I chuckle, nodding my head. “Thanks!” I call out after her. Air conditioning? They should charge extra, because it’s still early in the day and I feel like I’m literally melting. I thought Houston was hot and humid, but it has nothing on this.
Jogging to the corner, I dig in my bag and count out five quarters. I’ll start on Canal, then everywhere else. Tomorrow, I’ll pick up my job search, but today, I’m exploring.
Waking up to the early morning sun shining through the sheer curtains in my room, I stretch. I intentionally didn’t pull the shades last night, wanting to feel like I was surrounded by the sights and sounds, even laying in the quiet, cool bed of the room I rented. It’s part of a larger house, with several rooms being rented out, so I’m not alone, but yet, I occasionally feel it. It’s not a horrible feeling, just different. I’ve never been completely on my own. I went from living with my parents to living with Brant.
I always thought alone would feel depressing, but it’s actually kind of refreshing.
After my excursion yesterday, riding the streetcar up and down Canal Street, stopping at a few places—window shopping, grabbing a bite to eat, getting a coffee. I eventually got off and walked back to the French Quarter, finding myself across from Jackson Square standing next to the Mississippi. The Mighty Mississipp’. The Ole Miss.
I can’t help singing, “Deep River” in my head, doing my best Clark Griswold impersonation.
Blame that on my daddy. He’s a National Lampoon’s Vacation junkie.
Today, I’m going to take the St. Charles line down into the Garden District. I’ve always wanted to see the big, beautiful houses, and there’s no time like the present. In a couple days, I should have a job, and I won’t have the luxury to walk around like a tourist all the time, so I’m making the best of my freedom.
After showering and tossing my damp hair into a messy bun, because humidity, I opt for some cutoffs and a flowy top. Slipping into my flip flops and grabbing my sunglasses to finish off my ensemble, I head out the door with my trusty backpack in tow.
Being in a rented room, I haven’t felt comfortable enough to stash any of my money, so I’ve been carrying it around with me everywhere I go. It feels safer in a backpack.
The walk to Canal Street takes me by a small, local coffee shop, so I stop in and grab an iced coffee. When I step back out onto the sidewalk, I smile at the contents in my hands—a coffee and scone. A buzzing city surrounding me. I feel alive.
It’s not until I get onto the streetcar at St. Charles and slip into the bench across from an older gentleman and he gives me a sympathetic smile that I remember my face. I guess I should’ve used some concealer, but really, I’m not trying to hide it.
Who is there to hide it from?
It’s not my fault Brant decided to be a world-class asshole and take out his frustrations on me.
It’s not.
I’ve had to convince myself of that a time or two over the last few days. I didn’t do anything to deserve this. I’m not to blame. I don’t think it was too much to ask to know when he was coming home late.
After I finish my scone and crumple up the wax paper it had been served on, I take a drink of my coffee and offer the older man a smile.
It says I’m okay.
“Nice day today,” he says with a nod of his head.
I smile a little wider. “It is. Hot, but nice.”
“Hot should be New Orleans’ middle name.” He chuckles to himself, looking out the window.
I sit back and watch the big, beautiful houses go by. The Garden District is enchanting. I can’t think of another word to describe it. The trees are huge and dripping with moss and some have beads in them, which I assume are leftovers from Mardi Gras. Most of the houses have large columns and shutters. Some have a porch on the second story. All of them have character and seem full of wisdom, like they have a story to tell.
I want to sit on one of those porches. And drink sweet tea. Maybe rock in a chair.
Sighing, I scoot closer to the window and lean my cheek against the glass.
The streetcar eventually comes to the end of the line and I hop off and look around. The area is more modern, more suburban. Not seeing anything that strikes my fancy, I decide to turn and start walking back the way we just came from. I remember seeing a park not too far back the other way and a small café on the corner a little past that.
A stroll in the park doesn’t sound bad, so I head that direction.
The park is a lot like everything else in this area—old, green, and charming. I walk through the gardens, sit on a bench, contemplate life, until I’ve worked up an appetite. My coffee and scone are long gone. So, I make my way to the café.
Crossing the street, I see the sign up ahead. Crescent Moon Café.
It looks appealing and quaint. There are a few bikes parked out front and it makes me want to get one. I can see that being a good way to get around the city. Between a bike and streetcars, I might not even need a car, which is a good thing, because I’m sure Brant will want mine back.
I know I need to call him and make things final between us, but I need a few more days.
“Welcome to The Crescent Moon,” a chipper girl, probably my age, calls out. Her high pony tail sways as she walks over and grabs a menu from the hostess stand beside the door.
“Thanks,” I tell her, taking inventory of my surroundings—a few booths by the windows and small tables in the center. It’s small and cozy. And whatever is being cooked in the kitchen smells amazing.
“Corner,” I hear a deeper voice call out as a guy rounds the corner with a tray full of food.
“Will anybody be joining you?” she asks.
“No, just me.”
“Right this way.”
She takes me to a booth in the corner, the window looking out over the street, lined with large trees with low-hanging branches. “How’s this?”
“Perfect,” I tell her, my eyes drifting outside, before I toss my backpack into the seat across from me and then slide in.
“Here’s the menu,” she says, placing it on the table in front of me. “Our specials today are the shrimp po’boy and chicken and shrimp gumbo. Oh, and the dessert is our award-winning bread pudding with warm rum sauce.” Her eyes light up. “It’s to die for.”
I smile, laughing lightly at her enthusiasm. “Sounds great.”
“I’ll grab you a water. Tripp will be your server.”
Picking up the menu, I give it a glance, but the second she mentioned chicken and shrimp gumbo, my mouth started watering. And I plan on saving room for that bread pudding. In a couple weeks, I might be eating ramen and living out of my car, but today, I’m living my best life.
“Hello.” The guy who was carrying the tray earlier is standing beside my table with a crooked smile. His hair is longer in the front, swept to the side, giving him a bit of a mysterious vibe, almost like he’s trying to hide. But he couldn’t. Ever. He’s kind of a hottie. Not that I’m looking, but I am a warm-blooded female.
“Hi,” I offer back.
“Have you decided what you’d like or do you need a few more minutes?”
“No, I think I’m pretty solid. I’ll take the gumbo and a sweet tea,” I tell him, handing the menu back. “Oh, and bread pudding.”