Page 63 of So Not My Thing
He slid from her arm only to step over and sweep me up into a hug. “Thank you for trusting me with this place,” he murmured into my hair.
My arms came up in surprise, resting lightly against his back, then in spite of myself, tightening around him. “Of course. You were the right choice.” We stayed like that for a second, long enough for me to register the faint scent of his shampoo and the warm leather smell of his jacket before he stepped back. Every place we’d touched felt suddenly too cool without his heat.
I thought I caught a smirk on Miss Mary’s face, but when I turned to study her, she was already watching the trio as Miles strode over toward them. He moved with a different energy in this space, a crackle in his step, a sense of purpose very different from his usual laid-back amble everywhere we went.
He stepped up to the mic and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, in a couple of months, this space will become the Turnaround, a dream I’ve had for as long as I can remember. But tonight is not about that. Tonight is about honoring the thousands of people Miss Mary has fed over the last forty years, the countless smiles, the hugs, the scoldings. I’ve only known her a month, and she’s already fussed at me twice.”
That drew a laugh from the crowed, louder from the ones who’d gotten their own scoldings too.
“Anyway, these young musicians are some of the finest talent in New Orleans, and Miss Mary deserved nothing less for her final night in the place she made home for all of us. Without further ado, I present the Tremé Trio.”
They played a thirty-minute set, and as Chloe and I sat at our favorite table, eating Miss Mary’s gumbo and listening to the jazz trio, every brilliantly executed note wrapped around me and carried me away into a future where the Turnaround existed fully and everyone leaned into the music like there was nothing else they wanted to do.
“Wow,” Chloe said when their set ended to thunderous applause. “It’s been a minute since I sat and listened to the real deal New Orleans sound.”
“They’re so good.” I knew I sounded awed, but good music always did that to me. Made me reverent, in a way, while at the same time stirring up my blood like the notes were going to pull me right out of my body.
Boogey leaned into the mic. “We’re going to take a break, but we’ll be back later. Thank you for the love.”
They stepped away from their instruments, Miles standing ready to clap them on their backs and offer words of encouragement.
“Heavens, you’d have thought these people never had a gumbo,” Miss Mary said, zipping by with a platter full of steaming bowls.
“Need help?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t mind it,” she said without slowing down. Chloe and I jumped in, grabbing aprons from the supply closet and filling the never-ending stream of takeout orders coming in over the phone and online. I’d thought for sure Miss Mary would need to send home two gallons of it with every grandchild and still have some leftover, but after an hour, I began to wonder if we’d have enough.
Finally, close to nine, the crowd had thinned, and Boogey stepped up to the mic again.
“Since it looks like we down to mostly friends and family, I guess it needs to be said: ain’t no party without some dancing, y’all.”
He and the other two launched into a jazzy cover of “Whip/Nae Nae” which made Chloe burst out laughing, but Jerome and a couple of his cousins were already pushing tables aside to create space for dancing. Soon the floor filled with Miss Mary’s family and Bywater friends, the longest standing ones who felt comfortable to stay without an invitation, and the whooping and cutting up began while I sat beside Chloe and watched it all, grinning.
“Whip/Nae Nae” became “The Humpty Dance,” and after a half-dozen more dance songs, the crowd had thinned as people drifted home, full of gumbo and memories. Mr. Douglas took Miss Mary by the hand and called out, “Slow it down for us, Boogey!”
The opening strains of “Cruising Together” by Smokey Robinson began, and I flinched, a huge surge of feeling welling up in my chest. This was the song Miles had performed at his hometown concert onStarstruck, and I had no good memories of it. Worse, this tidal wave revealed a sudden and awful truth: my stupid, hopeless crush was back. Every ridiculous, outsized feeling thrummed through me at once. They’d been there all along, but this song made me see the truth as it called up all those old emotions.
I looked down at the packet of oyster crackers and began smooshing them, cracker by cracker, pressing them against the table until they were fine dust.
“That looks satisfying.”
I glanced up to find Miles next to the table, watching me, an amused expression on his face.
“Making a self-contained mess?” I smooshed another cracker inside the wrapper. “Deeply satisfying.”
“I hate to interrupt, but I don’t want to miss a chance to ask you to dance.”
I shot him a sharp look. He had to remember this song. “That’s sweet, but this song isn’t my favorite.”
“I didn’t figure it would be.” He held out his hand. “I was hoping we could overwrite it with a better memory.”
I didn’t want to. I wanted to sneak out to my quiet apartment, but I wouldn’t leave before Miss Mary did. Short of sitting and pouting, accepting Miles’s invitation looked like the only option.
I placed my hand in his and stood, wishing I’d worn taller shoes when I realized I only came up to his chin in my flats. I wanted more height to feel like I was on equal footing. Or more distance, so I didn’t feel the sharp pull in my belly when I caught a whiff of the soft spicy notes in his cologne. Or maybe that was just how Miles smelled. Maybe someone should bottle his pheromones and make themselves a billion dollars.
He led me toward the improvised dance floor, keeping my hand in his, and when we joined the three other couples dancing, he tugged gently, drawing me close to him to rest our clasped hands between us against his chest, his other arm sliding around my waist.
As simple as that, the rest of the world grew quiet, and we moved in time with my heartbeat. Maybe with his heartbeat too. But it was perfect rhythm, and I wanted to fight it, to step back and hold myself stiff. He might read too much into the way I relaxed into him, but I couldn’t help it. The trio was only doing instrumental covers, but my brain supplied the lyrics.Baby, let’s cruise away from here.Except...it was Miles’s voice, singing quietly in my ear, his voice soft and husky like it was one of his acoustic performances when the arrangements were stripped down.
