Good Times

by Kate, Jiffy

  Just as I’m confirming my location on the app, a text from Finley comes through.

  Finley: Glad to hear it. Can you text me when you’re in for the night?

  I smile, just seeing a few words from him somehow makes me feel better. This is just one example of the many differences between Finley and Trevor.

  Trevor gets so preoccupied with his own life and business; he can completely forget about me.

  Finn, on the other hand, can have a million things going, but he always takes the time to check on me and make sure I’m okay.

  What they say, about it being the little things, is so true.

  I don’t need grand gestures; I just need someone who’s going to make me a priority and show me they care. That’s all.

  As completely insane as it sounds, I wish he was here. Yeah, my first love/best friend/person I’m currently battling feelings for does not make a logical companion on a trip to call it off with my current boyfriend and pack up my things.

  It’s twisted, I know.

  But I can’t help what I’m feeling. And I’m here to hopefully make things right, free up my conscience and my life. Lately, I’ve felt like I need to have one of those voodoo people who sit out on Jackson Square come and sage my house, or my life. Between the gallery, setting up the townhouse, worrying about Trevor, and fighting my feelings for Finley, I’m spent.

  Something has to give, which is my main reason for being here.

  Me: Sure. How’s the club tonight?

  Walking out of the airport, I go to the curb and keep my eyes open for a black Prius. According to my app, Siobhan should be here in approximately three minutes. Thanks to my late arrival, it’s not too busy.

  Finley: A good distraction since I’m already missing you.

  The slow smile that pulls at my lips is inevitable. God, I love him. I never stopped. With Finley and I, it’s always been this multifaceted kind of love. I love him like a best friend. And I love and admire the person he is. I love his heart and his talents. And I love him—the boy who stole my heart and the man who still keeps it safe.

  When the black car pulls up, a very tall woman gets out, reminding me of Brienne of Tarth from Game of Thrones.

  “Welcome to New York,” she greets as I slide into the back of the car, shoving my suitcase across the seat. “Where to?”

  “89 Wall Street,” I tell her, feeling the day weigh me down, pushing me further into the small back seat.

  “Manhattan,” she comments.

  Glancing up, I make eye contact in the rearview mirror and nod with a smile. “Yeah.”

  “Coming home from somewhere or just visiting?”

  You just never know what you’re going to get with drivers. Some of them don’t want to talk at all. Others don’t speak fluent English. And a few are extreme conversationalists. I once got into a van with a few girls from Sotheby’s and the guy was running some kind of social experiment. He grilled us all the way from Chinatown back to Manhattan.

  “Just here for a couple of days.” I decide to go with that, because I don’t feel like this is a homecoming, but I also wouldn’t consider it a visit. I’m just here to take care of business.

  Blessedly, she pulls out onto the highway and conversation ceases. Pulling out my phone, I send Trevor another text.

  Me: in a car headed to the apartment

  Since he rarely texts me back, I don’t feel obligated to give him complete sentences or punctuation.

  Opening my messages from Finley, I read back over his last one and then stare at it. When that isn’t enough, I close the text and open my photos, scrolling to the one we took outside of Pockets a week ago.

  That was a good day. But then again, all days with Finley are good ones. He makes it so. The world could be falling apart, but as long as I’m with Finley, I know everything’s going to be alright.

  Switching back to the text messages, I shoot him a short one.

  Me: I miss you too and my only distraction is Brienne of Tarth’s look-alike.

  Finley: She was my favorite character on GOT. Can you get an autograph?

  Me: Your favorite, really? What about Jon Snow… Jaime? KHAL DROGO? I mean, I love Brienne too, but I’m not sure I’d say she’s my favorite.

  Finley: Of course you’d pick one of the hot guys as your favorite. *rolls eyes*

  Me: *evil grins*

  Instead of an evil grin, I sit in the back of the car as we make our way through New York with a stupid grin, courtesy of Finley Lawson. It’s so crazy to think that a couple of months ago, I had no clue what was in store for me. I knew I was getting ready to embark on a new career in a new city, but I had no clue my past would come back and flip everything upside down… or maybe set it right.

