The day begins like every day since I renounced my former life, brimming with possibility. I ate a carb-loaded breakfast, took an extra-long shower, and then dressed for work in a pair of jeans and a cute t-shirt. I never owned jeans before coming here. Another thing I was deprived of under my parents’ rules and expectations. Simple yet monumental.
I’m scheduled for the mid-day shift. The tips aren’t as hefty as the later shifts, but it’s not nearly as hectic either. Usually older couples, families, business types, tourists. When the alcohol begins to cascade freely, so does the money.
The first part of my shift goes smoothly. I’m getting the customers fed and out the door to make room for the constant flow since Carnival started. As I maneuver between the tables and people, I catch a glimpse of Greier behind the bar, talking to Kate, the hostess, about some issue. When he spots me, a shadow of a smile twitches his lips. I return the sentiment, the corners of my mouth growing further apart until I’m genuinely smiling. It’s easy to do when you’re happy. Even doing something as mundane as working. And that’s due to him.
Maybe I should be worried or stressed considering the reality of my situation. But I’m not. I might be in hiding, but I’ve never been more free.
I’m working the sidewalk-patio tables when Kate informs me she’s seated people at table six inside and Rachel, the waitress assigned to it, is swamped with a large party.
“Can you cover for her?” she asks.
“I’m on it.”
She thanks me, and I head inside.
By chance, I glance from my order slips to gauge the clientele. It’s easier to identify the parties willing to leave a decent tip. I stop in my tracks when I spy the two women sitting at the table.
Blanche LeBlanc and my mother.
Fuck me.
Fortunately, they’re chatting about some meaningless topic and staring into their menus with snotty expressions, as if they can’t understand why they came to such an establishment.
What’s wrong with this place, Mother? Not good enough for your impossible tastes? Not good enough for your perfect daughter?
This place is Greier. He poured himself into it. It’s a part of him, and she’s judging it. Judging him. My mother has always been an expert nitpicker. It was almost an art. Usually, it was directed at me. I could handle that. But when her judgements are targeted at him, something inside me boils. With one disgusted snarl of her lip, white-hot fire flares in my belly—until my brain begins to function again, and I realize if they simply look up, I’m fucked.
I duck behind a plant and out the patio doors, speed-walking down the sidewalk to the courtyard gate in the back. I rest a hand on the brick wall and bend over, holding my stomach with the other. I’m shaking. And I feel like I might get sick.
“What the hell was that about?” Izzie probes me with a concerned edginess in her voice. I hadn’t heard her approach through my hyperventilating.
“I,” I straighten myself out, “I’m not feeling well. Could someone take my tables while I go on an early break?”
“You do look pale,” she agrees. “Paler than usual I mean.” She glances me over with a crease in her brow. “Alright, I’ll cover ya. Take an hour. Eat, rest, cool off, whateva.”
That should be more than enough time for them to eat and leave. But the idea of Izzie overhearing anything they may be talking about makes my stomach turn even more. I have no choice though. If I approach that table, this is all over. And I’m not ready for that—not yet anyway.
“Thanks.”
“Of course.” She turns to walk inside but looks back at me over her shoulder, a ruby smirk contorting her face. “But ya owe me.”
She leaves me to panic in solitude. I enter the courtyard and take a seat at the wrought iron table, leaning forward and placing my head in my hands. I rock back and forth. It helps to calm me down.
Once I stop hyperventilating, I head up the courtyard stairs to the apartment. In the kitchen, I splash some cold water on my face and neck and dab off with a towel before relocating to the couch in the living room. I hear the restaurant door open and then Greier’s big footsteps ascending the stairs. He walks over to the couch and sits beside me.
“You alright? Izzie told me you’re feeling sick.” He raises the back of his hand to my forehead and then places the palm over my cheek. “You’re pale.”
You would be too if you saw a ghost.
He leaves his hand on the side of my face.
“I’m not sick like that.” I remove it but don’t give it back to him, holding it in mine, which are now resting in my lap. “I think it was the heat.”
His eyes flicker from mine to our hands.
“It is hotter than normal,” he concurs, mindlessly staring at my lap. He lightly shakes his head, seemingly zoning back into the conversation. “The humidity doesn’t help.”
“It got the best of me.” I bob my shoulders lethargically, attempting to downplay the severity of the situation. I want to end this line of questioning before I get the urge to tell him the truth.
“But you aren’t flushed,” he notes. “What’s going on, Rae?”
Shit.
“It was a bout of nausea, nothing more, nothing less. I needed a little break.”
“I’ve called one of the girls to take over the rest of your shift.”
“I’m fine now, really. You shouldn’t have called anyone. Give me a couple more minutes, and I’ll be right as rain.”
“No,” he insists and then stands, “you should rest. I’d rather you’re safe than sorry. If this is a bug, it could cause a whole lot of shit for the restaurant. Health code violations and all that crap. Start fresh tomorrow.”
“Greier, you’re being overly cautious. It’s not a bug. I can work.”
“I’m being the boss and a friend. You’re taking the day off. Do whatever you like with it.”
I want to work. I love having the cash to do what I like. I love the independence it buys me. I love interacting with the customers and the girls I work with. Most of all, I loving being around Greier all day.
However, I wouldn’t want to run into my mother accidentally either. Or get everyone sick with my fake illness. So instead of arguing—“If you insist,” I agree, releasing his hand and lying back on the couch. He rises and makes for the stairs. “But for the record, I wanted to finish.”
“Noted,” he says as he descends them.
I use the rest of the afternoon to clean the apartment, wash some laundry, and read in the courtyard. But I’m unable to shake the uneasiness of seeing Blanche and my mother this afternoon. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I could’ve walked right up on them. I’m pretty sure they didn’t see me. If they had, I wouldn’t be here, in Greier’s apartment, tucked away in the Quarter. I’d be back at that house of deceit in the Garden District. I have to be more careful, keep a vigilant eye on my surroundings when I’m not in the apartment. I’m safe here. I’m safe with him.
He comes to check on me more often than necessary. But I won’t lie. It makes me feel secure, cared for. Something I never really had. As a child, before I was shipped off to boarding school, my mother never took care of me when I became ill. She’d have my nanny do it. She paid someone to nurture me, to love me. I hadn’t realized it wasn’t normal growing up. Since she was raised the same way, I’m guessing it hasn’t dawned on her either.