Good Times

by Kate, Jiffy

  When she finally takes a breath and turns to look at me, I think my face probably says everything I can’t.

  Yes, I can imagine.

  I’ve often wanted something similar over the years.

  No, I don’t know if he has recorded anything.

  That would require us to be in touch, which we haven’t been.

  The mere thought of Finley playing lullabies makes my ovaries ache, which is crazy because I’m only twenty-three and not nearly old enough to feel my biological clock ticking. It must be the pregnancy hormones oozing off Cami.

  That’s it.

  Moving right along.

  Nothing to see here.

  When I don’t verbally respond, afraid my inner monologue will come spilling out, she adds, “You should go talk to him.”

  “I should,” I tell her. I’ve been berating myself over the past few days for running out of the restaurant. I was caught off guard, jet-lagged, and exhausted. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. But now he’s here, well, across the street, and I’m no longer any of those things. So, why can’t I just walk across the street and say hello?

  When I don’t continue, Cami gently pushes for more. “So, y’all were friends?”

  “Yeah, best friends, actually,” I say, wincing. It’s the first time I’ve talked about Finley out loud in a very long time and I wasn’t expecting it to hurt, but it does.

  She quirks a knowing eyebrow. “I get the feeling there’s more to this story, but I’m going to ignore that fact, for now. If you two were so close, I’m sure he’s thrilled to see you. Get out there. Go catch up. Do something besides running from the building like it’s on fire.”

  “You’re right,” I say with a long sigh. “There’s a story, but it’s a long one.” Rubbing my chest, I try to quell the tight squeeze behind my rib cage, remembering. “I doubt he’s thrilled to see me, and unfortunately, it’s all my fault. The truth is I feel terrible about how things ended between us and I want to apologize, I’m just struggling with pulling up my big girl panties and doing it. Seeing him here… it’s the last thing I expected.”

  Cami wraps her arm around my shoulders and pulls me to her—as close as she can, considering she’s very pregnant—hugging me tightly. “Oh, sweetie, it sounds like fate to me.”

  Her voice is soft and soothing and I find myself giving in to her hug. It’s equal parts motherly and sisterly, both something I’ve never really had. My mother was more of a delegator, even when it came to her only child. I had a closer relationship with my nanny than her.

  “Sometimes it’s easier if you don’t think too much about it,” Cami encourages. “Just do it. I have faith in you. And remember, you’re in New Orleans now. If you need some liquid courage, there’s always a daiquiri shop around the corner. And I’m always looking for someone to live vicariously through these days.”

  She gives me a wink before walking off, leaving me to decide my next step alone.

  For the next hour, I look through portfolios from potential local artists, but my heart and mind aren’t in it. They’re both across the street with the boy I fell in love with so long ago. Stopping to think and do the math, I realize it’s been, what? Nine years? Has it really been that long since Finley Lawson walked into a crowded cafeteria looking so unsure of himself and out of place among the spoiled rich brats we went to school with, myself included?

  Walking over to the door, I peek out and see he’s still out there. When he finishes a song, he stops to talk to onlookers, smiling and being… Finn.

  God, I’ve missed him.

  And he’s definitely not the boy I fell in love with, but I can still see pieces of him.

  That smile.

  Those eyes.

  Everything else about him has been honed and refined—sharper jawline, broader shoulders, even longer legs. What else is different? It’s been five years since I’ve seen him.

  Our last day together was a hard one, probably the hardest of my life. We’d just graduated and for the better part of that last summer we spent together, I’d been indecisive about my future.

  My parents wanted me to go to a reputable university and earn a degree that would allow me to work for my father. Finley wanted me to go somewhere close so we could stay together. In the end, all I wanted was to be my own person.

  Shifting my body, I lean against the door and watch Finley from the safety of the gallery.

  I also wanted him, but even in my immaturity, I realized I couldn’t have my cake and eat it too. If I would’ve stayed in Dallas, my parents would’ve continued to run my life, holding me down under their thumbs until I succumbed to the pressure and submitted to their demands.

  Just thinking back on it makes me feel claustrophobic and I have to step away from the door and walk over to the desk, distracting myself with a stack of prints. The ache in my chest now feels more like an elephant has taken up residence.

  Setting the prints back down on the desk, I rub at the ache as my mind drifts back to the day I jumped on a plane, on a whim. It was the second time I rebelled against my parents.

  The first was Finley.

  He was my first everything.

  My first love.

  My first date.

  My first time.

  And my first heartbreak.

  And now, all these years later, he’s back and he’s right across the street.

  When my phone rings from the desk nearby, I trip and knock the portfolio sitting on the edge of the desk flying across the floor. On my hands and knees, I grab the phone and answer, pressing it to my ear as I multitask. Gathering the prints, I breathe out, “Hello?”

  “Georgette?”

  Pausing, I sit back on my heels and swipe errant curls out of my face. “Trevor?”

  I haven’t heard from him in a few days, not since our quick phone call when I let him know I’d made it safely and he had to let me go due to a meeting.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, the noises of New York in the background. “You sound… out of breath.”

