Good Times

by Kate, Jiffy

  The comments were cruel.

  It was obvious to an outsider like me that they were jealous. They needed to make her feel bad to make themselves feel better.

  I remember watching and feeling my blood boil. Their opinions didn’t matter to me, but I could tell they got to her. I wanted to do something, stand up for her—protect her—and I didn’t even know her name. All I knew was she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, even in the pics they’d posted of her in braces. And under her wild blonde curls, blue eyes, and button nose was a loneliness I recognized. It was the same loneliness that stared back at me in the mirror.

  She made me feel helpless. My usual method of handling a situation like that was using my fists, but I couldn’t hit a girl. And besides that, I was at a new school in a new city. I couldn’t mess things up. My next stop would’ve been foster care.

  So, I waited on the outskirts, staying close, just in case.

  Fortunately for her, they moved on to their next victim a day or two later.

  Fortunately for me, she started eating lunch outside by the fountain, which happened to be the same place I ate lunch.

  Every day, she opened up a little more. First, just saying hello. Then, telling me her name. Next thing I knew, we were sharing PB&J sandwiches and homework.

  And that was how it was for four years—Finn and Jette.

  “Finn, man. You ready to warm up?” When I turn toward the stage, River, the bass player, is giving me a look. “What’s up with you? I’ve been trying to get your attention and you’ve been staring at the damn door.”

  “Sorry,” I say, scratching the back of my head before running a hand through my hair. I don’t offer an explanation, instead, I take my seat and start getting my sax hooked up to the amp, but I still keep one eye on the door.

  After we warm-up and the crowd descends, we jump right into our set.

  Playing with these guys is one of the best things about moving to New Orleans. Before I came here, I mostly played solo in coffee bars and jazz clubs around Dallas, but nothing like this. Everything about Good Times is alive. From the first moment I walked in here, I knew it was where I belonged. I can practically feel the spirits of jazz players from days past. The old wooden tables and chairs hold music and memories most have forgotten.

  My first night here, I had to force myself not to lay down on the dirty, worn floor and make snow angels. I just wanted to soak it into my bones.

  Tonight, the patrons are only adding to the vibe. A few are dancing up close to the stage. Nearly every table is full and drinks are flowing. But the second she walks in, just like the first day I saw her—just like New Year’s Eve when she walked back into my life—the world stands still.

  Thankfully, air keeps flowing out of my lungs and my fingers work on autopilot, but my eyes are on her, watching as she excuses her way through throngs of people.

  She’s here.

  She came.

  I’m still getting used to the idea of us being in the same city again, but I can’t deny how happy it makes me to see her, even if her presence does drum up old feelings and buried emotions.

  Once she finds a spot to sit, her eyes find mine. If I thought the world stood on its axis when she walked in, it tilts in this moment. Her smile starts small and then grows as the tempo of the song we’re playing picks up.

  Her shoulders relax as she leans back into her chair, absorbing the atmosphere.

  When the set is over, I place my sax on its stand and hop off the front ledge, heading toward her but then lose sight as people begin to filter in and out of the club. Approaching the table she was sitting at, I momentarily panic when her seat is empty.

  “Hey,” she says, her voice coming up beside me, making me jump and spin in her direction. Laughing, she tips her head back and I can’t take my eyes off her. That laugh. Those blue eyes. God, she’s beautiful. Not that I’d forgotten, but the effect she has on me had dulled over the years, mostly because I willed myself to let her go.

  For my own sanity.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I admit, wanting to reach out and pull her close to me, guarding her from the people as they move about, but I don’t.

  She’s not mine, I remind myself.

  Not anymore.

  “And miss you play?” she asks incredulously, giving me an infamous Georgette Taylor snort. It’s crazy how something so unattractive can be so endearing, but damn, I’ve missed it.

  I’ve missed her.

  I smile, marveling at her standing in front of me and trying not to let it show. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Looks like there are a couple of seats at the bar,” she says, glancing back over her shoulder. She’s right, a couple is vacating the two seats at the end, probably the quietest spot in this entire place. It’s like the universe is also happy she’s here.

  On instinct, I place my hand at the small of her back as we start to make our way through the crowd. But when she glances over her shoulder, making eye contact, I can’t tell if it’s okay that I’m touching her in such a familiar way—a way I used to touch her all the time—so I pull it back and rake a hand through my hair to suppress the need.

  “So, you play here every night?” she asks, raising her voice as the volume of the club increases.

  Getting the attention of Marcus, one of the bartenders, I hold up two fingers. He knows what to pour and I know Jette will approve. We were never big partiers back in high school, but when we did break the rules and imbibe, we always drank Jack and Coke.

  “Just about,” I say, answering her question as I try to find my figurative footing when it comes to her. “Occasionally, Gia forces me to take a night off, but I rarely ask for one.”

  “Gia?” she asks, giving Marcus a smile of appreciation as he slides a napkin and a drink in front of her. “Thank you.”

  “She’s the owner,” I tell her, giving Marcus a nod of appreciation.

  I hear Jette whistle as she takes her first sip and sets the drink back on her napkin. “Good ol’ Jack and Coke.” She cocks her head, blinking her eyes. “A nice strong Jack and Coke,” she amends.

