Page 16 of She's Like the Wind
I finished my morning ablutions and went into the kitchen.
I loved my apartment, I did. I’d renovated it myself when I moved in three years ago, turning the upstairs into a sanctuary of soft colors, mismatched vintage furniture, and intentional warmth.
Every piece had been chosen for comfort and history, from the moss-green velvet loveseat I’d found at an estate sale to the delicate pink tea set on the open shelving in my little kitchen.
I kept flowers on the table—always fresh.
Above the fireplace were three framed photographs of my parents: one from their wedding in City Park, one of them dancing barefoot in the rain on our street in Baton Rouge, and the last one—the hardest one—a candid of my father kissing my forehead the summer before they died.
I hadn’t been able to save anything else from that life. Just those photos and my mother’s now-empty antique perfume bottle, which sat on my vanity like a talisman.
I made myself coffee—strong, dark, slightly bitter the way I liked it—and leaned against the counter, mug in hand, eyes heavy.
Gage drank it sweet. He’d dump in two sugars and top it off with cream, humming—Muddy Waters or Howlin’ Wolf—like the blues lived under his skin, and he didn’t even know he was letting them out.
He liked to sit on my balcony with his coffee, legs kicked up on the rail, watching the Quarter wake up.
I hadn’t made it out there since we ended. The chair he used was still there. Empty.
I didn’t open the store on Tuesdays—usually spent it doing paperwork and other mundane tasks that were part of being a shop owner. I loved my store—and yet, since Gage, there was an emptiness I couldn’t fill.
I saw him here and there—sometimes alone, sometimes with a woman, and every time I did, I knew Iwasn’t over him, past us—I hadn’t moved on. But he had.
How long could a heart hurt?
I got a text message from Aurelie, demanding that we meet for drinks.
I sent back a response:Busy. Rain check?
That had been my response for the past few weeks. I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to seehim. Our friend circles had plenty of overlap. I just couldn’t stand the idea of seeing him with another woman, flirting, loving, kissing…forgetting me entirely.
God!
I’d been so uninhibited with Gage—that had never happened before. I’d been reserved with my other lovers, not with him. He loosened something inside me, called to the wildness that was a part of me. He made me feel like myself—therealme, not the pretend woman I’d made out of the ashes of my parents’ deaths.
I was in Aire Noir, going through some new inventory, when I heard a loud knocking on the glass door. I sighed when I saw it was Aurelie with two iced lattes and a look in her eyes like she was about to stage an intervention.
“We’re closed,” I muttered, letting her in.
“Tell me you didn’t forget about the R Bar happy hour tonight.” She walked past me and set one of the coffees down on the counter beside the register. I immediately reached for a coaster—this table stained faster than you could sayWho Dat.
“I didn’t?” I lied.
She arched a brow. “Naomi?—”
“It’s just been a long week…month,” I cut her off, offering her a tired smile.
Aurelie Perrault wasn’t just my best friend—she was my soul sister. A jazz singer with hair the color of honey, skin like burnished mahogany, and a voice like velvet smoke, she came from a family of artists and bartenders and poets and had made it her life’s mission to collect other oddballs into her orbit. Me included.
She leaned on the counter, studying me. “You’ve been avoiding me. You’ve been avoiding everyone.”
“I’ve been working.”
“You’ve been hurting.”
I lifted my shoulders in a helpless gesture.
“Well, we’re going,” Aurelie announced.
