Chapter Seven
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Luc
Sometimes, no matter what we do or say, no matter if we turn left or right, some things are just bound to happen.
Sitting in Café Du Monde, looking across at Maggie, I know this moment was inevitable. I was fated to come back here, back to her. Ours is a friendship that stands the test of time. It’s ordained. Written in the stars.
“There’s a real I-help-old-ladies-cross-the-street vibe about you.” She’s eyeing me thoughtfully.
I groan. “Maggie May, that’s about the worst thing you can say to a man.”
“What?” Wrinkles appear on her forehead. “Why? I thought being a good guy was a good thing.”
“Women don’t want a good guy who’ll give ’em a hug and a shoulder to cry on. They want a bad boy who’ll punch ’em in the heart.”
“Pfft.” She waves a hand through air redolent with the smells of chicory coffee, fried dough, and powdered sugar.
Café Du Monde hasn’t changed a bit. The bistro tables are still white. The walls are still painted with green stripes. And the dining room is still hopping despite most God-fearing Southerners having taken themselves to church on this bright, blue Sunday morn.
“Bad boys are fun when you’re young and dumb and looking for adventure,” she says. “But then you grow up and realize getting punched in the heart hurts like all get-out. No, thank you.” She reaches across the table to pat my hand. “Be glad you’re a good guy. Good women are attracted to good guys.”
I turn my hand over to squeeze her fingers. “And how many bad boys did it take for you to learn this sage life lesson?”
“Only the one.” There’s an edge in her voice, but she tries to play it off with a smile.
“Are you sitting here telling me you haven’t dated anyone since Cash?”
She laughs. “Oh, heck no. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends since him.” Her nose wrinkles. “Although, I’m not sure they technically qualify as boyfriends since none of them stuck around for longer than four months. What do you call someone who’s more than a friend, but less than a boyfriend?”
“A friend with benefits?” I suggest.
Her eyes fly wide, and she fakes a scandalized expression. “Good heavens! Notallof them!”
“Hmmm.” I narrow my gaze. “But youaresaying none of ’em were bad boys.”
“Good, solid men,” she asserts with a dip of her chin. “Each and every one. Well, except for Billy Dickson. He rode a motorcycle and was in a band. Then again, he also visited his granny in the old-folks home every Sunday and volunteered as a Big Brother, so…yep. Good boys. Like I said, after Cash, I learned my lesson.”
“Cash was never a bad boy. He was just…”
I let the sentence dangle, not knowing how to explain why Cash is the way he is without, you know, explaining why Cash is the way he is. That’sCash’struth to share. Not mine.
“When are you going to stop defending him?” She releases my hand. “You always defended him when we were teenagers, and you’re defending him still.”
“I’m not defending him. I’m just…”
I trail off again.
She laughs. “Wow. You’re talking the legs off the chairs today, aren’t you, Luc?”
I ignore her attempt at levity. “Everyone deserves forgiveness, Maggie May. Cash especially.”
Her expression turns serious. “I believe that. Well, maybe not the ‘Cash especially’ part. It’s easier to forgive someone when they actually own up to what they did and thenaskfor forgiveness.”
“He’s asking,” I assure her.
“Oh yeah? How?When?”
