Page 54 of The Fake Husband Play
Surely, that’s the kind of thing that gets easier after you’ve gotten to know each other better.
I mean, doesn’t everything get easier with time? And it’s not like I’ve exploited our relationship for content. I haven’t even recorded an episode since Mimi and I moved in.
Weirdly, I haven’t felt the need.
Before, my podcast was my outlet, my way of feeling like I had some agency in a life that felt more and more out of my control.
But now, I’m looking into going back to school, actually have a couple of interviews lined up for jobs I would be excited to have—as a mailroom girl at the city paper, with a chance for advancement, and as a social media manager for a local clothing brand that liked the copy samples I sent in.
Suddenly, the podcast feels less vital.
And who needs to fantasize about hockey players on a mic when she has a real-life NHL dreamboat sipping orange juice shirtless in her kitchen?
Fanning my face, I push the thought away. Must not think about shirtless Grammercy or I’ll get even more flustered than I am already.
The cab turns onto Dauphine Street, and soon we’re in the thick of Friday night in the Quarter. Music pours from every doorway—jazz, blues, and someone attempting “My Heart Will Go On” at a karaoke bar and failing spectacularly. The sidewalks are packed with tourists clutching their plastic go-cups full of wicked mixed drinks, locals who know which bars to avoid, and tarot readers promising to tell your future with a worn pack of cards.
For a moment, I’m tempted to slap a ten-dollar bill down and see what one of them has to say about my plan, but I’m already running late. If I don’t stay focused, Grammercy might get there before I do.
“Here’s good,” I tell the driver as we approach the Old Ursuline Convent and the streets get even more packed. I tap my card to his reader, thank him, and emerge into the humid embrace of a New Orleans night.
Even in October, with Halloween just around the corner, the air is thick enough to swim through, perfumed with night-blooming jasmine, a hint ofseashore, and stale beer from one of the cheap, college-kid clubs behind me.
Ahead, the convent looms elegant and mysterious in the gaslights, its shuttered windows keeping their secrets. Instantly, I decide I love that Grammercy wanted to meet here. It has the poetically spooky New Orleans energy I love.
The gate near the cemetery entrance is just as Grammercy described it: aged but beautiful, adorned with wrought iron leaves and flowers. It’s a great meeting spot, actually, visible from the street but set back in an alcove away from the crush of the Friday night party. I’m able to watch the pulse of humanity from a safe distance, shaking my head as a group of women in sparkly dresses and devil horns stumble past, cackling about someone named Derek who apparently can’t hold his liquor and looks like he pissed his pants.
Poor Derek. But then, I’ve rarely met a guy named Derek who wasn’t a menace to polite society. And his own pants.
I lean against the cool brick wall near the gate, grateful for something solid to ground me. My pulse still races and my legs are shaky, and not just from the stilettos I rarely wear. Every time a tall, dark-haired man rounds the corner, my heart leaps into my throat.
But none of them is him.
Which is good, since I’m still not sure what I’m going to say.
Maybe, just something simple like,“Hey, Grammercy, that hug last night after we left Mimi’s room? I um… Well, I liked it. Maybe more than I should have. And maybe we should…talk about that?”
I pull in a deep breath and stand up straighter. Yeah,that could work. It’s honest, direct, vulnerable, without baring my soul in a way that might make him uncomfortable if he isn’t feeling the same way.
I’m starting to decompress a little when a voice slurs from not far from my sheltered nook, “Well, well, wow! This is why it pays to look around corners.”
I glance up to find a guy about my age, maybe a little younger, swaying toward me, his beer bottle dangling between two fingers like he forgot he was holding it. His USC polo is untucked on one side, and his khaki shorts are unzipped, making me think he was too drunk to remember to pull his shit together after his last potty break.
Great. Just what I needed. A California frat boy loose in New Orleans. The California boys always overdo it. Those stingy pour bars in L.A. don’t prepare them for how strong—and massive—the drinks are around here.
“Hello, pretty lady,” he continues with a messy grin. “You looking for some fun? You can join us. We have plenty of room.”
Plenty of room in what, I wonder as I spot the gaggle of polo-shirted guys behind him. In their posse? Because they sure aren’t driving a vehicle down this part of the French Quarter.
But I know better than to ask drunk boys questions.
“I’m waiting for someone, but thanks,” I say, shooting him the kind of tight, toothless smile that sayskeep walking, friend.
But he doesn’t keep walking.
Nope, he gets closer, speeding his pace at the last moment until he’s suddenly too close for comfort.
“Lucky someone, to get to spend the night with…all that,” he slurs, planting one hand on the wall beside me. Heisn’t boxing me in, but he’s making me uncomfortable, and leaning so close I can smell a mixture of bourbon and red wine that makes me certain Bro probably isn’t going to feel too good tomorrow. “I’m Brad,” he half-belches before swallowing the rest of the noxious puff of air. “Sorry. Yeah. Brad. Cheesy but true.” He taps his chest. “And it’s my birthday. We’re going to party at a strip club, but like…funny strippers. Not serious ones. You want to come? It’ll be fun and I’ll totally buy you drinks.”
