Page 64 of She's Like the Wind
I swallowed. “Yeah, Mama.”
“You haven’t ruined everything with Naomi, have you?”
I tilted my head and smiled at her. “Her best friend tells me I still have a chance.”
She reached up, smoothed a hand over my stubbled cheek like I was still five. “Good! But you have to do the work.”
I gave her a solemn nod.
“Not with talk,” she warned. “Not with charm. With presence. With consistency. You can’t prove yourself in one big gesture. It’s the little ones. Over and over again.”
“Yeah, Mama.”
CHAPTER 22
Naomi
Inearly dropped the steamer when I saw him at the Marigny Opera House.
He was in work boots and a black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, a tool belt slung low on his hips like a contractor porn fantasy come to life. He was talking to one of the lighting guys, gesturing toward the risers.
I stood frozen for a second, a length of silk trailing from my hands like a flag of surrender.
My first instinct was anger.
What the fuck was he doing here?
And who the fuck was the grade five clinger now?
The second was panic.
Was this just a coincidence? Was he not here for me? Was he here to work? Did he have anything to do with the reno of this place?
But the third—the one I tried hardest to ignore—was somethingfar worse.
Relief.
The fourth, which I forced upon myself, wasfocus. There were too many things to do, and I didn’t have time for my ex. I got back to work, making sure there would be no last-minute issues with the runway show.
We’d chosen the Marigny Opera House for the event because it was stunning. Once a Catholic church built in 1853, long since deconsecrated, it was reborn into something wilder.
It had vaulted ceilings and peeling paint, flickering candelabras, and mismatched wooden pews turned audience seating.
The altar was now a stage.
The stained glass cast fractured rainbows across the floor.
It was raw and romantic and full of ghosts—holy, theatrical, and humming with every note ever sung within its crumbling walls.
It wasn’t glossy or modern or precious. It was Gothic and aching. Holy and worn. A place where art had taken root in the ruins—where dancers, musicians, and now burlesque costumes, breathed life into what once was sacred.
It was theatrical decay turned beauty—very apropos and irreverently New Orleans.
We’d transformed it for the night for the runway show—and the weekend when we’d sell our wares.
The runway was a gold runner lined with mismatched vintage rugs. The mannequins wereperched on gilded pedestals wrapped in velvet. Strings of Edison bulbs glowed above like stars on a sultry sky.
People were already starting to fill the opera house. Women glided in corsets, which they wore like armor. Men wore eyeliner and lace. Drag queens stomped in stilettos and sequined robes that screamed drama.
