Page 19 of More Than A Feeling

Francois, who was more tactful, suggested, "Sabine is just different, dude. She's…more…of a Stepford type, while Fleur is like this honest ball of fire and spice."

After dinner, Lenora and Brian excused themselves, and I knew Sabine wanted to join them. However, she wanted to make a good impression on my parents and came along with us when we went for a walk.

"I miss New Orleans," my mother declared. "The Jazz on Frenchmen's."

"The red beans and rice at the Quarter Store," my dad interjected.

"Dancing at Tipitina's," Mom laughed.

"You don't think the Quarter and the Marigny are crowded and noisy?" Sabine asked.

"We love it here," my father said. "How about you, Sabine? Do you prefer Uptown?"

She shrugged. "Well, I'm staying at my grandparents' house."

My mom pursed her lips. "Last time we were here, Lenora mentioned that your sister was buying the place."

"Fleur couldn't afford it and after Seamus, we decided I should live there."

Sabine smiled sadly when she said my brother's name—and again, it didn't work for me. It didn't work for my parents at all. My parents lost a son, and I lost a brother, and yet it was Sabine who seemed to wear her grief permanently. When had it stopped feeling genuine? Around the same time as I broke up with Fleur? With Sabine's sister, there was never any doubt about how she was feeling—she wore her emotions on her sleeve. You could tell when she was happy, and you could tell when she was sad.

We were walking by Café Istanbul when we heard a limerick that made us all stop. Limericks may be Irish, but they suited our Gaelic humor.

The turkey, we said, was first-rate,

Though the gravy debate did frustrate,

We said Grace with cheer,

Ate too much, I fear,

Thank goodness for pants that inflate!

"True about them pants," my father guffawed.

"There's a poetry slam going on," my mother's eyes sparkled as she read a notice on the side of the door. "Let's go inside."

"That sounds so boring, Rose. It'll be amateur poets saying total nonsense," Sabine protested, making it clear that a poetry slam would probably not be her thing.

"You should do what you like, sweetheart," my father said patiently, "But my wife and I want to hear a limerick or two."

"Can we just go home?" Sabine whispered once my parents had gone into the café.

"I can get a car to take you," I offered, "My parents are here for a short time, Sabine. I want to spend time with them."

Sabine sighed dramatically. "Fine."

I wished she'd left because the more time I spent with her, the more I realized that Sabine alone was one thing—but she didn't play well with others, not even my parents. I wondered again about why Fleur and she didn't get along and suspected that it may have more to do with Sabine than myGrian.

Chapter 9

Fleur

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world, they walk into the café where I'm hosting a poetry slam.

Café Istanbul was in the New Orleans Healing Center, and we held a poetry slam once a month. It started with some of us who were into poetry, and with the help of a friend who worked at Baldwin & Co., we established the most popular poetry slam in N'awlins (or at least we believed so).

"I hope you all enjoyed that fun Thanksgiving limerick. Let's give it up for Hashtag FuckPoems," I announced. "I'm so excited to invite y'all to the eighteenth Limericks & Libations. We started on this journey a year and a half ago, and we're still going strong."

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