SUNDAY IS ONE for the books—specifically, my memoir, titled:
Slow Burn
How One Woman’s Sexy Suffering Led Her to Spontaneously Combust
The ending is predictable (I die), but the middle is filled with so much angst that it will be worth a read. Housewives across America will dissect my life at book clubs over boxed wine from Target, postulating where it all went wrong for me.
It starts with breakfast.
I show up 20 minutes early because I was worried I would hit any number of unexpected delays—traffic, charity 5ks, parades, a slow-moving grandma with a walker that’s missing a tennis ball. I help her cross the road and she tells me her life story, which is so long that I become a slow-moving grandma by the end.
Turns out, my worrying was for nothing. I’m early. My taxi pulls up outside the restaurant and I have the driver loop around the block five times before he asks if I’m helping rob a bank or something. I smile and tell him the only thing I’m hoping to steal today is a kiss. He frowns and tells me to get out.
The restaurant is busy and I do a quick loop to make sure Beau isn’t inside waiting for me. After, I slink into the bathroom to stall and use the opportunity to check my appearance. I’m wearing a cream-colored sweater dress and soft brown leather boots. The outfit seemed nice when I put it on at my apartment, but now it looks like I tried a little too hard. I wipe off the red lipstick (WHO WEARS LIPSTICK ON A SUNDAY MORNING?!) and dab on some lip balm instead. Better. I adjust my dress and confirm that the material hugs my butt like a clingy toddler. My blonde curls are cooperating for once in my life, so I take a second and shoot a quick thank you up to the savior.
Paul Mitchell, that is.
I tug out my phone. I should text Beau and ask if he’s close, but that’s not part of Playing It Cool. I shove my phone back into my purse and stroll out to the foyer. He’s there standing at the hostess stand, telling her his name. She’s leaned in close, listening to his every syllable while her gaze is on his lips.
There’s no wait; apparently he called ahead. I let my gaze slide down his gray Patagonia pullover and jeans. He looks like an erotic camp counselor, an outdoorsy man who could start a fire by rubbing two sticks together—a real tent-pitcher.
He sees me approach and steps back, smiles. Two little dimples frame his mouth. My breath sucks out of me like a vacuum. Somehow, I manage to keep my footing as I walk toward him. He leans down and kisses my cheek.
“Morning.”
I grunt or something in response then we’re led to our table.
I should have never agreed to breakfast.
Of all the meals, breakfast is the most civilized. You sip coffee or orange juice. You order something knife-and-forkable that is either healthy and simple (omelet) or delicious and messy (waffles). My taunting about seducing him with syrup from the night before flies out the window when they seat us at a small table in a corner. It’s a popular place, the tables close. I can hear what our neighbors are talking about, and it hardly sets the mood: “…hemorrhoids have really gotten better, I hardly even need this little pillow anymore…”
Beau smiles and takes the menus from the hostess. She smiles at him and tells him to enjoy his meal. I’m told nothing.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, eyeing me with those dark blue eyes over the top of the menu. “If not, we could split something.”
I hold my palm up to silence him. “I’m not one of those girls.”
I order a Chicken St. Charles: crispy chicken breast over a buttermilk biscuit, topped with poached eggs and finished with a tasso cream sauce. It’s one of their specialties and when our food comes, Beau is smart enough not to ask me if he can have a bite of it, though I do demand a sample of his omelet.
“Do you have plans after this?” I ask, sipping the last of my coffee.
The whole morning has been a big one-act play. Our conversation has been light and pleasant. We discuss the weather, Carnival season, where our favorite king cakes are from. I tease him for eating so healthy, and he wonders where I manage to put away the entire Chicken St. Charles I just slurped off my plate. Underneath the table is a different story. Our knees brush back and forth. His jeans create a torturous friction against my bare legs. We’re so entwined that if I tried to stand, I’d topple over. He makes eyes at me from across the table, and I suck a drop of coffee off my bottom lip.
“Plans?”
“Yes, like a pilates class or a book club.”
He smirks. “I suppose I have to see a man about a tattoo.”
I laugh. “No really. What would you do if we weren’t together? What do your Sundays usually look like?”
He rubs his hand back and forth along the nape of his neck and shrugs. “I’d usually work out, maybe go see my mom, work on her house a little bit. If it’s busy at the office, I’ll go in and try to get a head start on Monday.”
My face shows my disgust. “Wait, you’re telling me you use Sunday to get a head start on Monday? That’s sacrilegious, especially during Carnival season.”
He arches a brow, leans over, and grabs my hand. Our fingers are entwined between the salt and pepper shakers. A passing waitress sees it and smiles like we’re adorable.
I keep dragging details out of him, and apparently in all the years he’s lived in New Orleans during law school and after Audrey, Beau has never had a true touristy day in New Orleans. No streetcars. No Lafayette Cemetery #1. No dunking sugarcoated beignets into a warm café au lait at Café Du Monde. That’s the one that horrifies me the most—I think my eye twitches when he fesses up to it.
“Are you serious?” I ask in shock. “It’s like Rome—all roads lead there. In high school, I think Rose went there after every date she ever went on.”
“My dates end differently.”
My cheeks bake at that, and not just because I’m now imagining him having sex. I’m imagining him having sex with other women. Rose’s recent assessment jumps to my mind: Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser.
