After we’re both done, we take a stroll back toward Jackson Square, and this time it’s me who finds Freddie’s hand first. “So Viv,” I say.
“It was over long before that party.” His voice is sad but firm.
I feel for him, but not in a commiserating way like I did at first. Now I’m more upset that anyone would dare hurt him.
We sit down on the steps of St. Louis Cathedral and watch as artists lining the fence of the square sit camped out on the ground creating more art, scratching their dogs’ bellies, and chatting back and forth about tourists and upcoming local events. To our left is an impromptu street brass band playing “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” And beside them are a few psychics with folding chairs sitting behind card tables as they wait for night to fall and for the inhabitants of the Quarter to turn curious.
“Was she your first girlfriend?” I ask.
“Does that make me pathetic?”
“No,” I tell him emphatically. I want to ask. I shouldn’t. It’s none of my business. But maybe it is. “Is she the only girl you’ve ever been with?”
“Been with?” He smirks. “If you’re going to ask it, you have to say it.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. “Is she the only girl you’ve ever had sex with?”
He nods. “Yep. For a while, I even thought she might be the last.”
“Are you serious?”
He turns to me. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Unrealistic? Yes. Ridiculous? No.”
“I thought I’d found it. I don’t even know if we were in love, but we were happy, and... and happy is more than my parents ever had, if what they had was anything at all. It’s sad that sometimes we let ourselves believe that if it’s not bad, it must be good.”
I carve out a corner of my memory for his words, because it’s a sentiment I don’t want to forget. It’s an idea that feels dangerous, because it makes me want more, and suddenly I’m reminded of Prudence Whitmire, the old lady at the pool, and her offer to put in a good word for me at Delgado Community College. But I push her from my head, because the last thing I want to think about when I’m on a date is that woman and her inability to keep her opinions to herself.
“You don’t talk about them much,” I say, referring tohis parents and trying to pull myself away from thoughts of the future. “Do you know where they are now?”
He shakes his head. “I think my dad’s out in California somewhere. My gram said she heard he’s got a wife and kid out there now. I might have a sibling that I don’t even know. Isn’t that nuts? I can’t think about it for too long, because it’ll eat me up.” He drums his fingers on his knee. “I guess good on him for having a life. He just forgot to let me know about it. And my mom—there’s no telling.” He laughs drily. “She’s like bad cell reception. Never there when you need her most. Last time I saw her was the day after my gramps’s funeral. She was late. A whole day late.”
Having Agnes must make up for a lot, I’m sure, but hearing about his parents still makes me feel like shit for even complaining about my mom. She’s a flake, sure. But she’s a semi-responsible flake.
“Come on,” says Freddie. “You gotta dance with me.” He stands up and pulls me with him.
“I don’t dance.”
That doesn’t faze him. “Me neither.” He takes my arms and drapes them over his shoulders as he gently holds my hips. “This seems like a good place to start.”
My hips sway like they’re attached to marionette strings controlled by the music. It’s a song I know so well from my childhood, a brass band cover of “Sexual Healing.” Maybe that’s weird, but it was always one of my dad’s favorite brass band covers.
“Look at you go!” says Freddie over the music.
Our bodies inch closer together as the crowd claps alongto the beat. And then his hips are pressed against mine and his hand is on the small of my back. Our upper bodies are loose as we let the trumpets possess us. There are whistles and hoots.
For a second, I let myself look around, and a crowd has formed around us, the band, and a few other couples. Passersby toss cash into hats and open instrument cases. We’re just as much a part of the performance as the band. The trombone kicks in and our feet stomp along to the music.
“People are staring,” I say.
“Let them,” he says, and kisses my hand before spinning me out and twirling me back in so that his chest is pressed against my back.
I’m scared that this might be the happiest moment of my life. I’m scared, because I don’t want it to end, and because this can’t be it. I need more. I need more moments like this. Everyone should dance in the middle of a beautiful square with a freckled person they love.
Love, I think suddenly. It’s just a thought, I tell myself. It might not be true. But I do love Freddie. In what way, I don’t know. But I do.
The song ends and the crowd gives a loud cheer before quickly dispersing. The two of us are out of breath, chests heaving, and I’m smiling so wide my cheeks ache.
