“I’m doing this for her,” I tell him angrily. “Not for you, you self-pitying sonofabitch.”
“Thank you.” He lies back down beside the toilet, slurring something that sounds vaguely like, “The corsage is in the refrigerator.”
Hopping in the shower, I give myself a vigorous scrubbing while simultaneously calling him every dirty name I can think of. Fifty minutes later, I’m shaved, wearing an ill-fitting tux, and standing in front of the gate leading to Maggie’s courtyard.
This feels way too familiar.
Grabbing my cell phone from my pocket, I pull up my Favorites list. (I have exactly ten people on it: Mom, Maggie, Cash, and seven of the guys from my unit.) But before I can call her so she can come open the gate, a couple walks through and holds it wide for me.
Emerging from the tunnel, I stare at the water fountain in the center of the courtyard, attempting to let the cool of the shadows and the soothing tinkle of water work as balms on my chafed nerves.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to walk up those stairs and see the disappointment on her face. Not again.
But I’m nothing if not a man of my word.
Straightening my shoulders, I head for the steps. (If I take them a touch slowly, I don’t think you can blame me.) My hand hovers for a moment at her door. Then I knock using the seven-note “Shave and a Haircut” rhythm. It sounds a lot more cheerful than I feel.
The instant she opens the door, I’m struck by two things. One, I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful. She’s wearing a sky-blue ball gown that matches her eyes, and between her breasts rests the heart-shaped locket I gave her. Two, instead of looking surprised and disappointed when she sees me, her expression is resigned.
“Wow. Talk about déjà vu,” she says.
“Sorry, Maggie May.”
Her eyes soften. “Nothing for you to be sorry about, Luc. Let me guess. He’s drunk?”
I nod. “I was in Slidell all afternoon, so I wasn’t ’round to keep an eye on him.”
“He’s a grown man. He should be keeping an eye on himself.”
A sick feeling twists in my stomach. “You and I both know that’s not what’s happening.”
“Don’t we just?” Her tone is as somber as dirt over a fresh grave. “Okay, what do you say we get out of these fancy duds, change into sweatpants, and spend the rest of the evening eating our feelings?”
I laugh, but it’s devoid of humor. “I’d say that sounds like heaven, but we can’t leave Miss Bea in the lurch.”
“No.” She sighs. “I guess we can’t. Let me grab my clutch.”
Ten minutes later, we’re leaving the French Quarter and heading for the Garden District. She’s quiet. Too quiet.
“You look beautiful tonight,” I say to break the silence. Usually, I’m okay with a lack of conversation. But I can tell her head is spinning. And not in a good way. “Cash will be sorry he missed seeing you like this.”
She’s gazing out of Smurf’s passenger-side window at the palm trees on Canal Street. “You think? I’m not sure he was ever sorry he missed seeing me in that red sequined prom dress. I don’t know why tonight would be any different.”
“He was sorry he missed it,” I assure her.
“Stop speaking for him, Luc. Stop making excuses for him. And stop coming to his rescue.”
Yeah. Except… “I don’t do it for him, Maggie May.”
She hits me with those bluer-than-blue eyes, her brow furrowed. Then she blinks and looks away. “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”
“Sure.” I shrug, game for anything if it’ll wipe that hurt expression off her face. “Whatcha wanna talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know… Lauren maybe? What did you think of her?”
“She seems nice,” I admit. Although truthfully, I haven’t given Lauren a thought since the dinner party. “I can see why you like her.”
“No bad butt or weird boobs?”
