Page 8 of Heart Strings

“What were you thinking about earlier? I got distracted by bean juice.”

The comment was so unexpected, so ingenious, and so matter-of-fact that I belted out a loud, hearty laugh straight from my chest. “Bean juice,” I repeated, my grin stretching from ear to ear. “That’s a good one.”

“It’s what my mom calls it,” Abigail laughed along with me. “It’s just…so true.”

“Yeah.” A sip of scalding coffee sobered me up to a level of seriousness befitting her earlier question. “I was thinking about how some people aren’t what they seem. Even when you think you know them.”

The smile melted off Abigail’s face. Her hands tightened around her plastic coffee cup, clutching it so tightly the sides caved a little. “Yeah. I’m kind of familiar with that too.”

“Sorry,” I apologized, backtracking quickly away from whatever memories my words had dredged up that had put a paleness into her face that made her freckles stand out.

“Hey, I asked.” Abigail regained her good cheer but changed the subject. “So, what in New Orleans do you want to see? There’s a lot to do and see here. A whole lot. I’m going to need a little more than ‘show me around’.”

“Um…”I can see all I wanted to see right now, sitting across the table from me.“Something historic, I guess? Something that pops into your mind when you think of New Orleans?”

“As a person who lives here, I can tell you what pops into your mind and what pops into mine won’t exactly be the same, but I’ll do my best. Jackson Square is a pretty cool place with lots of performers, vendors and carriage rides and such. It’s about five minutes from the bar I work in. It’s one of those places that kind of has something for everyone, you know? Even if you’ve lived here your whole life.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said approvingly. It also sounded like a good place to get something for my mamá. She didn’t like to travel, but she did like when I remembered her during my tours and brought her little things from the places I visited. She would take my gifts when I handed them to her, muttering something about how I shouldn’t waste money on trivial things while secretly being pleased and finding some nook or cranny on a shelf for them.

We finished our coffees, chatting about this and that, then headed back to the car to drive toward Jackson Square. Navigating with Abigail’s experienced directions, we managed to more or less escape the traffic and find a spot in the French Market parking lot, which was right between the square and the Mississippi River.

Jackson Square was exactly what I had expected in some ways and not at all in others. Just as Abigail had said, I could see a long row of carriages parked alongside the street that paralleled the river. The horses hitched to them were bedecked in cheerfully colored harnesses and bells. Throngs of people milled around the carriages, waiting for their turns to ride or just passing by. Around the corner to the right, I could see stands and tables laden with handmade goods - and, of course, tables for palm readings or other sorts of psychic services.

Somehow, though, I hadn’t expected to see the pointed spires of the St. Louis Cathedral rising high above the square on the far side. I had known St. Louis Cathedral was in New Orleans, I just hadn’t known about Jackson Square and I certainly hadn’t put the two together as being right next to each other.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I paused in the path my steps had taken to the right. “Going to look at whatever that guy over there is selling?”

“Oh, no you don’t. For your first time at Jackson Square, you have to go see the famous statue of Andrew Jackson. Then you can do something else.”

“Okay, okay! Sorry. Let’s go see the old man and his horse.”

As it turned out, I could add yet another quality to the list of ones Abigail possessed: she was a great tour guide. She knew a lot about Jackson Square and the St. Louis Cathedral - probably because, as she told me, she was Catholic, like my family - and she could actually quote some lines from the informative plaques adorning various structures in the area.

We browsed the wares of the many street vendors, and as I had hoped, I found the perfect gift to bring home: a hand-painted depiction of the St. Louis Cathedral that showed the church shining with light against a dark and stormy sky-like background. When Abigail asked about my purchase, I just smiled and said, “Not for me.”

We explored the place until the merchants began to pack up, then headed back to the car. We still talked on the ride back to the sorority house, but something held us both back from really laughing at each other’s jokes.

It had been fun, but this was the last we would see of each other. Tomorrow, I would go home to Miami before continuing Vaporized’s tour, and Abigail would go back to mastering the piano.

When I pulled the car to a stop in front of the sorority house, Abigail started gathering her personal effects and the few little things she had bought at Jackson Square - and suddenly, all at once, I realized exactly how much I didn’t want to see her go.

The tendons in my hand began to ache with the strain of not reaching for the slim, adept hands that brought Abigail closer and closer to being ready to get out of the car and leave me. My breath hitched with indecision, and I actually felt my face start to sweat.

Wait. Wait…

I wanted to spend more time with Abigail. I also wanted to get rid of Sierra somehow.

Maybe I could have both of those things at once.

“Hey.”

She stopped in her tracks, brows raised slightly.

“What are your plans for spring break?”

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