  Laughing, I place my drink down. “Yeah, Marcus has a bit of a heavy hand.”

  “Not complaining,” she says, taking another drink as she looks around the club. “This is a great place.”

  “Different from the clubs in New York?” I ask, needing to go there. At some point, we’re going to have to address the elephant in the room.

  Swallowing, her eyes dart from the people around us, to me, and back. “Yeah, way different. It’s so… I don’t know.”

  “Authentic?” I offer, knowing that’s how I felt when I came here for the first time, like every other jazz bar I’d ever been to before paled in comparison.

  “That’s exactly what I was going to say,” she replies, her eyes finally landing and staying on mine. “I went to some great restaurants and bars in New York, but none of them had this vibe.”

  For a moment, I let myself remember the girl who left Dallas. She was so young and naive. I remember being scared for her as she flew across the country to a big city like New York, afraid it was going to swallow her whole. I guess that’s one of the reasons I saved my money to go there. I thought she might need to be rescued. But when I got there and she was thriving—making friends, finding her place—I had no choice but to leave her be… let her go.

  I want to tell her that, but now isn’t the right time.

  This is basically our first real conversation in five years. I don’t want to mess it up with the past.

  “What’d you think of the set?” I ask, pointing to the stage.

  Jette’s face lights up. “So great,” she says with awe. “I mean, you’ve always been amazing, but hearing you here, in this place, with the full band. It was… next level.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  She picks up her glass and downs another good bit. “I didn’t like it. I loved it. I missed it.”

  Yeah, but did you
miss me?

  “Can you stay for another set?” I ask, finishing off my drink and setting the empty glass on the other side of the bar. “I have to play one more and then I could walk you home or we could share an Uber.”

  Taking another sip, she nods, and I try not to focus on her lips when she licks the remnants of her drink away. “I’d love to stay.”

  Chapter Six

  Georgette

  “Holy geez,” I gush when my eyes land on the round monstrosity Cami is displaying proudly.

  Not her protruding stomach.

  The baked goodness decorated in purple, gold, and green icing with matching strings of beads. It smells like heaven and looks like Mardi Gras threw up in the box.

  “Pecan Turtle King Cake with caramel Bavarian cream and chocolate ganache,” Cami says with so much seduction I feel my cheeks pink. “It’s from Joe’s. We’ll do Randazzo’s next week.”

  “Next week?” I mean, I love carbs just as much as the next girl, but if we’re going to be eating one of these every week for the next month, I’ll need to work out morning, noon, and night. Fortunately, the hotel has a great gym.

  “Oh, and Gambino’s,” Cami continues, not paying attention to me or my question or my inner carb crisis. “Actually, maybe I can sweet talk Deacon into picking one of those up later this week. I bet his mama will be sending him or Micah over with a list.”

  I’m getting ready to ask her what the difference is between all of the different King Cakes, but her eyes grow wide and she gets the most excited expression, even more excited than she was the day Micah brought over leftover crawfish mac and cheese from Lagniappe.

  Apparently, the baby really loves carbs.

  “I just got the best idea,” she exclaims. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.” She laughs, setting the cake down on the desk where it practically takes up the entire space. “Georgette, your boss is a freakin’ genius! If you ask Deacon, he’ll try to tell you this baby is sucking out my brain cells, but the idea that just popped into my head proves I’ve still got what it takes. My creativity is alive and well!”

  I have no doubt she’s right. In just the short amount of time I’ve known Camille Benoit-Landry, she’s quickly become my favorite artist and one of the most creative people I’ve ever met. She has a vision for this gallery and her passion for local artists, giving them a platform, is commendable.

  However, I’m sure the look on my face comes closest to expressing whatthehellareyoutalkingabout instead of yesyouareafreakingenius. I try to cover it up with a smile, but I can feel the awkwardness of it. “So,” I hedge, “what’s the, uh, idea?”

  This is the equivalent of a parent asking a child to tell them about their artwork.

  “A King Cake Party,” she says, her eyes grow even wider and her smile stretches to match them as bright white teeth blind me. Her excitement is so contagious I can’t help my giggle.

  “King Cake Party,” I repeat. “That sounds… delicious.”

  “Right?” she asks, buzzing around the gallery like a woman on a mission.

  Well, because she is a woman on a mission.

  Last week she barely had the energy to drive into the city and stay for a couple of hours.

  Now, she’s Martha Stewart on steroids, rambling off details of this King Cake Party that we’re apparently now hosting here at the gallery.

  “Annie will help us,” Cami continues as I pick up a notepad and begin to follow her around taking notes. “She loves stuff like this. We’ll invite everybody—Micah, Dani, Tucker, Piper, CeCe, Shep, Carys, Mav… Shaw, Avery… oh, Jules, of course. And Mary and George. Oh, and Deacon.” She laughs like she almost forgot about her husband and I bite back one of my own.

  Maybe I should call him?

  He gave me his cell phone number and all the numbers to the restaurants he and Micah own, giving me strict instructions to call him if Cami shows any signs of distress.

