“Sounds perfect.”
That’s exactly what we do for the next few hours. When there’s nothing left between the kitchen and dining room but the studs and mounds of crumbled drywall, we take a break. I’m sweaty and tired, but it’s a good tired. The tired you feel after hard work.
We’re sitting in the living room, which holds two folding chairs, a milk crate, and my mattress. Luc’s emptying the water from his Coleman jug down his throat. When he finishes the last drop, he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “My stomach thinks my neck’s been cut. Wanna grab a late lunch? We could walk over to Johnny’s for some po’ boys.”
Johnny’s sandwich shop happens to be on Maggie’s block. Apprehension skips up my spine, and as if on cue, the construction workers in my head break out the jackhammers. Even though I woke up with a renewed determination when it comes toThe Plan, I’m not sure I’m ready to see her again.
“You just want an excuse to swing by Maggie’s,” I accuse.
“Usually, that’d be true,” he admits. “But not today. She’s pulling a double shift at the bar.”
I lift an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”
“She told me last night.”
I’ve been avoiding the subject all day. Now I can’t stop myself from asking, “What reason did you give her for me not coming with you?”
“Said you had things to take care of here at the house.”
“Good.” I nod, relief flooding into me. “That’s good.”
“She saw right through it.”
I groan. “You’ve always been a shitty liar.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you forgot our dear, sweet Maggie May has more than a few brain cells.” He taps his temple. “She smelled the whiskey on your breath yesterday. Saw the flask in your back pocket.”
I say, “Shit,” but that doesn’t begin to cover the shame I feel.
“Don’t worry.” He nudges the toe of my work boot with his. “I told her more about your head injury, and honestly, she’s more worried than anything else. You know her, slow to judge and quick to commiserate, lucky for you. We’re meeting her for coffee at ten hundred tomorrow. Café Du Monde.”
“What?” I sit up straighter, my heart kicking into overdrive.
“A trip down memory lane.” He frowns. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“I am. I just…” I trail off.
“Just what?” he prompts.
“Nothing.” I stand and slap a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go get those po’ boys.”
When he heads to the bathroom to take a leak, I drain the last of the Gentleman Jack from my flask. I have it refilled by the time he’s ready to head out.
