Good Times

by Kate, Jiffy

  “You know what?” he continues. “On second thought, how about I drive the van?”

  I huff, but the smile on my face is anything but annoyed. “Fine, but I pick the playlist.”

  “Fine.”

  We’ve always been good at compromising.

  After hanging up with Finley, I make myself useful in an effort to occupy my mind so I won’t start thinking about that feeling I had when I thought Finley might’ve been with someone else… like a woman. A woman who isn’t me. Because he totally could and, honestly, I’m shocked he isn’t.

  And why is that? Why hasn’t some lucky girl snatched Finley up?

  As I’m going through invoices, I wonder how many people Finley’s been with since we were together.

  As I’m checking messages and scheduling appointments, I wonder if he’s ever been serious with anyone.

  As I’m dusting, I wonder how long ago it’s been since he was with someone.

  Who was she?

  What did she look like?

  Stop.

  “Ugh,” I groan out my frustration just as Dani walks through the front door with what I can only guess is takeout from Lagniappe. If Cami was trying to kill me with carbs, Dani is doing her best to fatten me up with Cajun cuisine.

  She stops short when she looks at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say, turning toward a canvas and continuing to dust.

  “You’re cleaning,” she states. “So, you’re either mad or stressed out.”

  I laugh, because, after a couple of weeks, she already knows me. “Neither.”

  “Then what?” she asks, walking over to the desk and setting down the bag. “You’ve sorted and filed all of the invoices, logged the messages, and made appointments. I was only gone for a couple of hours.”

  “Tell me I have no reason to be jealous or obsessing over Finley’s girlfriends.”

  Dani’s green eyes turn my way. “Wait, Finley has girlfriends… plural?”

  Walking over to the couch, I ungracefully plop down, the duster dangling from my fingertips. “No, he doesn’t have a girlfriend, at least not one he’s told me about, which he would, right? Because we’re friends and friends tell friends about girlfriends.”

  “Okay,” Dani drawls, eyeing me suspiciously. “So, why are you obsessing?”

  “I don’t know,” I whine, feeling completely childish. This is ridiculous. “I called him and he sounded out of breath and my wild imagination took over and the next thing you know he’s Casanova.”

  When Dani laughs, I cover my face in embarrassment. “I know, it’s stupid.”

  “Well,” she starts, cocking her head. “It might be a little, but I get it. You have feelings for him.”

  That stops me in my tracks. “Of course, we’re friends.”

  “And you have history together and unresolved feelings. It’s natural. Sometimes, I wonder if anyone ever truly gets over their first love.”

  “Do you still have feelings for… what’s his name? The New York cheater.”

  Dani snorts. “Absolutely not. But Cami’s told me about her and Deacon. They were childhood sweethearts, too, you know.”

  “Yeah, she told me.”

  “She moved to New Orleans to go to college and pursue her passion for art. Deacon was off doing his own thing. But fate eventually brought them back together. Maybe it’s doing the same for you and Finley.”

  The gallery is so quiet as we both sit there. I’m sure Dani is waiting on my response, but I don’t know what to say. Is it something I’ve thought about while lying in bed at night? Yes. Do I sometimes wonder what it would be like to truly pick up where we left off? Yes. Every time we’re together, I feel the pull and I have to fight it.

  And it’s getting harder and starting to take its toll. Maybe that’s where this temporary insanity is coming from.

  “Don’t get caught up in the what-ifs and assumptions. If there’s something you really need to know, just ask him. I’m sure Finley would tell you anything you want to know.”

  He would, and that scares me. I don’t know if I want to know the answers to every question floating through my brain. And more than that, I don’t know if I deserve an answer to them. I’m the one who left without a word. Finley and I had something special, we both knew it, which is why when I got that acceptance letter to New York, I packed up and left.

  I left before my parents could talk me out of it.

  I left before Finley could make me change my mind.

  Do I regret it? No. But I do wish I would’ve done things differently. I wish I would’ve stayed in touch with Finley. Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I realize how selfish I was. I owed it to Finley to give him an explanation. And I owed our relationship the benefit of the doubt that it could’ve survived the long distance.

  Unlike Trevor, I know Finley would’ve put in the work.

  That’s the other thing, though, I didn’t want him to kill his dream to make mine happen. And I knew he didn’t have the means to move to New York.

  “Maybe we were just brought back into each other’s lives to give each other some closure… and be friends,” I tell her, my eyes turned to the tall, open ceiling. “Maybe that’s all we were ever meant to be.”

  “Lies,” Dani says, sounding an awful lot like her sister-in-law.

  Popping up off the couch, I turn on her. “What?”

  “You keep telling yourself that you and Finley Lawson were just meant to be friends,” Dani continues. “And I’ll keep praying for your soul, because that’s a lie and anyone who’s ever been in the same room as the two of you knows there’s an unmistakable spark. It’s so freaking obvious. You better hope that boyfriend of yours never visits, and if he does, make sure Finley doesn’t come around.”

  With my mouth gaping, I stare at her, unbelieving.

  “Close your mouth, Georgette. You’re going to catch a fly.”

  “We’re not like that.”