  Chuckling, I take a breath, realizing he’s right. “Yeah, fine. I was just… distracted and then you called and it startled me and I dropped a stack of—”

  “That’s my Georgette, always a scatterbrain.”

  My brows draw together in defense. I hate when he does that.

  When I don’t respond, he finally asks, “Are you settling into the new job?”

  “Yeah, everything here is great.”

  Glancing around the gallery, I feel my heart swell, knowing this is where I’m supposed to be and proud of myself for following my gut on this one.

  “Well, you just let me know when you’re sick of the south and ready to come back home,” Trevor says teasingly, but it makes my hackles rise. “I’m running to a meeting so I can’t talk long. Just wanted to check-in.”

  And see if it’s too soon to say I told you so, that’s the part he leaves out.

  Well, Trevor, don’t hold your breath… or maybe…

  “Talk later,” he says abruptly and then the call ends. I glance at the phone and scowl, tempted to dial him back and give him a piece of my mind, but I know it’s futile.

  Standing, I tap the portfolio on the desk to straighten its contents, as my mind drifts back to one of our arguments before I left New York.

  “You need to stay at Sotheby’s and see this through,” Trevor says, pacing his pristine office on the fortieth floor with windows on two sides of the room and the city lit up behind him. “If you’re always flitting about from one job to another, how will anyone reputable take you seriously?”

  When did I start dating my father? Because that is exactly something George Taylor would say. “This is a reputable gallery… a reputable job. It hurts my feelings that you refuse to take it seriously… take me seriously!”

  By the time I’m finished with that statement, my voice has risen to an unacceptable octave. I can tell by the way Trevor cocks his head and lifts his eyebrows, as if to ask me if I’m finishe
d with my tantrum, he’s annoyed by my outburst.

  But it’s not a tantrum, it’s a plea for him to respect me and my decisions.

  “It’s a start-up gallery in New Orleans.” He winces like the words taste bad on his tongue.

  “Reputable is Sotheby’s. Reputable is somewhere you can have a future and build a career. Reputable is a gallery that will allow you to be seen and known, let everyone know who Georgette Taylor is and why they should want you and value you.”

  See, this is where Trevor and my father typically differ. Where my father just throws down the law of George Taylor and expects everyone to submit, Trevor usually knows exactly what to say to smooth things over. He’s good at turning the tables, making his case sound sugary sweet.

  But not this time.

  “I’m going to New Orleans.”

  Unbuttoning his suit jacket, his tell of frustration, he braces his hands on his hips. “Is this about the proposal?”

  I think what he means to say is lack of proposal.

  Trevor and I have been together for over four years and I’m tired of being someone’s girlfriend. I want to move on with my life. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had five goals in a very particular order:

  1. Get a degree.

  2. See the world.

  3. Get a job.

  4. Get married.

  5. Have babies.

  I’ve done the first three and I’m ready for the last two. It might sound crazy to most people. I know Trevor thinks I’ve lost my mind. But I can’t help what I want. The way I see it, if I don’t accomplish number four, I’ll never get to number five. Because more than anything, I want to right all my parents’ wrongs.

  I want love.

  I want a home and not just a house.

  I want to take my children to school and cook them dinner.

  I want to hug them and kiss them and put Band-Aids on booboos.

  And I want all of that with a husband at my side.

  There are probably feminists out there rolling their eyes at me, but isn’t that what feminism is all about—women getting what they want in life and not being told what they need. Don’t get me wrong, I still want my career, but again, I want it on my terms. I want to have a job I believe in at a place I feel connected to.

  For me, that’s not Sotheby’s.

  I want more.

  I thought Trevor was the one… I still think Trevor could be the one. Even with his flaws, which we all have, he’s still a good fit for my life. My parents love him. He and my father have a better relationship than the two of us ever dreamed of having. My mother even speaks highly of him, which is rare.

  But the Trevor of today is different from the Trevor I met during my first week in New York. That Trevor was supportive and fun-loving. We had similar dreams and desires. He made me feel safe and well-cared-for. When we went out, he always placed his hand at the small of my back and guided me through a room, putting me first. I felt treasured and valued.

  Now, I often feel like a second thought. His meetings and business obligations seem to take precedent. But occasionally, I get a glimpse of the man I fell in love with, my Trevor, and I still feel hope for our future. Every relationship goes through trials and tribulations.

  Hopefully, that’s all this is.

  When the door of the gallery chimes, I shake off the memory and thoughts of Trevor, forcing a smile on my face. “Welcome to 303 Royal,” I call out, stepping around the desk, but stopping short as I come face to face once again with Finley Lawson.

  “Finn.”

  His name comes out like a grand discovery, much too breathy for my taste, but it’s too late. It’s already out of my mouth and I can’t take it back.

  A familiar smirk takes over his chiseled face, those amazing eyes putting me in a trance, like they always have. “Kinda thought you might’ve forgotten my name.”

  I laugh, partially to release the tension that’s taken up residence in my chest and partially because that’s so Finn. He’s always been the one to rescue me from my awkwardness, embracing my quirkiness, unlike Trevor.

