Luisa, seeming lost in her own thoughts, doesn’t reply. Instead, she sits silent for a while, and then blurts out: “I shouldhave been more brave.” Her tone is defiant. “I should have set my mind to it, put on my big-girl panties, and gotten the job done.” She pauses to shove half a doughnut into her mouth. “And now it’s over and—”
“You didn’t even get the chance to take off your big-girl panties for Eli,” I interject, trying to bring some levity into the situation.
She does laugh, but when she stops, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and growls. “That guy. Another huge mistake.”
“Has he tried to reach out to you?” I ask.
“Like every five minutes,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “I feel like such an idiot.” She pulls her legs into her chest. “We should have never brought him into this.”
“Lots of avoidance going on right now,” I say. “The esteemed Professor Pridmore is ghosting me.”
“Seriously?” she asks. “I thought you two were really going somewhere.”
“Professor Pridmore would beg to differ,” I tell her, feigning a British accent, which makes Luisa laugh.
“His loss,” Luisa replies. “If he can’t get over a tiny white lie”—she pinches her thumb and index finger together to demonstrate—“he’s just another snooty Brit with a stick up his ass.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactlytiny—the lie we told him,” I retort, swatting her hand away. “It’s okay, though. At least now I know that I’m ready to get back out there. I mean, I haven’t even tried to go on a date in ages.” I peer into the pastry box, grab the last doughnut, split it, and hand half to Luisa. “I guess it was finally time to get out of my comfort zone, start taking risks. What is it that Irma’s always saying? ‘If there’s no risk, there’s no reward.’?”
Seen from this perspective, I guess my decision to spew out our whole story in a voicemail to Hugh wasn’t a terrible one after all. Maybe it was exactly what I needed to do—take a chance, even if the whole thing went nowhere.
“We need more coffee,” Luisa announces, lifting herself from the swing. “Then we’ll unpack what to do about the whole Pridmore situation. Be right back.”
I’m cleaning up the remains of our doughnut binge, gathering a wad of sticky napkins, when a familiar truck approaches. And then none other than Elijah Denvil Sweet Jr. gets out and comes sauntering up the brick path—looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
What the hell is he doing here?That’s what I’m thinking when I hear the screen door slam shut. Then I turn to see Luisa, holding two steaming mugs in her hands.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she calls out.
Great mindsdothink alike. Or in this case, greatly distressed minds.
“Well, good mornin’ to you, too,” he says, in what I must admit to be a perfect Mississippi drawl. He reaches up to grasp the edge of his beat-up Happy Hooker baseball cap and tips his head, like a real Southern gentleman, then steps onto the porch and stands across from Luisa, who has set the mugs onto a side table and is shooting him a fierce glare.
He stares down at her pajamas and grins. “Are those cats and tacos?”
“Galaxy taco cats,” she snaps back.
“Ohhhkay,” he responds warily. “I tried to call you both. A bunch of times. Since you didn’t pick up, I just came down here to share the big news.”
We stare at him. Silent. I can feel the rage radiating from Luisa’s body. Or is it desire? Sometimes the two are hard to distinguish.
“Well, since you asked…” He pauses for effect, then stretches his arms wide. “You ladies just might be looking at the next inductee into the Midnight Society.”
“What are you talking about?” Luisa spits back at him, arms crossed over her chest.
Too dumbfounded to utter a single word, I plop down on the swing, my mouth agape.
“Holly,” Luisa barks, then actually snaps her fingers, like she’s trying to pull me out of hypnosis. “What’s he talking about? Is this one of those creepy secret societies?”
“Not secret. More like exclusive—Atlanta’s oldest and mostprestigious social club for men,” I say, awed that Eli got an invite. “I’m pretty sure only bachelors can join, but then they stay in for life.” I shake my head, still not believing our good fortune.
“Is this another one of those pat-yourself-on-the-back charity things?” Luisa asks.
I shake my head. “They just exist as an excuse to get together and have a good time,” I explain. “Most of their parties are only for the male members, but they hold two events a year at the club—the only ones with spouses and dates: a New Year’s Eve white-tie formal and an annual costume ball—”
“Costumes?” Luisa sneers. “What is this? Halloween in June?”
“We’re not talking those polyester getups that you buy from the pharmacy in a plastic bag.” I scoff, recalling the year Buck Dorsey, a Midnight Society old-timer and the current chair of the Dogwood Hills board of directors, paid thirty thousand dollars for a Robocop costume—at least, that’s what Janey reported. “People go all out,” I tell Eli and Luisa. “It’s a huge freaking deal.”