  “Like what? Touchy-feely?” She walks to stand in front of me, arms crossed. “No, you’re not, but when there’s something special, like what you and Finley share, you don’t need to touch for everyone to see it.”

  But I do need to touch.

  I need to touch Finley so bad.

  “I’m going to New York,” I blurt out. I was meaning to talk to her about it. Now seems like as good a time as any. “I’ll just need a day. I’m going to pack up my things and have them shipped here.”

  “That’s good,” she says, her eyebrows raising knowingly. “I’ll man the fort, so don’t worry about that. And I’m going to give you the address of my favorite restaurant. It’s a great place to say goodbye to New York.”

  Is that what I’m going to do? Say goodbye?

  To New York, to Trevor...

  “Good morning,” Finley says as I open the door to the gallery, just before he gets the chance to knock.

  “Good morning,” I chirp back.

  Finn smiles. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

  I shrug. “Guilty as charged.”

  Maybe it’s the anticipation of adventure causing my good mood. We’re heading outside of the city and I have plans to take Finley to one of the Landry’s other restaurants. Maybe it’s the fact I get to spend the day with my most favorite person. Maybe it’s a little of both.

  “Ready to go?” I ask, noticing a bag in Finley’s hand. Then I notice the other has a carrier with two coffee cups.

  “Yes, and I brought provisions from CeCe.” He holds the goods up higher for me to see. “She tried to pack us a lunch, but I assured her we’d be fine.”

  I laugh. “She’s quite the motherly type, isn’t she?” I ask, wishing I knew CeCe better, but knowing I love what I’ve seen so far. Her most becoming attribute is the way she cares for Finley. And anyone who is good to him, is good with me. The fact she was able to make a monogamous man out of Shepard Rhys-Jones—a man who was only committed to his business and growing his fortune, before convincing CeCe to marry him for his inheritanc
e—is impressive in its own right. She’s like a modern renaissance woman—business owner, married to a real estate mogul, entrepreneur, patron of the arts. She and Shep have been some of our biggest clients since the gallery opened. Not only does she have the coffee shop, but she and Shep are currently working on transforming the space beside Neutral Grounds into a roasting facility, where they’ll roast and bag their own coffee beans.

  “She definitely likes taking care of people,” Finley says, walking through the door. I shut it behind him and lock it.

  “The van’s parked out back,” I say, motioning to the exit.

  As Finn suggested yesterday, he drives and I take over the coffee and breakfast CeCe packed up for us. And the playlist.

  We start out the trip listening to music and devouring the croissants and coffee. Once we’re out of the city, it’s a gorgeous drive. The day is sunny and bright and there’s not a lot of traffic.

  “So, I bet this is way different than New York,” Finley says, breaking the silence.

  Looking out the window at the mix of green and water, I chuckle. “So different. But it’s different than Dallas, too.”

  “It is,” Finley replies. “I love it.”

  “Me too.”

  We go back to sitting in silence for a few moments until the questions plaguing me yesterday rear their ugly heads. “Hey, Finn,” I start, rubbing my palms down the legs of my jeans.

  “Yeah?” he asks, glancing out the side mirror as he changes lanes.

  “Are you, uh, seeing anyone?” Inwardly, I facepalm myself. God, that sounded much more awkward out loud than it did in my head. Real smooth, Jette.

  Finley laughs and my head snaps up to look at him.

  “What?”

  “No,” Finn replies. “I’m not seeing anyone.” He sighs, eyes straight ahead. “I’m also not sleeping with anyone or hooking up. Anything else you need to know?”

  “No,” I say, swallowing down the relief I feel at his confession. “Sorry if that was nosy or overstepping boundaries.”

  Finn reaches over and grabs my hand. “You know there are no boundaries where I’m concerned, at least not like that. We’ve always been open books with each other and that hasn’t changed, at least not for me.”

  “Me either.”

  He squeezes and then let’s go, but I wish he wouldn’t. I wish we could drive down this Louisiana highway, holding hands, with nothing between us. But that’s not the case, and I can’t do anything about it right now, so I’ll just take what I can get and enjoy the day.

  Half an hour later, we’re driving into French Settlement and my eyes are soaking it all in.

  Quaint.

  Small.

  Peaceful.

  “I love it,” I murmur as we venture into their downtown. The address to Cami’s studio is plugged into the GPS and my British guy has been guiding us here, much to Finn’s amusement.

  I didn’t know you had a thing for British guys, he said about fifty miles up the road.

  What I didn’t say was if I could record him giving me all the directions, I would, but that’s not an option. So, I’ll settle for my British guy who I’ve named Edward.

  “It’s a nice little town,” Finn agrees. “I can see why they’d all live here and commute.”

  I nod, trying to wonder what that would be like. Even though I love what I’ve seen so far of this small town, I think I’d miss New Orleans too much to live somewhere like French Settlement. I’m a city girl, through and through. I love my conveniences and hustle and bustle. But I can see myself getting away from it all and driving down here every once in a while.

  When we pull up in front of the studio, Finn backs the van up to the curb, and I’m grateful he drove. He’s right, I really have very little experience on the road and I sure as hell couldn’t have backed this big van up like he just did.