  “I was just packing up for the day and wanted to stop by and say hi. New Year’s Eve was…” He pauses, running a hand through his hair that’s still perfectly imperfect—rich chocolate brown with unruly curls.

  We’ve always had that in common, the unruly curls.

  And so many other things, I reminisce, as I momentarily lose myself in those gray eyes.

  “New Year’s Eve was a surprise,” I finish for him, chuckling as I smooth down the front of my skirt. “I mean… New Orleans of all places.” To stop myself from fidgeting nervously as I wait for his wrath or anger over how we parted, I twist my fingers together behind my back.

  “What are the odds,” he says, sounding more amazed and caught off guard than anything else.

  I nod, unsure of where to take this conversation, but once again, Finn to the rescue.

  “I have to go, but I’d love to catch up… maybe have a drink.”

  Now, there’s a difference. The only drink Finn and I shared in the past was a bottle of wine we’d pilfered from my parents’ cellar on our graduation night. “Uh, yeah… a drink would be great.”

  A drink between old friends. That’s okay, right?

  “I play most nights at Gia’s Good Times,” Finn says, grabbing a pen and one of the gallery’s business cards from the desk beside me. “It’s on Frenchmen. My set tonight is early. I should be finished by nine. We can have a drink afterward, if you’d like.”

  I’d like. I’d like that very much.

  “Sure,” I say, taking the card and reading over the address, although I have no clue where it’s at. I’ve only been in my new city for a few days and most of that time has been spent here at the gallery and next door at the hotel I’m staying at. “I… I’ll see you there.”

  Finn nods, his expression shifting as he takes me in and there’s an elongated pause in our conversation. I’m waiting, still, for him to say something, anything, about the past. And I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about it with questions on the tip of his tongue, but then he turns on his heel and walks toward the door.

  But just when I think our conversation is over, he turns. “Don’t walk there,” Finn says, hesitantly. “It’s not safe for…” He starts, then stops. “It would be better if you take an Uber or something. I’ll make sure you get back safely, okay?”

  And that’s the Finn I’ve always known. It’s like a warm, soothing balm. Regardless of our past, he still cares, always looking out for me.

  “Okay.”

  Chapter Five

  Finley

  “Okay, listen up,” Gia says, standing on a wooden box in the middle of the dimly-lit backroom. “For all you newbies, Mardi Gras season is upon us and shit’s about to get real.”

  A smartass from the back stands up and yells, “Come on! This is New Orleans; shit is always real.” Various hoots and hollers follow, as well as, boisterous laughter.

  “That may be true, y’all, but Mardi Gras is a whole other beast. We got two full months of parties, parades, wild tourists, and even wilder locals, so we have to be prepared to work harder than ever. It’s a damn good thing we work at the best jazz club in the city, am I right? We get paid to party so let’s make sure it’s the best one every night!”

  A bottle of Jack is passed around, like it is on most nights, and I take my obligatory swig. Wiping the back of my hand over my mouth, I feel someone slide a hand around my torso, inching down to the button of my jeans.

  Smirking, I turn skillfully out of the advance. “Gia.” It’s half greeting and half warning. I try to play it safe, because she’s my boss, but she also has a thing for the young talent she brings in. I’ve seen her slip off into a dark corner with several of the musicians who play at her bar.

  I’m not interested in being a notch on her bedpost, but I do love my job.

  I love this bar.

  I love the people I play with.

  Most of them
became friends after the first week I was here. All of them love music as much as me, some more. The older guys have been doing this much longer than I have, putting in years on the stage, in the streets, and dozens of bars.

  “How’s my favorite sax player?” she asks, coming around to face me. Her red lips are full and pouty as she closes in, her mouth hovering mere inches from mine.

  “Good,” I say, feeling my body tense. When I don’t meet her halfway and my jaw tightens on instinct, she pulls back and pats my chest.

  Giving in to her advances isn’t a requirement for working at Good Times, but most of the guys are happy to oblige, except me. Which might actually make me more appealing. Some people are turned on by the chase.

  “Give us a good show,” she says, her hand tightening into a fist as she grabs the front of my shirt. “I’ll be watching.”

  Her departing sentiment is delivered in a singsong with a wave over her shoulder as she saunters over to the bar, checking in with the guys stocking glasses and bottles.

  Shaking my head, I take a deep breath. I think I’ve been holding it and could use a little air, but our first set is getting ready to start and I can’t keep my eyes off the front door. Ever since I invited Jette to the bar, I’ve been on edge.

  I want her here.

  I want to see her and talk to her.

  But I’m also a little worried.

  New Orleans, especially New Orleans during this particular season, is a little crazy. Gia was right, shit is getting real. I’ve noticed the hum in the air getting louder and more intense since New Year’s Eve. More and more people are flooding into the bars and clubs. Even my walk home in the wee hours of the morning is louder, with people staying out later.

  I’ve always felt protective of Jette, even before we were friends.

  The first time I saw her at school, she was standing across the cafeteria and the bitchy girls she hung out with were having fun at her expense. Apparently, someone found a picture of her from middle school when she still wore braces and posted, what they deemed unflattering images of her, on social media.