That’s truly what she is. I meant it the first time I ever played it for her and I mean it this morning, standing across the street from the art studio she now works at, in a new city, with years of history behind us and an uncertain future in front of us.
Forever and a day, Georgette Taylor will always be the epitome of this song.
Regardless of the city.
Regardless of the state of our relationship, or lack thereof.
The time for me to forget her passed a long damn time ago. Besides that, I don’t want to forget her. She’s part of me, who I am. And I’ll always be thankful for the years when she was often my only friend.
When I see her wild blonde curls peek out the door of 303 Royal Street, I almost falter, missing a note, but then recover when I see her eyes roam the sidewalk before landing on me.
Something tells me Jette hasn’t been able to forget me either.
And for now, that’s enough.
She stands at the door for the entire song. There is a moment, when she pushes more of her body out the door, I think she’s going to come across the street, but then, the song is over and she retreats back inside.
Taking a moment to catch my breath and smile at a few people passing by on the sidewalk, one tossing a five into my open case, I let my eyes drift across to the closed door and wonder how long it would be before we’d come face to face again.
I really hope it’s not five more years.
Chapter Four
Georgette
I shouldn’t have opened the door, and I most certainly should not have stuck my head out for a better listen. But, dammit, he was playing our song—our freaking song—and I had no choice but to go toward the music.
Like a moth to a flame.
He knew what he was doing, too, the big jerk. He was baiting me, testing me, and I fell for it like it was my job. The only upside to our interaction, if you can even call it that, was his very brief almost slip-up. I’m sure no one else noticed how he missed a note, but I did. I know that song as well as he does and I’m sure he was mentally kicking himself something fierce. Meanwhile, I was able to revel in the fact that I’d made Finley Lawson falter, even after all these years.
I didn’t gloat for long, though. The look he gave me, once I allowed myself to focus on his eyes, heated my body in ways I wasn’t prepared for. The blush on my cheeks was from allowing myself to be caught in his trap so easily, but the warmth I felt everywhere else—and I do mean everywhere—was a flashback I wasn’t expecting.
Finley always had this effect on me, even if he was clueless to it, and today was no exception… on both accounts. So, I did what any respectable adult woman would do: I quickly stepped back inside the gallery and slammed the door, hiding out of Finley’s view.
“Who are we hiding from?”
Covering my mouth to stifle a scream, I whirl around to see an amused Cami standing so close I can’t believe I didn’t hear her, which makes my cheeks turn pink.
Damn Finley and his saxophone, already wreaking havoc. Some things never change.
“Sorry,” Cami says, holding her round belly while laughing at my expense. “I thought you heard me come in from the back.”
Stepping away from the door, I try to play it off, but inwardly, my heart is still racing. “It’s fine… I thought I… uh, saw something.” Searching for a lie, I busy myself with a stack of papers—shuffling and tapping them on the desk.
“Finley, perhaps?” Cami questions, lifting an eyebrow. “He’s out there a few days a week. I’ve been listening to him and his sax for a while now. Come to think of it, I’m really going to miss it when I take off to have the baby. Oh, you know what would be great?” she asks, but doesn’t give me time to get a word in. “A lullaby album. Can you even imagine? I wonder if he has anything recorded?”
When she finally takes a breath and turns to look at me, I think my face probably says everything I can’t.
Yes, I can imagine.
I’ve often wanted something similar over the years.
No, I don’t know if he has recorded anything.
That would require us to be in touch, which we haven’t been.
The mere thought of Finley playing lullabies makes my ovaries ache, which is crazy because I’m only twenty-three and not nearly old enough to feel my biological clock ticking. It must be the pregnancy hormones oozing off Cami.
That’s it.
Moving right along.
Nothing to see here.
When I don’t verbally respond, afraid my inner monologue will come spilling out, she adds, “You should go talk to him.”
“I should,” I tell her. I’ve been berating myself over the past few days for running out of the restaurant. I was caught off guard, jet-lagged, and exhausted. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. But now he’s here, well, across the street, and I’m no longer any of those things. So, why can’t I just walk across the street and say hello?
When I don’t continue, Cami gently pushes for more. “So, y’all were friends?”
“Yeah, best friends, actually,” I say, wincing. It’s the first time I’ve talked about Finley out loud in a very long time and I wasn’t expecting it to hurt, but it does.
She quirks a knowing eyebrow. “I get the feeling there’s more to this story, but I’m going to ignore that fact, for now. If you two were so close, I’m sure he’s thrilled to see you. Get out there. Go catch up. Do something besides running from the building like it’s on fire.”
“You’re right,” I say with a long sigh. “There’s a story, but it’s a long one.” Rubbing my chest, I try to quell the tight squeeze behind my rib cage, remembering. “I doubt he’s thrilled to see me, and unfortunately, it’s all my fault. The truth is I feel terrible about how things ended between us and I want to apologize, I’m just struggling with pulling up my big girl panties and doing it. Seeing him here… it’s the last thing I expected.”
Cami wraps her arm around my shoulders and pulls me to her—as close as she can, considering she’s very pregnant—hugging me tightly. “Oh, sweetie, it sounds like fate to me.”
Her voice is soft and soothing and I find myself giving in to her hug. It’s equal parts motherly and sisterly, both something I’ve never really had. My mother was more of a delegator, even when it came to her only child. I had a closer relationship with my nanny than her.
“Sometimes it’s easier if you don’t think too much about it,” Cami encourages. “Just do it. I have faith in you. And remember, you’re in New Orleans now. If you need some liquid courage, there’s always a daiquiri shop around the corner. And I’m always looking for someone to live vicariously through these days.”
She gives me a wink before walking off, leaving me to decide my next step alone.
For the next hour, I look through portfolios from potential local artists, but my heart and mind aren’t in it. They’re both across the street with the boy I fell in love with so long ago. Stopping to think and do the math, I realize it’s been, what? Nine years? Has it really been that long since Finley Lawson walked into a crowded cafeteria looking so unsure of himself and out of place among the spoiled rich brats we went to school with, myself included?