  I wonder if spontaneous party planning counts?

  “We can’t forget my father-in-law,” she continues. “He recently retired and he’s driving my mother-in-law batshit crazy. Don’t write that down.” Stopping abruptly, she peers over at my notes, like I’d seriously write that down.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I tell her in all sincerity. I met Sam and Annie at the New Year’s Eve party. He seemed really nice and he and Annie seemed ridiculously happy. So, it does surprise me that he’s driving her batshit crazy, but I keep that to myself.

  “Everyone can bring their favorite King Cake… or bake their own, if they’re into that sort of thing.” Finally taking a break and placing her hand on her stomach, she inhales and exhales and I watch her, looking for any signs of labor.

  Is delirium a sign?

  After a few seconds, she looks up at me. “Oh, don’t forget to invite Finley. Maybe he could play for us. I know my brother is itching to get him in the studio, but maybe they could have a jam session at the party?”

  Finley.

  He’s been on my mind a lot lately.

  I went from thinking about him occasionally—when I heard great jazz, walked into a coffee bar, watched a musical on Broadway… ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—to thinking about him hourly, sometimes by the minute.

  As friends, of course.

  Watching him play at the club a few nights ago was like going back in time, but better.

  He’s better, somehow. I never thought that was possible, but he so is. The man version of Finn is stronger, surer of himself, settled, but not in a bad way. It’s more of an air of contentment, being happy in the place he’s in. I appreciate that he doesn’t try to make apologies for who he is and how he’s living his life. He just lives it.

  And don’t even get me started on his physical features.

  I’d be here all day.

  When he invited me to come hear him play, I was hesitant. I know we need to talk about me leaving and us losing touch and so many things in between, but I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. Thankfully, we stuck to fairly safe topics and when he walked me back to my hotel, we parted with a see you soon.

  That felt oddly normal and… good.

  I’ve missed him.

  “Georgette? Did you get that?” Cami asks, licking icing from her fingers.

  Did I blackout?

  How the hell did she consume a piece of cake without me even noticing?

  I swear, this woman and her hidden talents.

  “Yeah, King Cake Party,” I say, glancing down to the notepad. “And we’re inviting half of New Orleans.”

  Cami smiles widely. “Have I told you how great you are at this job?”

  “Thank you?” I’m never sure what the appropriate response is when she gets like this.

  Pulling off a chunk of King Cake with her bare hands like a savage, Cami adds, “You should take a piece of this to Finley and invite him to our party.”

  I pretend to ignore her suggestion but inwardly, I make a mental note to do what she says. It’s what a friend would do, right? And Finley and I are friends, right? We were, and despite everything, I still feel that instant connection and pull.

  After we hammer out some quick details, the King Cake Party is now officially on our schedule, happening next week. Since this is Cami and Deacon’s third baby, they didn’t have a baby shower, so according to her, everyone owes her.

  Not gifts or anything, just cake.

  Later in the day, after Cami and I go over some potential new local artists, she’s out of steam and Micah drops by to pick her up on his way back to French Settlement. The Landrys all live about an hour outside the city and have restaurants in New Orleans, French Settlement, and Baton Rouge. I’ve only been to Lagniappe, but I have plans on going on a Landry food tour soon.

  My stomach growls just thinking about it, so I slice off another sliver of King Cake. Eventually, I’m going to have to add some additional nutrients to my diet, but this will have to do for now. I’m on my own until closing time, but since
we don’t have any appointments this afternoon, it should be relatively quiet.

  As I’m licking the icing off my fingers, my eyes drift back to the cake and Cami’s suggestion of taking Finley a piece and inviting him to the party. And then I glance over at the door, wondering if he’s on his corner playing.

  Slicing off a decent-sized piece, I place it on a paper plate, stick a plastic fork in the flaky pastry, and head for the door before I can change my mind.

  It’s not that I don’t want to see him.

  We’re friends.

  Old friends.

  At one time, we were best friends.

  But I have to admit, after Finley walked me back to my hotel, I went straight to my room and sent Trevor a text. There wasn’t anything romantic about mine and Finley’s time together, but somehow, I still felt guilty.

  But then my text went unread for an entire day and took the edge off.

  If Trevor wasn’t concerned with who I’m spending my time with, why should I feel the need to assuage my guilt? Besides, Finley and I are just friends and there’s nothing to feel guilty about.

  Except there was a time when we weren’t just friends.

  And we never really got over that.

  At least, I didn’t. I just moved to New York and buried my feelings, chalking them up to that old adage—you can’t have your cake and eat it too.

  Back then, I couldn’t have New York and Finley. It wasn’t fair to either of us, so I took one for the team and left, with no forwarding address or real way for us to stay connected, because if we had, I would’ve run back home—back to him—the first time it got hard.

  Of course, Trevor finally called this morning and apologized profusely for being busy, and of course, I forgave him. I even told him all about my evening at the club and he said it sounded like a very New Orleans thing to do. He might’ve meant it as a dig, but he was right. It was the most fun I’ve had since I’ve been in this city. Getting a real glimpse into the culture and nightlife was exactly what I needed and it left me craving more.