Page 17 of Man of His Dreams

“I’d say the same about you.”

Now they were both grinning at each other, and Flip decided this must be an official date, which made him feel giddy. His life may have taken a hard turn into the bizarre lately, but he really couldn’t complain about where he’d landed.

The waitress returned with their drinks, laughed—probably at them making googly eyes across the table—and took their orders. Flip actually did point at random. “Fried chicken’s gonna take a little longer to cook,” the waitress warned him. “You okay with that, honey?”

“I’m in no hurry.” He could sit here with Tony for the rest of the week, as far as he was concerned.

“So,” said Tony after a long swallow of tea, “Ball and Chain. What inspired you to write it?”

“It’s not autobiographical, if you’re wondering. I’ve never been married, I’m not attracted to women, and I don’t have any kids. I guess there’s a little of my parents in that story, except neither of them made any attempt to fix things.”

“No redemption there, huh?”

“Not in this life. My father died years ago. Mom… dunno. Lost touch.” He didn’t feel a pang over it and doubted she did either.

“Do you want me to stop asking questions about your family?”

“No, it’s just….” How to explain this to a guy who’d traced his roots back two hundred years, whose literal life work involved studying aspects of his lineage? “I don’t have any other relatives, and it’s been a long time since my parents mattered to me. So you can ask, but there’s just not much to tell. I’d love to hear more about your folks, though.”

So Tony told him about his mother and father and siblings—he had three—and aunts and uncles and cousins. Flip would need a spreadsheet to keep track of it all, but that was fine. Tony did a beautiful job of making all of these people seem complex and interesting, as if they were characters in a really great book.

The food, when it eventually arrived, proved to be as wonderful as promised. Possibly the best fried chicken Flip had ever tasted, and the sides were good too: mac and cheese, green beans, and cornbread. But his companion remained the star of the show, handsome and funny and fascinating.

“Why New Orleans?” asked Tony, chasing red beans and rice with his spoon.

Why indeed. “Abbreviated version. I’ve wanted to be a writer since… forever. Got a degree in English, which meant I ended up with a string of jobs that barely paid the bills. I was working at a hotel in Napa when I met Ethan, a college prof who was up there for the weekend. Then a lot of things happened kinda fast: got an agent, sold a book, quit my job, moved in with Ethan in the Bay Area. Sold a couple more books. Then my writing slowed down, Ethan cheated, I packed up my shit, and I decided to give myself a writing residency here until my savings run out.”

Tony didn’t run away screaming, which was impressive. “Cheated.”

“He’s a bastard, but we weren’t good together anyway.” Fuck. He might as well hit Tony with the truth. “I’m not sure I’m good with anyone.”

“We’ve been pretty good today.”

“It’s been one day. I’d fuck things up eventually.”

Troy pointed his spoon at Flip. “This is presumptuous of me since we’ve just met. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly known for keeping my mouth shut. My family’s nickname for me is Yak-Yak, and I sort of can’t believe I just admitted that, but there you go.”

“I like it,” said Flip, smiling despite the general seriousness of the conversation.

“There’s a lot of eccentricity in my family tree, in case you hadn’t noticed that either. We don’t always embrace one another’s weirdnesses, but at least we tolerate them. When my sister Nicole was eighteen and decided she was a vampire—too much Anne Rice or something, I don’t know—we humored her, even though it meant she refused to leave her room unless it was dark outside. When my cousin— Well, you get the idea.”

“She didn’t exsanguinate people, did she?”

Chuckling, Tony shook his head. “No, she just insisted on eating her meat really rare. She outgrew that phase. Nowadays she’s vegan. Anyway, my great-aunt Amelie claims to be a psychic, and—” He stopped because Flip was choking on a mouthful of green beans.

“Miss Amelie?” he managed when he could breathe again. “The one with the table on St. Philip Street?”

Tony looked pleased. “You know her?”

“Uh, yeah. I live across the street.”

He should tell Tony the whole tale, including the parts about Scratch. But he really, really didn’t want to.

For the moment, at least, Tony seemed more intrigued than anything. “Huh. Did she…? Well, let me explain why I brought her up to you. You know, she’s not even a Bergeron. She married into us, and either she was woo-woo before or the eccentricity is contagious. A few months ago, at Christmas dinner, I was kind of whining about not being able to find the right man to settle down with. She said that’s because there’s a particular someone I’m supposed to be with but he hasn’t arrived yet.” He said the next words in a passable imitation of her scratchy voice. “He’s gonna think he’s lost everything, but he ain’t. Boy just needs to make enough room for you. You two got stories to tell.”

“And you think she meant me? She wasn’t that specific.”

Tony just looked at him, eyebrows raised, until Flip conceded with a nod. “Okay, sounds like me,” he said. “But surely Miss Amelie isn’t omniscient. And fated mates? That’s a romance trope, not real life.”

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