Page 47 of She's Like the Wind
But I was mad at myself.
Because I let him. Because I still wanted him.
Because some sick part of me thought maybe if I just held on long enough, he’d become the man I saw glimpses of—the one who listened when I talked about my dreams, who touched me like I was sacred.
But that man didn’t show up tonight.
The one who showed up was the one who wanted to play dog in the manger. He didn’t want me, and according to him, no other man could have me either.
An hour later, I was still there on the floor.
The lights were still on.
My body was still warm from his hands.
My soul wascold.
It hurt to face the reality of what I’d allowed him to do.
I sat on the floor of my beautiful, carefullycurated shop, in the quiet aftermath of lust and shame, and I knew?—
This wasn’t the kind of love that I wanted or needed.
Because love was supposed to make you feel safe and beautiful, not…used.
CHAPTER 17
Gage
Iwas the only person in the room in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt—everyone else was in what one called business casual, linen suits, and Brooks Brothers dresses.
The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival board was meeting in the upstairs parlor at The Columns. Sunlight streamed through tall windows framed by velvet drapes, throwing light over gleaming hardwood floors and jewel-toned upholstery. Chandeliers sparkled above the polished mahogany table, their antique glamour offset by playful wallpaper and thoughtfully curated artwork.
The 1883 Italianate mansion with its dramatic mahogany staircase had been lovingly renovated to become a hotel and event space. Outside, the St. Charles Avenue streetcar clattered past like a slow-moving witness to tradition. Inside, the mood was elegance and a quiet reverence reserved for a place that had survived generations of revelers, thinkers, and dreamers.
We were less than a month out before the jazz festival hit our city, and both excitement and anxiety was high.
“They finally confirmed the Stones,” someone said as I grabbed coffee from the silver urn in the corner.
“And Whatsisname wants a private dressing room inside a tent. With climate control,” another board member grunted, passing around the updated performer list.
“Let the man have his damn climate control,” Jonah Lamarre declared.
He’d shown up ten minutes late and was, as always, throwing his weight around. I fucking hated this whose-dick-is-bigger shit some of these assholes pulled at these meetings.
Why the hell was I part of this board, again?
‘Cause it’s your fucking civic duty and you love jazz.
“We’re talking about history here. Jazz Fest is going to blow up this year,” Jonah continued.
We’d been working on getting The Rolling Stones to New Orleans for years, and this year we were luckier than ever because in addition to the Stones, we had Trombone Shorty, Big Freedia, Esperanza Spalding, and even Stevie Wonder signed on.
The grounds at the Fair Grounds Racecourse were getting expanded, vendors were tripling, and every damn hotel in the Quarter had been booked solid for the duration of the festival.
It was going to be a monster year.
And I should’ve been riding the high of it.
