The Beau & the Belle
Page 22

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out to see a text from Dad asking me when I’ll be home. I reply that we’re only a few minutes away and then I see another text from Preston that I missed while we were on the streetcar.
PRESTON: I’m bummed that I’ll be out of town this weekend. I don’t want to miss your party.
LAUREN: It’s not MY party!
PRESTON: Are we still on for next week? I’ll make it up to you.
LAUREN: Sure :)
“Who are you texting?”
“Guess.”
She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Didn’t take him long, did it? You’ve been back for what, two weeks?”
“He’s just excited that I’m back in town.”
“Uh huh, and he definitely hasn’t been pining for you the last 10 years.”
“He hasn’t.” She’s delusional. “According to his Facebook profile pictures, he’s had like four different serious girlfriends.”
It’s the truth. Preston and I have stayed in contact over the years thanks to our fathers’ friendship. He graduated with a degree in architecture and works as an associate at my dad’s firm. He isn’t the same snot-nosed punk he was when we were younger. He’s grown up, matured, simmered down to a level of privilege I can tolerate…well, in small doses. He convinced me to go out on a date with him next week—something I think Psychic Phoebe would be excited to hear about. The echoes of my high school self couldn’t resist accepting his offer. I would have DIED to have Preston ask me out on a date back then. Now, it seems like a fun way to spend an evening, and chances are, he’s going to take me to a place that has a good wine list. All in all, there’s really nothing to lose.
We round the corner toward my house and I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia. Rose and I used to walk home together every day after school, but when I glance over, I don’t see the teenage version of my friend standing beside me. She’s taller now. Her dark hair is chopped short in one of those stylish blunt bobs like Victoria Beckham. It’s bullshit—people shouldn’t get to be pretty as adolescents and as adults. We should all be subjected to those awkward, burn-every-photograph-in-existence middle school years. Rose doesn’t have those photographs—she has Glamour Shots.
“Why are you looking at me?” she asks, casting an annoyed glance in my direction.
I reach out for her hand and squeeze it. “I was just thinking about how weird it is that we’re walking home together, just like old times.”
She tries to break free of my hold. She loathes all forms of outward affection, which is the exact reason I grabbed her hand in the first place. “Unhand me, wench.”
“No. I’m forcing you to feel my love. Smell those chakras you forced me to open earlier.”
Her face contorts into a mask of pure misery. “I’m going to break out in hives. I hate this. Have you washed your hands lately?”
“Deal with it.” I swing our hands back and forth like we’re kindergarteners on a playground. “This is punishment.”
“For what?”
“Forcing cosmic confirmation that I’m going to die alone.”
She groans. “If you don’t let go, you’re going to die right now. At least you’ll have me by your side—slowly squeezing the life out of you.”
“Do you think it’s true? What Phoebe said?”
“I don’t know, maybe. I mean, you’re 27 and you’ve never had a serious boyfriend.”
I glare at her because that’s not true. “Clark was serious.”
“You never once let Clark spend the night at your apartment.”
“Why is that so weird? I like my space.”
“What a coincidence,” she says, executing a complicated escape maneuver she probably learned in a self-defense class. “So do I!”
I laugh as she shakes her hand out like she’s actively trying to dispel my cooties. It’s cute. She needs therapy.
My mom is in the kitchen when we arrive home, sitting at the table in a paint-speckled smock. There’s a half-eaten salad pushed to the side, some tea, and her ever-present sketchpad. It looks like she abandoned her lunch in favor of work, and I feel bad interrupting her. She’s working on a new collection of paintings for NOLA; I’ve commissioned a few that will hang in the space permanently, Kathleen LeBlanc originals.
She’s so absorbed in her own world that she doesn’t notice we’re home and in the kitchen until we’re feet away from her.
“Mom.”
She jumps out of her skin. Honestly, what if I’d been a burglar?
“Girls!” she says with a bright smile. “Jesus, you scared me half to death.”
“I don’t know how that’s possible—the old floors in this house are so creaky. Remember when Rose and I tried to sneak out and we didn’t even make it halfway down the stairs?”
She waves away my teasing. “Yes, well, I’m old and hard of hearing now. Anyway, have you two had lunch? There’s some chicken salad in the fridge that I made yesterday.”
Rose, having been my friend for close to three decades now, knows to turn down my mom’s cooking with a polite but firm no.
I do the same.
“When do you head back to Boston, Rose?”
“Sunday.”
“Oh good! I was worried you wouldn’t be able to make it to the party on Saturday.”
She resumes her southern debutante persona, fanning her face and drawling. “And miss Lauren’s reintroduction to New Orleans society? Why I never.”
“That’s not what it is!” I insist, slightly embarrassed by the old-world concept.
My parents are throwing a 12th night party that happens to coincide with my being back in New Orleans, and the invitation might have said something about welcoming me back…and my picture might have been on the front of it. Whatever. I’m not going to make it a thing—I refuse to be “the toast of the town”, as my mom likes to say. I don’t want to be the toast of anything.
“I bet all those southern gentlemen are chomping at the bit to get a good look at her all grown up,” Rose continues on like she’s auditioning to play Scarlett O’Hara.
Of course my mom enables her, and together, they turn to party talk. Instead of joining, I go to the fridge and play a game of If I Eat This, Will I Die? while looking for a snack. I decide an apple is safe and chomp down on it as loudly as possible in the hopes that it blocks out their voices. The party is all my mom has talked about for the last few weeks and if I have to hear the details one more time, I’m going to go to the bus terminal and fulfill that psychic’s premonition. Fortunately, it doesn’t take them long to shift from party talk to Rose’s life in Boston. My mom is doing her best to convince Rose to move back to New Orleans, though it’ll never happen. Rose loves her life up north, her career, and her friends. Also, the men. Nothing has changed since high school. For the last decade, I’ve listened to Rose talk about her dating life in excruciating detail—every kiss, every tussle between the sheets. She’s never had a shortage of lovers. Meanwhile, I’ve had Clark, the well-mannered accountant—the bore. I don’t think he ever touched me without asking my permission first, and while consent is great, I don’t think I need to sign on the dotted line before every single kiss.
Rose spent her early 20s figuring out her likes and dislikes in the bedroom. I spent my early 20s figuring out if I prefer deep dish or stuffed-crust. My findings: I like pizza. I can’t help but feel like I have catching up to do in the love department. I’m starved for a passionate lover. I need Fabio without all the hair. I need Pepé Le Pew without the smell. I need a certain unrequited teenage crush to fucking requite itself.
DON’T, my brain warns. Do NOT go there.
But it’s too late. I can’t stop myself. Every so often, my mind wanders to memories of him that still linger, memories of what it was like to be in love with someone when I was so young and foolish. It doesn’t help that I’m standing here in the kitchen, a place where my flickering memories are easily resurrected into 3D technicolor.