  Deep in thought, I don’t even look for my usual landmarks. The same ones that took my breath away when I came to this city for the first time. All the lights and buildings are a blur and the next thing I know the car is stopping in front of a familiar building.

  “Have a good night,” Brienne of Tarth calls out as I open the door.

  Pulling my suitcase across the seat, I smile over at her. “You too. Thanks for the ride.”

  Before I step inside the lobby of the building, I make sure to leave her a tip and a quick review, telling her how much I loved her in Game of Thrones.

  Finn will get a kick out of that.

  Stepping away from the curb, I take a deep breath as my eyes scan up the building. “Let’s get this over with,” I mutter to myself, watching my breath in the cold New York night.

  I brace myself the entire ride up the elevator, wondering what Trevor’s greeting will be like. Is he going to try to kiss me? Is he going to be pissed and give me the cold shoulder? Will this be a shouting match before I even get in the door?

  God, I have no idea and the unknowing is killing me.

  When the elevator stops, I take a fortifying breath and step out into the hallway. As I approach the door of the apartment, I hesitate for a second. With my hand curled into a fist, poised to knock, I check myself. Do I knock?

  Even though I have a key and some of my things are still inside, I don’t feel right barging in.

  This isn’t my home, not anymore.

  Knocking lightly, I step back and wait. When the door doesn’t open, I knock again, a little more forcefully this time.

  Still no answer.

  Leaning forward, I place my ear close to the door to see if I can hear Trevor on a call. I can picture him in the pristine, white space, pacing the floor in his perfectly tailored suit and wingtip shoes. With one hand in his pocket and the other holding the phone to his ear, he always looked like someone powerful and important.

  Swallowing down my nerves, I open my bag and dig out the key inside. As I slide it into the lock, I still expect the door to swing open and Trevor’s hazel eyes to be staring back at me expectantly. But he doesn’t. And as I open the door and pull my suitcase into the foyer, I notice the lights in the kitchen and living room are off.

  As a matter-of-fact, the entire apartment is dark, except for a dim light coming from the lamp at the end of the hallway that’s always left on when we’re away.

  We.

  When was the last time Trevor and I actually felt like a we?

  Months.

  Probably the weekend we celebrated his birthday last fall. After that weekend was when I applied for the job in New Orleans. It’s basically been downhill ever since.

  Guilt floods my chest. Is this my fault? Am I to blame for our relationship falling apart?

  “Trevor?” I call out, walking quietly down the hall toward the bedroom, just in case he came home from work and fell asleep.

  Nothing.

  “Trevor?”

  Both bedrooms are empty, as well as the bathrooms. Walking back toward the kitchen, I flip on the light and it looks exactly the same way it did when I left. So does the living room. Everything looks too perfect and like it’s being staged, not lived in.

  As I make my wa
y over to the large windows, I stare out at the city and the pang in my chest increases. This isn’t right. Nothing about this place feels right and I suddenly feel like I’m suffocating.

  Unwelcome tears sting my eyes and I roughly brush them away.

  Part of me can’t believe he’s not here—no call, no text, no note. But the other part of me isn’t surprised. And honestly, I’m relieved. Except, I can’t go back to New Orleans until I talk to him, so he has to show up at some point. I refuse to leave without closure.

  Pulling my phone out of my bag, I send Finley a quick text letting him know I made it safely to the apartment and promise to text him tomorrow. Then, I open the message to Trevor and send another.

  Me: I’m here. Where are you?

  While I wait, I decide to pour myself a glass of wine. I’m going to need it to get through the next thirty-six hours. That’s how long I have until my flight leaves to go home.

  Home.

  Back to Finley.

  After my first glass, I pick my phone back up and see a reply from him, telling me to sleep well. I almost texted him back, but I’d probably say too much and I want to save everything I have to say for when I see him in person.

  Still nothing from Trevor.

  So, I wait… and wait… and wait.