“I’ve toured the French Quarter and gone to Jackson Square Park,” he continues. “Does that count?”
It’s settled: we’re going to turn our breakfast into a full day of activities. Since we’re already in the Garden District, we start at Lafayette Cemetery #1, the most famous of all New Orleans cemeteries. People come from all over the world to tour it. The tombs are above ground, not only to follow in the French tradition, but also because New Orleans is below sea level. There are a few iconic crypts, the most famous of which inspired Anne Rice when she was writing Interview with a Vampire. We stand in front of the white, rusting, cast-iron structure, and Beau tilts his head.
“Spooky?” I ask.
“No, but I still like it.”
It’s hard to get the real cemetery experience in the daytime with a hundred tourists milling around and a few shouting tour guides, so we don’t stay long. We continue walking up Washington past Commander’s Palace so we can hop onto the St. Charles streetcar. Rose would never in a million years get on a streetcar on a Sunday afternoon during Carnival season, but Beau doesn’t protest, even when we see that it’s packed to the gills. All the seats are taken, so I show him where to hold on and then I use him for support. His arm goes around my waist and he tugs me closer. I glance up at him and wonder if he’s about to kiss me in front of all these people.
Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser.
I blink and force my gaze away from his mouth.
“Where to next?” I ask, annoyed that Rose’s little comment has lodged itself so thoroughly in my brain. “How about Café Du Monde and then we’ll head to the French Market? There will be a ton of vendors set up since it’s Sunday, and if you’re good, maybe we’ll stop off at the Pharmacy Museum.”
“Is this a date or a school field trip?” he taunts. “I didn’t get my permission slip signed.”
I pinch his side and he laughs.
Then I realize what he said.
Date. D-A-T-E. I’ll even use it in a sentence: When two people want to bang, they usually go on a date beforehand.
My palms are sweating. My knees are weak. My arms are heavy. Eminem’s the only one who understands me right now.
I am living out my decade-old dreams. This isn’t some lifelike fantasy; I’m not going to wake up at any moment. This is happening, and there’s no way on Earth I won’t screw it up. Rose was right the other day—I’m not that experienced. My kissing isn’t all that great. My ex-boyfriend, Clark, never spent the night at my apartment not because I liked my space but because after we had sex, he couldn’t wait to leave. I never told Rose that embarrassing detail, and now I wonder if this is such a good idea. I bit off more than I can chew with Beau. Take people who like running, for example: they don’t just sign up for the New York City Marathon on day one; they start slow and work their way up, maybe take a lap around the high school track a time or two.
I haven’t had sex in…well, let’s not discuss that sad fact. It’s been a while.
We ride the streetcar until we hit Canal Street and I practically jump at the opportunity to step out of Beau’s reach. Suddenly, I’m not so sure it was smart taunting him the way I have been. I’ve been poking a bear, a bear who might want to tear open my lunchbox and eat my cookies at any moment.
We walk toward Jackson Square Park and the crowd gets more densely packed. Beau laces his fingers through mine, and the touch sends a shiver down my spine. I wish I could sneak away and call Rose. I need her input right about now. I need to admit to her that I forgot that teeth thing she told me about and ask her to describe it again. Am I supposed to bite his lip or sort of let him take the lead and then just—
“Lauren?”
“Yup!”
I jerk back to the present moment and see that he’s pointing at Café Du Monde. We’ve made a terrible mistake: the line for a table extends across the street out past Jackson Square Park, and it’s moving rather slowly. Something about deep-fried dough really slows people down. There’s no way we’re eating beignets today.
“Should we just head to the market instead?” Beau asks, trying to salvage the rest of our afternoon.
No!
This is perfect!
I jump on the opportunity and shake my head. “Actually, I just remembered—I need to go work.”
He frowns, confused. “You made fun of me for working on the weekends.”
“Did I? I don’t recall.”
“You said it at breakfast.”
“Weird, doesn’t sound like me. I just remembered that my contractor needs me to look over some emails he sent about bids.”
He turns and takes my other hand. We’re standing at the altar. He’s about to profess his vows. The crowd on the sidewalk parts and moves around us reverently, and I really need to talk to Rose.
“You’re being weird.”
I wear my best shocked face. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t look me in the eye.”
I look at the building just to the right of his shoulder and shake my head. “Yes I can, but I choose not to.”
“What changed from the cemetery to now? It’s been half an hour.”
Oh, just my brain tapping me on the shoulder and reminding me that we’re not supposed to be fun, we’re supposed to be neurotic and self-sabotaging.
I take a deep breath and finally force myself to meet his gaze. It’s glorious and I am not worthy. I need to go home and make out with my hand. I need to google Top Ten Ways to Blow His @#$% (And His Mind). I need to YouTube that sex scene from Titanic and memorize how Kate Winslet kisses Leonardo DiCaprio. How did she know how hard to slam her hand against that steamy window? What if she accidently punched straight through? Beau is older and more experienced than I am. Sure, he was my first kiss, but I need to show him that I’ve progressed since then. I’m not that same high school dweeb anymore. I’m Lauren LeBlanc, sex kitten, vixen extraordinaire.
Or at least I will be.