Before Greier headed to work, he told me to take the day to sleep, maybe have a good private cry. Then I can start fresh the next day. I agreed and thanked him. When he left, I shut the bedroom door and crashed. I kept waking throughout the day, in a hazy consciousness of wake and sleep, the early weekend crowd humming in the streets below. But sleep drowned me in its dark waters again and again.
When I finally rouse, it’s night, the lights and signs of Bourbon Street blaring through the windows. The clock reads nine.
I slept all day?
I fumble out of bed, my body and eyes sagging with the remnants of sleep, and head into the bathroom for a short shower. When I’m clean and awake, I go to the kitchen and check out what’s in the fridge. There isn’t much but leftovers. I eat and surf the TV for anything watchable. You’d think with a thousand channels, there’d be more on.
By four, I’m bored and restless, so I acquaint myself with my temporary sanctuary. The Quarter doesn’t seem like a bad place to hide in plain sight with the chaos of Carnival.
I finger through “S” in his vinyl collection. Sam Cooke, Sidney Bechet, Steppenwolf. It’s an eclectic mix of artists. Two towers house the impressive record catalog. Between them, a framed King Creole poster. An Elvis fan.
Like little breadcrumbs for the woman who comes after her, clothes aren’t the only items the faceless ex left behind. This theme becomes clear throughout the apartment, perfume behind the bathroom mirror, a dainty floral teacup in the kitchen cupboard, fluffy slippers beside the couch.
I’m snooping through a junk drawer, because people put the weirdest crap in a junk drawer, when my hand sweeps across cool metal. I retract it immediately. A gun. Curiosity slaps me upside the head. Carefully, I reach back inside and clutch the heavy piece in the palm of my hand, pulling it out and watching the light play off the barrel. My father taught me enough about guns to check the safety. It’s on. I feel the empowering weight of the revolver in my hands, admiring its killer beauty. I grasp my hands around the pearl handle, keeping my fingers away from the trigger. I spin around, pretending to confront a burglar, the barrel pointed in the direction of the stairs. “Put your hands up!”
Greier jumps back, his hands shooting into the air near his head.
“Jesus H. Fuck!”
“Sorry,” I apologize, setting the gun on the table next to me. “I didn’t hear you come in. The safety was on, I swear.”
“What are you doing with my gun?”
“Taking down the bad guy?”
He sputters out a laugh, but it’s more relief than humor. His chest sinking on an exhale.
“My fucking life flashed before my eyes.”
“And?”
“Not good. Next time you play Cops and Robbers, Miss Bonnie Parker, make sure a life is on the line.”
“Will do, Mr. Barrow.”
Once his heart stops trying to escape his chest, he kicks off his shoes with a groan, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the cooler. He brings it into the living room and falls back on the couch, crossing his feet on the table.
“You know,” he says, sinking deep into the couch, “my ex hated when I put my feet on the table.”
It’s not something we did in our home either. It was rude and ill-mannered. But I’m not home. And in this moment, I’m really glad.
“Mind if I join?” I nod to the beer.
“Not at all. And you never need to ask.”
I root for the frostiest one, popping off the cap with the opener on the wall. Of course, he would have one. A bar owner. Plus, his kitchen is well-organized and stocked. Everything has a place and is easy to locate. It’s neat. In fact, his entire apartment is. I would imagine it’s the girlfriend’s doing, but it’s not. It couldn’t be. If it was, this place would be a disaster by now. He’s just organized. It’s nice to see a man take pride in his home and work.
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.
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.