Everything my life was not.
Plus, she assured me that after she returns to work, she’ll want me to stay. With three children, a husband, and an art studio in the small town she lives in, there’s no way she can keep up with it all.
My official title should actually be Camille Benoit-Landry’s right-hand woman, because I basically signed on to do anything she needs me to do. Just on my first day alone, I’ve been her stylist, confidant, and chauffeur.
But one thing she didn’t mention is during my first twelve hours I’d come face to face with Finley Lawson… the boy I loved… the boy I left behind.
I haven’t seen him in over five years, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about him. However, I wasn’t prepared for how my heart would feel when he called out my name…
Jette.
He’s the only one who’s ever called me that.
The only person who’s ever truly understood me.
He holds so many of my firsts, so many of my memories.
Seeing him tonight had my heart skipping into overdrive and my mind spinning.
He’s so much the same, but also changed. No longer is he the boy I fell in love with—awkward and still finding himself. Now, he’s all man. The softer edges have been replaced with hard lines and well-defined features. But those mesmerizing gray eyes haven’t changed, they still pulled me in and made me forget to breathe.
That’s why I had to run.
I needed some space, some time to think.
I have no doubt Finley and I will cross paths again; I feel it in my bones, but next time I see him, I’ll be more prepared. He won’t catch me off guard and push me off my feet with one word.
As I let myself into my hotel, I kick off my black pumps and exhale. Leaning my back against the door, I allow the coolness to seep into my heated skin. My mind wants to chalk it up to the warmer weather or the run, but my heart knows the truth… it’s Finley.
It’s always been Finley.
Chapter Three
Finley
I’ve been looking for Georgette in every person I pass on the street.
That’s not really a new thing. I’ve had her on my mind for the past five years. Any time I saw a petite frame with unruly blonde curls, I’d do a double-take, making sure it wasn’t her, but that was back in Dallas, somewhere I’d expect to see her.
Not New Orleans.
Never in a million years did I expect her to be in a dimly-lit restaurant in the heart of the French Quarter on a random New Year’s Eve. But there she was, looking as beautiful as ever, and as caught off guard as I was.
She’s different, but the same. Her hair is shorter and more tamed, but there’s still a hint of the wild nature begging to be set free. That was always Jette in a nutshell.
Her family has a lot of money and always expected her to fall in line—be the perfect daughter with perfect grades who chooses the perfect university and gets the perfect degree.
They also wanted her to choose the perfect boyfriend, who in turn would become the perfect husband to complete their perfect family.
That wasn’t me.
Jette and I first met when I got into a magnet school for fine arts. Most of the students were from the neighborhood where I lived with my grandmother, Maggie, who worked for the Rhys-Jones family. But just because I lived in the same neighborhood as many of my classmates didn’t mean I fit in. It was obvious I wasn’t one of them.
I didn’t dress like them.
I didn’t talk like them.
I didn’t go to Aspen for Christmas or the Hamptons for summer vacation like them.
My parents didn’t work in one of the high-rise buildings downtown like theirs.
And for some reason, Georgette saw past all of our differences, down to the core of who I was—a kid who loved music and art and just wanted to be better than the people who brought him into the world.
Before my grandmother took me in, I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from or if I’d be sleeping in a bed or a cardboard box. Going to school on a regular basis was a foreign concept. But then my mother was arrested on drug charges, and for the first time in my life, they stuck. She went to jail and I went to Dallas.
A few years later, I met Jette.
She was my first true friend.
My first girlfriend.
My first date.
My first kiss.
My first… everything.
She made me believe I was more than my upbringing—more than my past or where I came from. It didn’t matter that my mom was in prison and my dad didn’t know I existed. According to her, I could do anything I wanted, be anything I wanted, and have anything I wanted.
I started to believe it.
But then we graduated, and two months later she moved to New York. Since we were no longer in school, I had no way to contact her… no email, no phone… no Jette. She just left, taking with her the thing I wanted the most in this world—her.
A piece of my heart followed her bouncing blonde curls and contagious personality all the way to New York. I can’t say I’ve really forgiven her for that. Typically, I’m a let-bygones-be-bygones kind of person, water under the bridge and all that, but when someone steals a piece of your heart, it’s hard to let that shit go.
Sure, I’ve had relationships in the last five years, but nothing serious. It’s kind of hard to commit yourself to someone when they’re only getting half your heart.
As I approach the corner I play at a few days a week, my eyes scan the sidewalk across the street, landing on the door to what I now know is Cami Benoit-Landry’s art gallery, 303 Royal Street, and also where that aforementioned missing piece of my heart now works.
I can’t help the smile pulling at my lips as I set my saxophone case at my feet and start to set up. Scratching my head, I wonder about all the unanswered questions floating through my mind over the past few days:
How long is she here for?
What has she been up to for the last five years?
Has she thought about me?
Does she have someone… a boyfriend? Someone waiting for her back in New York?
Did she use her last dime to fly halfway across the country to look for me only to catch a glimpse and realize she didn’t have a place there and nothing to offer, so she got back on that plane and flew back, resolved to be happy that I was happy?
No, wait.
I’m the one who saved up for months and flew across the country only to have my heart crushed.
That was me.
I did that.
Needing a distraction from the incessant thoughts of Georgette, I quickly get to work setting up my amp and looper pedals. Basically, when I need to be, I’m a one-man-band. Sure, I like to play with other musicians, and nothing beats the feel and vibe of Good Times, the club I play at on the regular. But I enjoy this too, just me and my sax and the streets of New Orleans.
Warming up, I play a few notes, letting them waft into the air and blend with the morning chill.
For New Orleans, this is a cold morning. My weather app said we’d reach the mid-sixties today, but for now, it’s a balmy forty degrees and my cold hands take a little longer to limber up, so I take it easy, working my way through a few melodies I could play in my sleep.
A little Ella Fitzgerald.
A little Nat King Cole.
And then, before I know it, I’m playing her song.
Unforgettable.