Page 58 of She's Like the Wind
Months after we were over, I was still rattled by him.
Even when I told myself I was fine.
Even when I wore something cute, had a great hair day, and told Aurelie that I’d moved on. That I was good. Grown. Graceful.
That lie lasted three seconds.
Aurelie sympathized with me when I told her allthat had happened with Gage, and declared that my ex was TSTL.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Too Stupid To Live,” she explained. “The son of a bitch wants you, but he’s too afraid because his childhood sweetheart died. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s hard to get over trauma like that—but a lot of people do. The fact that Gage is using that as an excuse to fuck around with you is all kinds of fucked up. I say, fuck Jonah’s brains out and get past the coward.”
“Hmm.”
Aurelie arched a brow, lips pursed. “You’re still in love with the coward.”
Shrug.
“And there’s no spark with Jonah.”
Nod.
“Christ!”
“Amen.”
Aurelie wasn’t wrong—I was still in love with Gage (because the stupid heart wants what it wants), and there was zero spark with Jonah.
I hated that. And since I couldn’t do anything about how I felt, I did what I always did when my world tilted sideways.
I worked.
I threw myself into prep for the Burlesque Noir Trunk Show at the Marigny Opera House in a week, editing mood boards and finalizing fabric pairings for the final displaypieces.
Feathered corsets, blush mesh gloves, embroidered bodysuits—all sensual, theatrical, a little dangerous. Lingerie that made women stand taller.
The weekend event would start with a runway show, and two of Aire Noire’s lingerie lines would be featured. I’d done the fittings already. One model was Aurelie, and another was a friend of hers whom she’d recruited. There would be twenty models in total, and several of the burlesque, Mardi Gras costumes, and lingerie stores across New Orleans would be represented.
Following the runway show, each vendor would have astallset up—and if past years were any reference, I’d have a banner weekend with more sales in two days than in all of July when tourists and locals abandoned the Quarter.
I usually loved this part: the styling, the anticipation, the confidence in the air.
But everything I touched made me think of Gage.
I remember the way his eyes darkened when I modeled new arrivals for him.
I remember the way his hands held my hips, still calloused from work but always reverent.
I remember the time I caught him staring at a gold-trimmed bodysuit like he was memorizing it so he could take it off me later, slowly.
I hated that my heart still ached for a man who treated love like a virus he didn’t want to catch.
When Jonah came by, I was in the middle ofsteaming a blush-pink cape made of marabou and drama.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Do I need to pretend I have a lingerie emergency to see you?” he asked cheekily.