  Around one in the morning, I walk back down the hallway with my suitcase in tow and I pause in front of the spare bedroom. Walking inside, I shut the door and flop on the bed. There’s packing to do, but I can barely lift my arms right now, so it can wait for tomorrow, just like Trevor.

  Just as I’m getting comfortable in the bed, my phone lights up from the nightstand. Reaching for it, my heart hopes it’s Finley, needing to tell me something, anything to make me feel like he’s here with me, but it’s not.

  Trevor: Sorry, something came up. Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.

  Growling out of frustration, I sit up in the bed and toss the blanket back. Out of spite, I think about getting up and doing just the opposite, but I don’t. Instead, I fall back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling until my eyes refuse to stay open.

  The smell of coffee wakes me after a fitful night’s sleep. It’s always been like an alarm clock to my body. I literally cannot stay in bed when I smell it. Which is why, during college, I had always had a coffee pot with a timer set for when I needed to wake up. Trevor and I continued that tradition when we moved in together.

  Assuming that’s what’s happening, I roll out of bed and throw on my robe and walk down the hallway. The cool tile further wakes me as I make my way to the kitchen, but then I stop short.

  Trevor is standing with his back to me, already dressed in a pressed shirt and slacks, or maybe he never changed? Maybe he just came home?

  “Hey,” I mumble and watch as his back stiffens a little at my greeting.

  Yeah, not the reunion I imagined we’d have after months apart.

  “Good morning,” he replies and I hear coffee being poured into a cup. Turning, he offers it to me along with a forced smile that almost resembles a grimace. “Sorry I wasn’t here last night when you came home.”

  Taking the proffered cup, I let my eyes fall to the hot liquid, avoiding looking Trevor in the eyes.

  “I’m not even sure you owe me an apology at this point. I think we both know this is over.” Sometime over the last few weeks, a sense of resolve has come over me and last night it settled deep in my soul.

  This is over.

  Trevor and I are over.

  My time in New York is over.

  “Excuse me?” Trevor’s tone shifts and I’m forced to meet his stare. Those hazel eyes blazing. “What exactly are you saying, Georgette?”

  Taking a deep breath, I lay it all out on the table. “Something I’ve learned since I left for New Orleans is that I will never be a priority for you—”

  “Oh, come on. Are you kidding me with this shit? I thought we were adults, Georgette. You don’t need to be coddled.” Bracing his hands on the counter behind him, his eyes narrow in annoyance.

  “Let me finish,” I demand. “I’ll never be a priority for you and that’s not okay with me. I want to be with someone who puts my needs above his job and career. I get it, that’s not you, and that’s okay. We’re not compatible. I’m not trying to change you or give you an ultimatum. I’m just done.”

  He just stands there, his face stoic. After a minute or so of silence, he clears his throat and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear the cobwebs. “You’re done?” he finally asks, confusion replacing his stoic expression. “As in with us? Is that really how you feel? Because six months ago, you wanted to get married. Six months ago, you were pushing me to make a commitment. What happened to that and what happens when you’re finished roaming the country and are back in New York? Do you expect me to be here waiting for you?”

  “I’m not coming back,” I tell him. “I love my job and I love the city and I realize now that pushing you for a commitment was wrong.” Pausing, I take a second to center myself and keep my composure. Nothing good will come from losing my cool or saying things out of anger, so I try to stick to the facts. “No one should ever pressure you to do anything you don’t want. Whether that be moving forward in a relationship or staying in a job that doesn’t make you happy.”

  I let that marinate for a second, before continuing. “We were friends before we were anything more, so I’m trying to end this on the same note we began. You’ll always hold a special place in my heart and I’ll think back on my time in New York, and with you, fondly. Because we’ve had some good times. But it’s time for me to move on with my life and I can’t do that here… I can’t do that with you.”

  This time, when he looks at me, it’s not spiteful or angry. He just looks sad and for a moment, I’m also sad. We did have happy times together, good times. And before I took this job in New Orleans and reunited with Finley, I thought what we had was enough for me, but it’s not.

