Page 98 of Grim
“You’re a mollusk.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head. “You’re shrimply the worst.”
“Then it seems we have something in common. We’re both shellfish. Anyway, where was I?”
“Shellfish regret.”
“Yes. Precisely. But fortunately for us, he left behind valuable culinary intelligence.”
“And please tell me, where do we find this meal that was a dying man’s final regret?”
“Make a left right up here.”
We walk deeper into the French Quarter, where the streets are a fever dream of wrought iron balconies and faded signs, jazz notes floating from cracked-open windows like ghosts with good rhythm. The air smells like cane sugar.
Rue’s steps slow as we round the corner onto a cobbled alley. Her eyes flick to the storefront ahead—two stories tall, painted deep green, with weathered shutters and gold-lettered signage in script:Simone’s.
“This must be it,” she says.
“What gave it away?” I deadpan. “The giant signbearing its name? Or the fact that we stopped walking? No, don’t tell me. It was both. It had to be both.”
She turns toward me, already reaching for the handle. “You can wait outside if you’re gonna be rude.”
I press a hand to my chest, scandalized. “Me? Rude? Never. I’m far too excited to live vicariously through you. I do intend to behave.”
I mime locking my lips and tossing away the key before solemnly crossing my nonexistent heart.
Rue arches a brow. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.”
“I’m exactly as charming as I think I am,” I say, stepping aside. “After you, Mayday,” I state, extending my arm and ushering Rue into the two-hundred-year-old family establishment.
The moment we step inside, everything shifts.
Gone is the humidity of the New Orleans streets—the brass-band chaos, the soft rot of history humming in the pavement. Instead, the air inside Simone’s is rich with spice and stories. The walls are deep green, trimmed in weathered gold.
Rue’s boots cause the polished wood floors to creak. I, on the other hand, am silent, to the living at least. The living-adjacent girl beside me carries all the weight of this world, and I… well, I carry the weight of the rest.
“Good afternoon and welcome to our home. Table for one today?”
We are greeted immediately upon entering by a genial old gentleman behind the host stand. His soft Cajun accent is as authentic as the aromas pouring from the kitchen.
Rue doesn’t miss a beat or even flinch. “That would be lovely,” she replies, her tone graceful.
I watch her closely as he leads the way to a small table by the window, warm sunlight breaking through the warped old glass. He pulls her chair out with a flourish. I slip into the seat across from her, unseen.
“Pretty little thing shouldn’t be eating alone,” he says softly as Rue settles in. “But that’s not this old man’s business. What brings you to Simone’s today, darlin’?”
“Heard from anoldfriend that you have the best étouffée in Louisiana.”
The way Rue emphasizes theoldin that sentence makes me smirk a soft laugh.
“You heard wrong, I’m afraid,” he retorts gravely.
“Oh, perhaps I heard myfriendwrong.” This time, she emphasizesfriendwhile staring subtle daggers my way.
He leans in, all slow grin and secrets. “It’s the finest étouffée in theworld, darlin’.”
I sneer back at Rue defiantly, but the icy resolve doesn’t leave her eyes.