  And why is that so hot?

  Focus, Georgette. Focus.

  After using the spare key to the studio Cami left with me, we walk inside and I immediately feel my face light up.

  “Wow,” I say, turning in a wide circle. This place is amazing and filled to the brim with canvases of all different shapes and sizes, all adorned with Cami’s signature style.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Finn says, whistling. “She’s really talented.”

  “I know.”

  The three paintings we’re supposed to pick up for the clients who came by last week are propped against the back wall, already wrapped up and ready to be loaded into the van. Courtesy of Deacon, no doubt.

  Finley and I grab an end of the largest canvas and load it up into the back of the van.

  I might’ve been able to do all this on my own, but I’m really glad he came along.

  “Thanks for coming and helping me.”

  “Anytime,” he says with a smirk as he runs his hand through his dark curls. His bicep is on full display when he does that. I wonder if he knows how gorgeous he is, surely he does. I can’t be the only person who notices. As a matter of fact, I know I’m not.

  I remember the stuck-up girls back in high school who would talk about him in the locker room.

  If he wasn’t so poor.

  If he came from a better family.

  He’s the kind of guy you fuck, but never take home to meet the parents.

  Those kinds of comments used to make my blood boil, but I also liked that they didn’t see what I saw. I liked that the goodness of Finley Lawson was all mine. Because I knew he was more than his family and his background or socioeconomic status. He was more than his drug-addicted parents. And he was definitely good enough to take home to meet the parents, even if those parents forbid you to have a relationship with him, like mine.

  Nothing they ever said about Finley made me change my mind about him or change how I felt.

  And it wasn’t about wanting something I couldn’t have.

  I just loved him, with a deep, unwavering love.

  My stomach leaps at that thought and I press my hand there to keep it still.

  Once we’re finished loading the art, I take one last look around the studio, my eye landing on a gorgeous painting of a magnolia tree. I’ve been ogling a real one in Jackson Square, waiting for the day it finally blooms like the one in this painting. Walking over to it, I squat down and get eye level, taking in the brush strokes and Cami’s choice of colors.

  It’s breathtaking.

  Standing, I pick the painting up and hold it out at arm’s length, picturing it in my mind’s eye on display.

  “Ready?” Finley asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, my focus still on the painting. “I’m taking this one too.”

  “For the gallery?”

  “No, for my house.”

  Finley helps me put it into the van and I shoot Cami a text letting her know I took it, just in case it was spoken for. If so, she’ll just have to make me another one. I also tell her to take it out of my paycheck. One of the many benefits of being an art junkie working at a gallery.

  Or maybe it’s a pitfall.

  Now that I have a house to furnish and decorate, I might be tapping into even more of my trust fund… because art.

  “Where to next?” Finn asks as we climb into the van.

  Cami’s reply comes almost immediately.

  Cami: The painting is yours, for free, just because you’re awesome and the best employee I’ve ever had.

  Me: I’m the only employee you’ve ever had.

  Cami: Potato, potahto.

  I laugh, shaking my head.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “My boss.”

  “So, you confessed about your art thievery?”

  I swat at him, but he dodges the blow. “Hey, I have every intention of paying for it. But she’s probably going to be stubborn and refuse. Which just isn’t going to work for me, since I have big plans of making my house a shrine to all things Cami Benoit-Landry.”

  “Sounds kind of stalkerish,” he teases, but I see the approving smile
on his face as we pull away from the curb.

  “Let’s go to Pockets,” I say cheerfully, feeling practically giddy at the thought as I plug in the other address Cami gave me and let Edward guide us to the Landry’s French Settlement establishment.

  A few minutes later, we’re pulling into the parking lot. Sitting just off the main road, it’s full of customers already, even though it’s just now time for lunch. The building is newly built because, according to Cami, the original restaurant was destroyed in a fire. Deacon was inside the building when it happened and from the sounds of things, it was a scary time for them.

  I can only imagine.

  My thoughts drift to Finley and what I would do if he was in a situation like that. It’s not lost on me that my first thought wasn’t Trevor, which only solidifies the decision I’ve made to end things with him. I can’t see how we’re ever going to make this work. During our argument on the phone the other night, when he accused me of using this job opportunity and move as a way to give him an ultimatum, I realized just how far removed we are from each other.

  In all honesty, it’s been happening for a while, but they were small cracks in our pavement. But since my move, those small cracks have turned into large divides.

  “Welcome to Pockets,” a girl with big blue eyes and a bouncing, blonde ponytail greets as we walk through the front door. “Just the two?”

  “Yes,” Finley answers. “Could we have a booth?” he asks, pointing at a line of them against one wall.

  The restaurant is really nice, low-key, but nice. In a way, it has that same industrial feel Lagniappe has, but on a more rustic scale, fitting for the location and environment.

  “Here are a couple of menus and I’ll be back to get your drink orders in just a minute.”

  “Smells amazing,” Finley groans as we both get comfortable in the booth. A stage takes up a good chunk of the corner and I see his eyes go straight to it. “Tucker told me he used to play gigs here, even when he was out touring with his band, he’d still stop in here and play.”