He gives me the crooked smile again and dips his chin to his chest in acknowledgement. “Solid choices.”
But as he turns to leave, I call out, “Could I have the dessert first?”
He turns back, his hair falling over one eye and smiles knowingly, a nod of his head the only response I get.
I don’t know why, but I feel the need to eat my dessert first today. Maybe I’m subconsciously comforting myself since no one else is here to do it? It’s like retail therapy, but with dessert.
When he disappears behind the doors leading to the kitchen, I turn my attention back to the window, watching as people walk by. For a few minutes, my mind drifts to Houston and Brant and I wonder what he’s doing...what is he thinking? Does he miss me? Is he sorry?
I don’t care.
I don’t.
I can’t.
It wouldn’t matter.
Part of me feels sick when I think about how unhappy I’ve been and that I didn’t leave. Why did I wait for it all to blow up? It’s so stupid. I feel so stupid. Another part of me says that if I would’ve left earlier, Brant would’ve sweet talked me back into his good graces.
How embarrassing that I was so forgiving of him.
How humiliating that I stayed.
How disconcerting it took him hitting me for me to leave.
What does that say about me?
“Solid, solid choice,” the same deep voice says, interrupting my internal debate, as a piping hot piece of the most amazing bread pudding I’ve ever laid eyes on comes into view.
The rum sauce is literally dripping off the side of the plate.
Melted butter is pooling at the sides.
And my mouth is watering.
“Oh, my God,” I groan. “This looks amazing. Like, awe-inspiring.” I laugh at my overzealousness, but I can’t help it. This bread pudding could very well change my life.
“I promise, you won’t regret it. And,” he adds, cocking his head to the side. “Wyatt, the owner, he offers a one hundred percent satisfaction guarantee on this. If you’re not completely satisfied, even if there isn’t a drop left on the plate. You let him know and it’s no charge.”
“Wow,” I reply, nodding my head. “That’s confidence I can get behind.”
We both chuckle as he walks off, leaving me to my bread pudding. My sweet, sweet bread pudding. Maybe, since I’ve recently crashed and burned at a relationship, I should consider one with this piece of work in front of me. I mean, he’s sweet, warm, delicious, and he doesn’t look like he has a mean bone in his body. I smirk at my ridiculousness and dig in, stifling a moan as the decadent goodness touches my tongue.
Just as I’m finishing up my dessert, practically licking my plate—I totally would’ve had I been alone—my gumbo and crusty bread is served, along with a tall glass of good, southern sweet tea. Everything is delicious and exactly what my shattered psyche needs.
“How was everything?” A curiously dressed gentleman walks up to my table, with genuine interest on his face, just as I’m pushing my clean plate away and setting my napkin on top. His suspenders and seersucker shirt are a unique combination, causing me to peruse the rest of him. I smile when my eyes take him in and notice the scuffed up cowboy boots topping off his ensemble.
Ahh. You gotta love New Orleans.
“It was great. Best meal I’ve had in a long time. Hands down,” I tell him.
His eyes light up. “That’s great, just what I like to hear.” When he crosses his arms over his chest and continues to stand there, I realize our conversation isn’t over and it makes me fidget with the used up napkin.
“Are you new here? Visiting?”
When I look back up at him to respond, because my mama raised me to look people in the eyes when I’m talking to them, he doesn’t seem to notice my black eye and split lip. If he does, his expression doesn’t change.
“I’m new...not visiting, at least, I don’t think I am,” I ponder aloud, to him and myself.
“A transplant?” he asks, cocking his head and quirking his eyebrow in curiosity.
“Uh, I don’t really know. I’m just...”
“Drifting?”
I bark out a laugh, but he’s right. I’m kind of a drifter. Even though I came here intentionally, I don’t have much of a plan past getting a job. Clasping my hands together in front of me on the table, focusing on my short nails and chipped bright-blue polish, I think to myself this is a place I’d like to work. Everyone seems so nice and inviting.
“I’m looking for a job,” I blurt out, wincing up at him in apology for the abruptness and awkwardness. I can’t help myself sometimes. I just say what pops into my head. “You wouldn’t happen to have any openings?” I try to sound confident, but my words come out tentative and hesitant, not necessarily what one should be shooting for when soliciting employment.
Fortunately, Wyatt doesn’t seem bothered. His expression is neutral as he lets out a loud sigh, his lungs completely deflating as he twists his lips. “I really don’t have anything...not even a dishwasher position,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “We don’t have a high turnover rate here. Most of my employees have been with me for years.”
Inhaling, I smile, nodding my head. “I kinda figured. I’ve worked a lot of odd and end jobs. I always know a good working environment when I see one. Just thought I’d take a chance.”
“As you should,” he replies thoughtfully. “Always take a chance.”
We sit there in silence, not awkward, just contemplative. I turn my attention back toward the window, giving him an out, but he doesn’t take it.
“I tell you what.” He drops his voice and squats beside the table, getting eye level. “See that guy over there?”
Following his line of sight, I see a man sitting alone at a table in the opposite corner of the café. He has dark hair and equally dark tattoos peeking out from under his shirt. The beard covering his face hides any expression, leaving him appearing even more mysterious than the waiter I had earlier.
“Yeah,” I breathe out, still letting my eyes rake over him while he’s not looking.
“That’s Shaw O’Sullivan. He owns and operates a bar down in the French Quarter. Are you familiar with the area?”
“I’m renting a room off Marigny Street,” I offer.
“Perfect. His bar sits off St. Ann. It’s called Come Again.” He takes out an order pad and jots down information as he continues talking. “He’s been known to help people who are looking for a hand up, giving them jobs...taking them in off the street.”
“Well, I’m not on the street, yet,” I add with a light laugh. “But I could really use a job.”
His blue eyes meet mine and there’s nothing but sincerity there. “I’d give you one if I had anything to offer. And if this doesn’t work out,” he says, handing me the slip of paper, “come back and see me in a couple weeks. I’ll see if I can fit you in somewhere.”
Taking the paper, I scan it and look back up at him. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He stands from his squatting position and sticks out his hand. “I’m Wyatt, by the way.”
“Avery Cole,” I tell him, shaking his hand.