It was obvious to an outsider like me that they were jealous. They needed to make her feel bad to make themselves feel better.
I remember watching and feeling my blood boil. Their opinions didn’t matter to me, but I could tell they got to her. I wanted to do something, stand up for her—protect her—and I didn’t even know her name. All I knew was she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, even in the pics they’d posted of her in braces. And under her wild blonde curls, blue eyes, and button nose was a loneliness I recognized. It was the same loneliness that stared back at me in the mirror.
She made me feel helpless. My usual method of handling a situation like that was using my fists, but I couldn’t hit a girl. And besides that, I was at a new school in a new city. I couldn’t mess things up. My next stop would’ve been foster care.
So, I waited on the outskirts, staying close, just in case.
Fortunately for her, they moved on to their next victim a day or two later.
Fortunately for me, she started eating lunch outside by the fountain, which happened to be the same place I ate lunch.
Every day, she opened up a little more. First, just saying hello. Then, telling me her name. Next thing I knew, we were sharing PB&J sandwiches and homework.
And that was how it was for four years—Finn and Jette.
“Finn, man. You ready to warm up?” When I turn toward the stage, River, the bass player, is giving me a look. “What’s up with you? I’ve been trying to get your attention and you’ve been staring at the damn door.”
“Sorry,” I say, scratching the back of my head before running a hand through my hair. I don’t offer an explanation, instead, I take my seat and start getting my sax hooked up to the amp, but I still keep one eye on the door.
After we warm-up and the crowd descends, we jump right into our set.
Playing with these guys is one of the best things about moving to New Orleans. Before I came here, I mostly played solo in coffee bars and jazz clubs around Dallas, but nothing like this. Everything about Good Times is alive. From the first moment I walked in here, I knew it was where I belonged. I can practically feel the spirits of jazz players from days past. The old wooden tables and chairs hold music and memories most have forgotten.
My first night here, I had to force myself not to lay down on the dirty, worn floor and make snow angels. I just wanted to soak it into my bones.
Tonight, the patrons are only adding to the vibe. A few are dancing up close to the stage. Nearly every table is full and drinks are flowing. But the second she walks in, just like the first day I saw her—just like New Year’s Eve when she walked back into my life—the world stands still.
Thankfully, air keeps flowing out of my lungs and my fingers work on autopilot, but my eyes are on her, watching as she excuses her way through throngs of people.
She’s here.
She came.
I’m still getting used to the idea of us being in the same city again, but I can’t deny how happy it makes me to see her, even if her presence does drum up old feelings and buried emotions.
Once she finds a spot to sit, her eyes find mine. If I thought the world stood on its axis when she walked in, it tilts in this moment. Her smile starts small and then grows as the tempo of the song we’re playing picks up.
Her shoulders relax as she leans back into her chair, absorbing the atmosphere.
When the set is over, I place my sax on its stand and hop off the front ledge, heading toward her but then lose sight as people begin to filter in and out of the club. Approaching the table she was sitting at, I momentarily panic when her seat is empty.
“Hey,” she says, her voice coming up beside me, making me jump and spin in her direction. Laughing, she tips her head back and I can’t take my eyes off her. That laugh. Those blue eyes. God, she’s beautiful. Not that I’d forgotten, but the effect she has on me had dulled over the years, mostly because I willed myself to let her go.
For my own sanity.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I admit, wanting to reach out and pull her close to me, guarding her from the people as they move about, but I don’t.
She’s not mine, I remind myself.
Not anymore.
“And miss you play?” she asks incredulously, giving me an infamous Georgette Taylor snort. It’s crazy how something so unattractive can be so endearing, but damn, I’ve missed it.
I’ve missed her.
I smile, marveling at her standing in front of me and trying not to let it show. “I’m glad you came.”
“Looks like there are a couple of seats at the bar,” she says, glancing back over her shoulder. She’s right, a couple is vacating the two seats at the end, probably the quietest spot in this entire place. It’s like the universe is also happy she’s here.
On instinct, I place my hand at the small of her back as we start to make our way through the crowd. But when she glances over her shoulder, making eye contact, I can’t tell if it’s okay that I’m touching her in such a familiar way—a way I used to touch her all the time—so I pull it back and rake a hand through my hair to suppress the need.
“So, you play here every night?” she asks, raising her voice as the volume of the club increases.
Getting the attention of Marcus, one of the bartenders, I hold up two fingers. He knows what to pour and I know Jette will approve. We were never big partiers back in high school, but when we did break the rules and imbibe, we always drank Jack and Coke.
“Just about,” I say, answering her question as I try to find my figurative footing when it comes to her. “Occasionally, Gia forces me to take a night off, but I rarely ask for one.”
“Gia?” she asks, giving Marcus a smile of appreciation as he slides a napkin and a drink in front of her. “Thank you.”
“She’s the owner,” I tell her, giving Marcus a nod of appreciation.
I hear Jette whistle as she takes her first sip and sets the drink back on her napkin. “Good ol’ Jack and Coke.” She cocks her head, blinking her eyes. “A nice strong Jack and Coke,” she amends.
Laughing, I place my drink down. “Yeah, Marcus has a bit of a heavy hand.”
“Not complaining,” she says, taking another drink as she looks around the club. “This is a great place.”
“Different from the clubs in New York?” I ask, needing to go there. At some point, we’re going to have to address the elephant in the room.
Swallowing, her eyes dart from the people around us, to me, and back. “Yeah, way different. It’s so… I don’t know.”
“Authentic?” I offer, knowing that’s how I felt when I came here for the first time, like every other jazz bar I’d ever been to before paled in comparison.
“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” she replies, her eyes finally landing and staying on mine. “I went to some great restaurants and bars in New York, but none of them had this vibe.”
For a moment, I let myself remember the girl who left Dallas. She was so young and naive. I remember being scared for her as she flew across the country to a big city like New York, afraid it was going to swallow her whole. I guess that’s one of the reasons I saved my money to go there. I thought she might need to be rescued. But when I got there and she was thriving—making friends, finding her place—I had no choice but to leave her be… let her go.