about that?”
Like a broken faucet, I leak every detail of the other night, except where I pounded her like a drum in a metal song. I don’t fuck and tell. She listens with an uninterrupted focus, nodding her head in understanding. She’s my best friend and has been since I moved back to New Orleans, when we were teenagers, I knew she’d understand my bringing a stranger into my home.
“She ends up in ya bar in a weddin’ dress,” she reiterates, serving herself another two-finger pour. “There’s a story there.”
She sets the bottle back on the bar.
“I’m sure there is,” I agree, bringing my glass to my mouth.
“Ya haven’t asked?” She seems surprised I didn’t go snooping into Rae’s business.
“She mentioned her fiancé doing something unforgivable.” I finish off my first round of bourbon. “Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty fucking traumatic.”
She points at me with an accusatory finger, her hand clutching her whiskey glass.
“Ya have a couple theories brewin’ in that head though.”
“Who the fuck knows? Maybe he cheated on her. It’s not uncommon.”
“Certainly is a theory.”
I serve myself my second and final helping of bourbon. I need to keep my head about me. Wouldn’t want to make any alcohol-fueled decisions. This broken woman has entrusted me with her fragile heart. I don’t want to ruin it.
“She asked why I’m trying to save her.”
I stare into the amber liquor, to the bottom of the glass.
“Well, now, that’s a helluva question.” She plants her elbow on the counter, her hand propping her head. “Why are ya tryin’ to save her?”
She already knows why.
My mother, my father, my need to save the unsavable, my desire to change the past, right some wrongs. Or it could be my tractor beam attraction to her.
“Oh, merciful God, ya didn’t.” She slams the bottle down on the bar with a reprimanding thud. “Please, Greier Elias Dixon, look me in the eye and swear ya didn’t take advantage of that poor girl.”
“Not completely?”
“Fuck me, Greier.” She plants her face in her palm. “Wait, that’s right. Ya must be tired from bein’ dick-deep inside her.” She jabs me in the arm, hard, when she says “her” through gritted teeth. You could never accuse Izzie of being a dainty Southern belle.
“It wasn’t like that.” I rub my arm. “She wanted me to. She started it.”
“Ya ain’t in the third grade no more, Grey. Have a little more self-control. That’s what makes ya a fuckin’ man, keepin’ ya dick in line and in ya pants and steppin’ to the plate when life is throwin’ curveballs.”
Damn.
She’s right.
She’s always right.
She was right about Charlotte.
She was right about taking over this place and starting the restaurant.
She was right even when we were fifteen, and she told me not to jump a dirt pile on my bike. I have the scar on my left knee to prove it.
She’s the foul-mouthed angel on my shoulder. My straight-talking cricket.
But right and wrong had nothing to do with my decision the night before.
“She needed it.” I attempt to justify my actions and appease my guilt. “I felt it. She was trying to wash something away.” She huffs and rolls her eyes judgmentally. She sees right through me, so I get real with her. “I needed it, Izzie. Since Lotte left me for that sonofabitch again, I needed it, and I don’t regret it.”
She takes a mellowing breath through her nostrils, inflating and deflating, assessing me through slitted eyes. Not sure that’s a word, but fuck it.
“Ya can’t let it happen a second time…or third. However many times it’s already happened, it has to stop there. This girl…This woman needs ya help, not ya penis.”
“She already nipped it in the bud.”
“At least one of ya is thinkin’ with their head and not their…”
She nods down to my junk.
“You’re both right,” I admit. “My head tells me you are.”
“But?” she probes, knowing me better than I like sometimes.
“I like her.”
“Then take time to get to know her, let her figure her shit out. Unless ya lookin’ to be her transition. But if ya really like Rae, let her find ya in her own time.”
“Alright,” I agree. “While we’re on the subject—I need a solid.”
I execute a Chinese fire drill on this conversation. I’m done being under the microscope. Me and my sex life.
“Which is?”
“Watch her for me, will you?” I rise from my stool. “When I’m not around. She’s new to the city, and I want her to feel she has people to come to.”
“I am at ya service, mon frère.”
She does this lazy bow.
“Good.” I drum my hands on the surface of the bar. “Because tomorrow you need to take her shopping. She shouldn’t be subject to wearing Charlotte’s hand-me-downs. And you know the best places to go.”
“Fabulous. Then after, we can curse and burn her shit.” She smiles that lethargic smile of hers, swat
ting me playfully on the arm. “Speakin’ of the salope, heard from her lately?”
“Nah. And I’m glad. This is it, Iz. I’m not taking her back this time.”
“Ain’t the first time I’ve heard those exact words.”
I roll my eyes and start toward the back of the restaurant, calling back, “But it’s the last.”
As I move further from Izzie, her faint voice mutters into her glass. “Mm-hm. Doubt we’ve seen the last of her.”
I’m not a gambling man, but I wouldn’t bet against it either.
It’s my wedding. Or a celebration of some kind. I can’t tell. Guests buzz around a grand plantation, dressed in gowns and tuxes. I’ve never been here before.
No different from any other day, no one notices me as I run down the stairs and through the foyer that spans the manor from front to back. Slowly, I come to realize I can’t see anyone’s faces. They’re either turned away or obstructed by something, a plant, a passing tray, an oversized hat.
I move freely toward the back, stepping out the door and into a swamp with Cypress trees draped in Spanish moss. I’m waste high in murky, algae-covered water. I turn back to the house, but it’s gone, so I keep moving deeper and deeper into the bayou, fighting my way through sludge and slime and briar patches tearing at my skin. I feel the need to push forward. I can’t go back. He told me not to. Who he is, I’m not sure. But I listen to him. And I move farther. Until an opening appears, slivers of light through the dark. When I finally claw my way toward it, I realize it’s a small, barren field, devoid of any plants or grass.
Except for a grand magnolia tree in full bloom. Something’s not right though. The thick petals aren’t a virginal white. They’re black, ink black. I reach for one on a low growing branch and pluck it, cradling the large flower in my hands. The black starts to bleed over my hands and forearms and the petals wither in my palms.