Page 94 of Keller

I picture it. Raw oysters on ice. Lemon wedges. His knee bumping mine under a wooden table.

"If you can tolerate casual, I'd love to."

"Casual is perfect." Something rustles on his end. A car door opening. "I'll pick you up in thirty."

"Thirty minutes." I push off the seat back. I glance at my watch. I should be home in fifteen, which won't give me enough time to shower, but at least I can change. "I can work with that."

"Then it's a plan."

I’m not ready for the call to end. Hanging up now would feel abrupt, like stepping out of a room before the conversation is finished.

"How was your day?" I ask after a moment of silence. "Where did you go, anyway? I was surprised to see your note this morning about a flight."

There is a pause, long enough that I hear him clear his throat and the faint click of a radio coming to life in the background.

"It was productive. I'll tell you about it later."

The word productive is neutral enough to mean almost anything, whether it is work, family, or something older and more complicated than he is ready to explain over the phone.

Whatever it is, he's not ready to open it up over the phone, and I decide I can wait.

TWENTY-FOUR

Keller

Identity and Anonymity in Carnival: Many krewes uphold traditions that protect member anonymity, particularly during private balls where identities may remain undisclosed behind formal masks. This blend of concealment and recognition reinforces the layered nature of Carnival culture, where belonging is known within the circle but obscured to the public.

The hangar shrinksin my rearview mirror. Private jets line up on the tarmac, their tails catching the last of the daylight. The security gate slides closed behind me, and I merge onto the access road leading to I-10.

West is calling me on the phone, but I don’t feel like talking to him. I let it ring through to voicemail.

The original plan was the gym. Two hours of iron and sweat to work out the rage and pain. Deadlifts until my grip failed. That's how I always process things I don't want to confront. Push the body hard enough, and the mind goes quiet.

But tonight the thought of fluorescent lights and the clang of plates makes my jaw tight. I don't want hard edges. I don't want to grind through anything.

I want quiet. I want her. I want to be reminded that my mother's betrayal doesn't define me. I like that Quinn has restored my faith in relationships, in caring and being cared for.

Quinn is the antivenom to what the end of my mom's life shaped for me. Losing her like that, after learning she'd betrayed my father, turned me off from anything beyond casual sex.

Quinn is the first person who makes me believe again.

When I called her from the air, the invitation came out before I thought it through. Oysters. The river. Paper napkins and cold beer. It wasn't calculated, but I just wanted to see her face across a table.

The traffic light ahead turns red. I brake and use the moment to loosen my tie. The silk slides free with a whisper. I ball it up and toss it onto the passenger seat. The blazer comes next. I shrug out of it, twist in the seat, and throw it into the back.

I roll my sleeves twice. The white shirt is still crisp enough. Tailored trousers, polished shoes.

The Mississippi appears through the trees on my left. The water catches the orange and pink streaking across the sky. It's beautiful, if I let myself notice, which I do tonight.

Charlton Grant drifts into my thoughts. My thumb presses against my index finger. I catch myself doing it and stop. I can let go of the anger, now. He's a man, he made a mistake. My mother made her choices. But I don't have to carry them anymore.

I can put them back in that box.

That's what my father did. He put the photographs and receipts away and moved on with his life. He left the secrets sealed and stacked in the back of his bookcase, unseen.

I understand it now. Sometimes you can understand something, and then you can let it go. For the first time in my life, I think I'm ready to let all of that anger and pain go.

Quinn's street comes up faster than I expect. I take the turn, slowing past the old oaks that line the block. Her house sits back from the sidewalk, porch light already glowing.