Page 40 of Prince Material
12
ORSON
I woke up with that frenetic energy of a Christmas morning, and that despite having slept on our lumpy couch. A week of that and I wouldn’t be able to walk, but I’d bear it with a smile on my face if that was the price for having Floris here.
I’d missed him. Funny how that worked. I hadn’t expected to miss his constant chatter, his terrible jokes, even the chaos he brought to every space he occupied. But I had. It had felt like someone had dimmed the lights, though come to think of it, that was probably because of all the stress around Mom and not so much Floris. That seemed a far more likely explanation.
But the fact was that I had missed him. Now he was here for a whole week, and I couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t quite believe he’d chosen to spend his Thanksgiving break with us instead of choosing one of the undoubtedly far more exotic options he’d had. He’d mentioned an invite to go scuba diving in the Caribbean, and yet he was here.
It had meant a lot to Mom too, I could tell. He’d loved her gumbo, always a surefire way to get my mom’s approval, but she genuinely liked him. She’d loved the gift basket he’d broughther, which had included a refrigerator magnet with cute little wooden shoes, a gorgeous colander with pictures of tulips, and oven mitts in that classic white-and-blue pattern the Netherlands were famous for. Delft Blue, Floris had called it.
We’d talked for a long time yesterday, all four of us, and he’d drawn even Tia into our conversations. She now stared at him with little hearts in her eyes, despite knowing he was gay.
I couldn’t blame them for liking him. What was not to like? He was the best friend I could’ve ever wished for, and I was stupidly excited to show him my city.
After a simple breakfast—I warned Floris to leave room for snacks—we headed out. The French Quarter was alive with its usual mix of tourists and locals, music spilling from doorways and mingling with the sounds of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestone streets. I watched Floris take it all in, his eyes wide as he studied the wrought-iron balconies and colorful facades. The morning sun caught his hair, turning it almost golden, and I forced myself to look away.
“This is incredible.” Floris craned his neck to study a particularly ornate balcony. His fingers twitched like he wanted to touch the intricate ironwork, an urge I was well familiar with. “It feels like I’m somewhere else entirely. It’s hard to believe this exists in the same country as Worcester, that they’re both in the US.”
“We certainly like to think we’re special,” I said with a grin. “And we have the language to prove it. Creole is nothing like you’ve ever heard.”
Floris turned to me, frowning. “I thought it was bastard French, for lack of a better word.”
I shook my head. “It’s a mix of French, African languages, Spanish, and Native American words that all came together in its own complete language system with unique grammar andpronunciation. Like, in French you’d sayje vaisfor ‘I go,’ but in Creole, it becomesmo té allé. Mom’s family spoke it at home when she was growing up, and even though we don’t use it much in our house, you can still hear it all over certain neighborhoods, especially when the older folks get together.”
“Oh wow, I never knew. But you understand it?”
I wiggled my hand. “Enough to get by if needed, but I’m not fluent in it.”
We continued our walk, making our way down Royal Street.
“How did all this survive Katrina?” Floris asked. “The French Quarter, I mean. The water must have been brutal on these old buildings.”
My chest tightened at the question. “This part of the city is actually on higher ground, so it didn’t flood.” I paused, swallowing past the sudden thickness in my throat. “The water went other places instead.”
Something in my tone must’ve alerted him because Floris turned to study my face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay.” I took a deep breath. “I should learn to talk about it.”
He reached for my hand and held it for a moment. “Maybe, but when you’re ready. Not because I keep pushing you with questions.”
“It’s okay.”
He let go of my hand again, and I felt strangely bereft.
“So, where are these famous beignets you keep promising me?” he asked, and I appreciated his forced change of topic.
“Café du Monde is just ahead.” I led him toward the familiar green and white awning. “Fair warning: you’re going to get powdered sugar everywhere. It’s basically a requirement.”
“Food that requires wearing it? That doesn’t sound like you at all.”
Leave it to Floris to get me out of my head.
The café was busy as always, but we managed to snag a table near the edge where we could watch the street life. Floris’s face when he took his first bite of a beignet was almost comical, his eyes widening as the hot, fluffy pastry practically melted in his mouth.
“Okay,” he said after swallowing, “I concede. These might actually be better thanstroopwafels. Infinitely messier, but wow, they’re yummy.”
“I’ll take that as high praise.” I watched as he tried to eat the next one more carefully, failing to avoid the shower of powdered sugar. A white streak appeared on his nose. He looked so freaking adorable.
