Page 54 of She's Like the Wind
“You’re right. I know it’s not enough but I want you to know how sorry I am.”
I looked at him—this man I adored, this man I had waited for, longed for, loved. And I knew he was telling the truth, but it didn’t change anything, not for us.
“I understand,” I told him gently. “I understand why you ran, why you couldn’t give me more.”
Relief flickered across his face.
But I wasn’t done.
“And what the hell was that with your friend? Hot Creole goddess?” I snapped, the sting of that so-called compliment still burning.
“Ezra was trying to provokeme,” he said, then paused as I arched a brow. “He meant well—though he can be a bit of an asshole. He was pushing me to admit I’m in love with you.”
“Well, good for Ezra. Mission accomplished—he managed to do it by making me feel like a piece of ass.”
He sucked in a quiet breath, like I’d knocked the wind out of him. But before he could say a word, I cut him off.
“Now get out.”
His face fell. “Naomi?—”
“I love you.” My voice broke as the words came from deep within me. “I might always love you. But I need someone who chooses me, who fights for me. Not someone who punishesme for loving him.”
“Baby, I never meant to hurt you.” Tears swelled in his eyes.
I almost cracked, but I held steady. “I want you out of my life.”
He regarded me thoughtfully, then, as if making a decision, he nodded, jaw tight, got up slowly, walked to my front door, and left.
When the door clicked shut behind him. I collapsed back onto the armchair I’d just vacated, feeling like the world was closing in on me.
Choosing myself had never hurt this much before.
CHAPTER 19
Gage
Idrove through the city’s crooked grid like a storm-tossed leaf, my heart sick with defeat as I careened past dim alleyways and flickering neon signs. The streets melted into a blur of dark asphalt and splintered pavement.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was chasing.
Reprieve?
Or perhaps a taste of grace?
Maybe, a glimmer of clarity?
Beneath all the panic and shame, however, one primal truth pulsed relentlessly: I had to go home.
Notmyplace, buthome, which was a weathered house a few blocks from Magazine Street in the lower Garden District, where ancient trees bowed low like steadfast guardians, and the air always hinted at freshly cut grass intermingled with the comforting aroma of Cajun cooking.
Nothing extravagant—a simple white clapboard structure, crooked shutters that had been painted the same fading green since my childhood, and a weathered garden hose, its cracked rubber contouring the worn steps for the past thirty years.
The porch screens murmured in the gentle wind, echoing the same soft creaks they’d offered for decades, while the magnolia tree out front—Mama’s cherished beacon—burst with blooms.
My father was on the porch, his chair tipped back just enough, a paperback (probably a mystery) cradled in one hand. Next to him on a wrought iron table was a longneck beer cocooned in a battered Saints koozie that had seen too many summers.
Lou Walker had taught me about restoring the old—and also creating the new. A retired carpenter and union man, he was plainspoken and the best father anyone could ever ask for.
