She looks good.
Still a little thing, topping out at barely two inches over five feet, but she’s curvier than she used to be. She fills out that pair of jeans like a dream.
Guess ten years will do that to a girl. You know, turn her into a woman and all that jazz.
Her dark hair, once long enough to brush the small of her back, is now cut to shoulder length and falls around her heart-shaped face in messy waves. But her eyes haven’t changed. They’re still as blue as a robin’s egg.
Angel eyes.
Eyes that haunt my dreams.
Hundreds of times, I’ve thought about what it might be like to see her again. Imagined all the things she could say. But she exceeds my expectations when she plants her hands on her hips and cocks her head at a saucy angle. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. I thought for sure I’d never see your sorry hides again.”
Her accent is pure New Orleans. Brooklyn-by-way-of-the-Mississippi-River-Delta. A strange mash-up of a Southern drawl and Northern pronunciations heard only in this city.
“Maggie May, it sure is…” There’s a hitch in Luc’s voice as he stumbles to get the words out. “It’ssogood to see you. It’s been way too long.”
For a decade, I managed to parse the pain I felt at leaving her, atlosingher, into bearable, bite-sized pieces. But seeing her again has made them congeal. Now they’re stuck in my throat like chunks of concrete.
Was I wrong to come back here?
No. This is right. This is the only way.
“And whose fault is that, Lucien Dubois?” she demands. “I’ve been here. Where havey’allbeen?”
“We…” Luc starts, but then he shakes his head helplessly.
It was never his idea to cut off all communication with her, and I know what doing so has cost him over the years. Back then, I convinced him it was the only way she’d move on. From me. From us. From what happened that night in the swamp. Told him it was the best thing for everyone involved. Told him it would keep her safe and ensure the superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department never had any reason to doubt their story. I told him to just…let her go.
Now the look in her eyes—all that old affection mixed with confusion and more than a little hurt—tells me what I’ve known all along. What I’ve known but chose to ignore. We can’t let go of each other. From the moment we met, she saw me and I saw her. And together with Luc, the three of us made up the whole world.
Fedora looks from her to us then back again. “Best be on my way,cher.” His thick Cajun accent makes the endearment sound like it should be spelledsha. “Now, if you decide to do yourself a favor and leave work early tonight, come see us play at da Spotted Cat,maisyeah?”
When he kisses her cheek before stepping over the windowsill and disappearing into her apartment, I feel a green-eyed monster hop atop my shoulder. The little shit whispers all sorts of ideas in my ear. Most of them revolve around feeding Fedora a five-fingered sandwich.
But I lost the right to fight for her ten years ago. Besides, fighting was part of Old Cash. New Cash has to focus onThe Plan.
“Well, are y’all coming up, or do I have to traipse into the middle of the street to hug your necks?” she asks.
She’s always been good like that. Able to buck up no matter how much shock or anguish or agitation she might be feeling. I’d bet two inches of my dick that right now she’s struggling with all three.
“We’ll come up,” Luc says before I have time to consider whether it’s a good idea to go inside her home. To see what she’s become,whoshe’s become. To smell her wildflower smell and feel her skin against mine when she hugs me.
More shaken than I was the day I woke up in the hospital to a mind-melting headache, I follow Luc to the gate beside the door of the spice shop occupying the street level of Maggie’s building. In true New Orleans style, her apartment is accessed by a short tunnel leading from the sidewalk to a central courtyard. From there, we’ll find a set of stairs going up to her place.
Fedora is at the gate to meet us. It squeaks painfully on its hinges when he opens it. “Jean-Pierre Marchand.” He extends a hand.
Luc is the first to shake, giving Marchand his name.
“Dubois, huh?” the Cajun muses. “Well, thank you for ridin’ to Maggie’s rescue all dem years ago. Me, I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Luc blinks in surprise. Considering he’s only ever toldmewhat really happened that night after prom, I understand why he’s taken aback. If Maggie told Marchand, then Marchand must be someone truly special.
The green-eyed monster on my shoulder gains ten pounds and starts talking faster.
“Cash Armstrong,” I say when Marchand offers me his hand. I squeeze his fingers harder than is probably necessary, but if the Cajun notices, he doesn’t let it show.
Instead, he leans forward and says with quiet menace, “Good to meet you. And me, I don’t care how long it’s been. If ya hurt Maggie again, I’ll break your head, yeah?”
