“Take me to the county fair, pin a blue ribbon on me, and name me Best in Show,” I gamely agree.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Reckon I better stay with you.”
“Hell no, you won’t.” I sit up so I can pin him with a level-eyed look. All I want is to go to sleepalone, forget how unprepared I was to see Maggie again, and wake up tomorrow with renewed determination. “You’ll keep your word and go see her bar. Make an excuse for me, will you?”
“What excuse d’ya have in mind?”
“Don’t know. You’re smart. Think of something.”
His mouth flattens. “Sometimes I wonder why we’re still friends.”
“You know what? Sometimes I wonder that too. Maybe you’re notas smart as I think you are.”
He laughs as I hoped he would. “Fine. I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow morning, and we’ll get started mucking out this pigsty.”
“Not too bright and early,” I tell him “I’m a civilian now, and one of the perks of being a civilian is sleeping in. Don’t let me see your ugly mug before zero nine hundred. Oh, and bring coffee and beignets with you.”
His lips twist. “Anything else, Your Highness?”
“No chicory. That stuff tastes like piss.”
He grabs his chest like I’ve shot him. “Shut your damned mouth. Chicory is God’s gift to mankind.”
I wave a hand. “Get the hell out of here.”
He hits the light switch on his way out, plunging the house into blessed darkness. “Get some sleep,” he says. “And lay off the whiskey. It might make your brain feel better, but it can’t be helping it heal. Not to mention what it’s doing to your liver.”
“Do we need to go over what it means when I tell you to mind your own shit?” I counter.
He’s silhouetted by the outside lights, so I see him shake his head. Then he closes the door behind him without saying another word.
Curling onto my side on the mattress, I listen to the rhythmic chirp of crickets in the back courtyard and the soft sound of music drifting over from Bourbon Street. The house is musty with the scent of rotting drywall and dust, but I can still smell the holy trinity of Cajun cooking: onions, bell peppers, and celery. My neighbors are making gumbo.
It’s been a long time since I cried. Years, in fact. But tonight I can’t stop the tears from falling.