  I want more.

  I want someone who always puts me first.

  I want the kind of love I thought I’d lost forever.

  Maybe I’m being selfish, but I think that’s okay sometimes. If we don’t take what we want and make ourselves happy, no one else will do it for us.

  “I can’t believe you’re standing here saying this,” he confesses, taking a step toward me. Removing the coffee cup from my hand, he sets it on the counter beside me and pulls me into his chest, giving me the comfort I’ve been needing from him for so long.

  But it’s too late.

  And the fact he didn’t think anything was wrong with our relationship lets me know I’m doing the right thing. There’s no way I could live the remainder of my life with that level of complacency. I want real happiness, not something that looks good on paper or to the outside world. I want happiness I feel from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. This isn’t it.

  Sighing, I push back to give myself some space. “It’ll just take me a couple of hours to pack up my things and I’ll find somewhere to stay for tonight.”

  “No,” Trevor says, brows furrowed as he shakes his head. “You can stay here. The spare bedroom is yours. I have to go into the office for a few hours, so you’ll have the place to yourself. Maybe we can get some takeout tonight, for old time’s sake.”

  Inhaling deeply and blowing it out, I finally let my shoulders relax. “Okay, thanks.”

  Picking up his to-go cup of coffee, he grabs his keys off the table and walks out the door, not even offering me a backward glance.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Finley

  The rainy skies of New Orleans are the perfect representation of my mood. Normally, I love sleeping during a thunderstorm, the sounds being oddly soothing to me, but not today. Today, I’m up after only a few hours of sleep but not because of the thunder and lightning currently raging through the French Quarter.

  No, it’s because Jette is gone again and I feel lost without her.

  Honestly, I didn’t think it wo
uld be so bad this time around. I’ve been through this before and it’s only for a couple of nights, for fuck’s sake, but I feel like shit.

  The agony is in the unknown.

  This can go one of two ways, I think.

  One, she breaks up with Trevor and comes back to me. This is, of course, what I want and I pray it’s what Jette wants, as well. I’ll never stop believing we’re meant for each other, even if she chooses the other option: staying with Trevor.

  Fuck, it’d kill me to let her go again, but I’d do it if I knew it was what she truly wanted. I’ve only ever wanted her to be happy; I just hoped with everything in me I was the one to make her that way.

  I guess there’s another possible outcome. She could pick Trevor over me and bring him down here to New Orleans. God, I want to puke just thinking about it. After living here these last five months, I absolutely believe everyone belongs here, and is welcome here. But not him. Fuck no, not him.

  I would certainly have to move. It’s one thing knowing Georgette is happy but it’s a whole other ballgame having to see it in person day after day. I know myself. I couldn’t do it. I would drive myself crazy. We’re too connected, not only personally, but with our circle of friends and New Orleans isn’t that big. Definitely not big enough to keep us apart, that’s been proven already.

  So, yeah, I’d move. I’d probably go to Los Angeles and take a chance on a music career there. I’m confident in my abilities to make it work, just like I’ve done here, but I’d still be broken.

  Ruined forever by Georgette Taylor.

  Sighing, I rub a hand over my face and through my hair. That’s enough interpersonal drama for me. Shit, that’s enough for an entire room full of people.

  After showering and throwing on some clothes, I make my way downstairs, expecting to find CeCe opening up Neutral Grounds. What I didn’t expect was to see Shep here as well.

  “Well, good morning, sunshine,” he calls out. “What has you up so early? You trying to sneak out a lady-friend or something?”

  “Ha, ha, no. I can’t sleep,” I mumble, stumbling toward the counter to grab a scone. Another perk to living above the coffee shop is all the pastry and coffee I want. When I first moved in, I would never accept the food CeCe offered me, because she never let me pay. Until one day, she told me it hurt her feelings when I turned her down. So, I make a point to always accept her graciousness and thank her profusely. Also, I know she likes it when I make myself at home, and the truth is, I feel at home. So, grabbing my own scone and a cup of coffee has become second nature.