By way of answer, she slides on her own set of sunglasses. They’re cat-eye-shaped and covered in peacock-blue rhinestones with small gold pompons at the corners. Maggie hands Luc a pair of glittery green sunglasses covered in gold metallic fleur-de-lis, and he doesn’t hesitate to slip them on. I recognize the pair. I caught them for Maggie the first year we were dating.
She kept them.
All this time.
The knowledge is a seed in my soul that takes root and grows into a large tree. The branches are covered in wide and varied leaves, each representing a separate feeling. There’s relief that, despite the thing between her and Luc, there will always be a place for me in her heart. There’s sadness that I can’t give her more than I have. And there’s even a bit of envy.
There. I admit it. I’m not jealous of her and Luc. But I amenvious.
Despite them being careful to hide the change in their relationship, I haven’t missed the fleeting smiles of longing they send each other when they think I’m not looking. Or the frequent touches of their fingertips because they can’t keep their hands off each other.
They’re in love.
The kind of love that moves mountains and crosses oceans and is written about in sappy books. The kind of love most of us spend our whole lives looking for. The kind of love only a few of us ever actually get.
It truly is a thing to behold.
“Maggie May and I needa talk to you after the parade,” Luc said to me outside her bar while we were waiting for her to finish her shift so we could walk to Canal Street to watch the parade.
“That worries me,” I told him, wondering if the two of them had finally decided to take a stand against the booze.
But now I think they probably picked today to finally admit to me that they’re seeing each other. And sleeping together. And are thinking about a future. You know, all the mundane and wonderful things that come with being dick over balls in L-O-V-E.
I’ve been waiting for them to confess. That and telling myself it shouldn’t hurt that they wanted to keep their secret-that-isn’t-really-a-secret for as long as they have. Considering the secret I’m keeping fromthem, I’d be a hypocrite to have any ill will.
Still, I’m glad Luc gave me the heads-up. I needed some time to perfect my poker face and to remind myself that true love is putting the happiness of the people closest to you before your own.
And it’s not that I’mnothappy for them. Want to put that on the record here and now. It’s simply that I’m not happy. In general.
You try being all sunshine and rainbows when your head feels like it’s constantly caught in a vise. When the buzzing in your ear is so loud that sometimes you fantasize about shoving a sharpened pencil in there to stop it. When your left arm goes numb so often it mostly hangs useless at your side.
That’s what truly gets me. The lack of control.
Dr. Beckett told me when I went in to see him last week that most of his patients don’t fear death itself. It’s the dyingprocessthat terrifies them.
I get the shit out of that. Dying is your body mutinying against you, turning fucking traitor. Where once you held dominion over it, it holds dominion over you. And it’s a merciless bastard.
That’s why I’ve decided to meet death on my own terms, with dignity.
Got it all worked out too. How I’ll do it.WhereI’ll do it—I hope Luc will forgive me for choosing the swamp house. Dotted all my i’s and crossed all my t’s with the help of Violet Carter—who would have ever guessedshewould come to be my confidant here at the end? Anyway, the only thing left is to pick the day.
But first, I have a few more memories to make…
“I take your silence and the fact that you’re both grinning at me like idiots who wear sunglasses at night to mean wedowear the throws of the krewe we’re going to see.” I sigh and obediently put on the pink heart sunglasses. Since I refused to dress up or paint my face, it’s the least I can do to humor them.
Pushing our way through the crowd, we find Eva and Jean-Pierre with a front-row spot on the corner of St. Charles and Canal. Eva looks amazing in a fairy costume, and Jean-Pierre is wearing a court jester hat and a glittery gold smoking jacket. Once again, I can only shake my head.
Someone passes me a beer in a go-cup, and then the crowd breaks into a cheer when the sounds of a brass band echo up the street. All of us on the corner crane our heads to see the start of the procession heading our way.
What you need to understand about the Carnival parades in New Orleans is that they might be named for the krewe that builds the floats and tosses the beads and the throws, but they’re also filled with dance troupes and high school marching bands, cheerleaders and kitschy performers who have their own special shtick. Like the group of guys who ride by us reclined in wheeled and motorized La-Z-Boys while smoking cigars and drinking bourbon.
Next comes a local dance team made up of middle-aged men with beer bellies and hairy legs. They wear the tiniest baby-blue shorts, gym socks pulled up to their knees, and sweatbands around their heads. Some of their moves are hilarious—making the crowd laugh—but others are actually quite good, proving that at least one of their members knows what’s what when it comes to choreography. A group of women parade in front of the dancers holding a sign that reads “610 Stompers. Ordinary Men. Extraordinary Dance Moves.”
I pound my beer and fill the empty go-cup with a triple shot of whiskey from my flask when the first high school marching band parades by. The sound is immense. Each blare of a horn is a dagger into my skull. Each bang of a drum is a blow to my brain stem.
I’m the only one who seems bothered by the wall of sound, however. Luc and Maggie are clapping to the beat and calling encouragement to the kids. Jean-Pierre and Eva are dancing, and when Jean-Pierre puts his fingers between his lips and whistles, the high-pitched sound is almost enough to bring me to my knees.
I throw back the whiskey and then immediately reach for the pills I stuffed in my pocket. Not sure how many I take. I simply toss them into my throat and swallow.
