Page 4 of False Start
“Bought it two months ago. Two blocks from your apartment, on Dauphine.”
“You could’ve bought any place you wanted in New Orleans and you bought a house two blocks from mine?”
He shrugs before he answers. “I wouldn’t want traffic to be an issue for you when you decide I’m of use.” He’s pouting, so I let him stew over there in his misery for a little while, and a little while ends up being over thirty minutes away in the heart of the French Quarter at a fancy French restaurant named Bourdon’s. At least that’s where I think we’re headed, but instead, he pulls into a drive five houses down from the eatery until he comes to an iron gate. He presses a button on his visor and the gate opens.Fancy. The area beyond the gate is only wide enough for one vehicle and at the end of it is a garage that looks newly upgraded to match the Victorian home. Once the car is parked in the garage, he gets out and I follow suit.
“I bought a home with furniture, but some of it’s hideous and the mattresses are lumpy. It would be a great help to me if you could get rid of the unwanted pieces and order furniture to replace them. You did a great job of decorating the home in L.A. Zina also mentioned that you know an interior designer.”
I have no idea when they could’ve had this conversation. “When did she say that?”
He shoots me anare you kidding meexpression. “Outside of Bullock’s office.”
“Ah, I must’ve been ignoring you.”
He ignores that as we walk through the gate to a private, overgrown courtyard complete with a koi pond and dilapidated furniture. This place could use some weed killer, paint, string lights, and nice furniture. I had to clean up the shared courtyard of my apartment building when I first moved in two years ago as well. It’s nice to have a secluded place in the middle of the busy Quarter.
“So?”
“So?” I look at him with a confused look on my face.
“Do you know an interior designer or not?” he asks.
“Yes, my neighbor, Leslie. I can put in a call to him and have him meet us here if you like.”
He looks over his shoulder at me. “I think we have more important things to discuss first.”
“I thought you were taking me to a public place?” I remind him.
“We’re going to Bourdon’s, but first, we set the rules in place here. I want to change anyway. See if your friend can meet us here in a couple of hours.” He walks through a kitchen that also needs some work, and then into a den. “I’m not sure how comfortable the furniture in here is, but please have a seat and make yourself at home.”
He takes off for what I assume is the master bedroom, and I take a look around the narrow room with an original brick fireplace as the centerpiece. A large rectangular ornate mirror is hung above it. The couches are a hideous orange, but they can be recovered because they’re beautiful antique pieces. I wander into the kitchen and look at all the potential the area possesses. It’s hard not to picture myself here in these rooms, living with Bryant. When we were at LSU, he talked about playing for the Voodoo and us living in the French Quarter or the Garden District in an old mansion together. This house is big and three stories, but not a mansion by most standards. Still, this was the dream. Fast forward to today and we’re living apart in the Quarter because we’re divorced. It makes me realize just how precious and fragile love is.
“Are you ready?” he asks, and I turn to find him standing in the doorway to my right.
“Food?”
“Before we go to a restaurant where there are steak knives, I would like to try to calmly discuss your rules and work on compromises.” He looks behind me to the kitchen counter and back at me again. Then he holds a finger up to signal me to wait as he steps around me, grabs the knife block nestled against the tile backsplash, and puts it on top of the refrigerator where I can’t reach it.
I put my hands on my hips. “You’ve got jokes?”
He shoots me a boyish grin complete with those damn dimples. “I don’t want a pesky thing like my violent, untimely death to ruin my chances of getting back with you.”
“Focus, Quarterback. Rules.”
“Rule number one: you should always take your clothes off when we’re alone,” he says.
“In your dreams. Look, the only thing I care about is my job. Please don’t jeopardize it.”
He grows serious. “I would never do that.”
Deep down I know he wouldn’t put my career at risk, but there’s a great deal I didn’t think he was capable of until two years ago when I saw it with my own eyes. If someone told me the college kid who was after my heart from the moment we met eight years ago would destroy it, I would’ve told them they didn’t know Bryant, not the sweet Bryant I met at college all those years ago.
— 2 —
Eight Years Ago
HALE’S ROW IS A tract of land situated just outside the city limits of Baton Rouge. It’s a haul from the stadium after a game on Saturday night, but every football team has partied here since my dad inherited the acreage his sophomore year at LSU. It’s hard to tell how many students pass through our gates before and after a game, but it’s hundreds on any given game day. Most come for a drink, the bonfire, and the game. And quite a few of our partygoers stay the night, opting to sleep inside tents or their cars rather than drive intoxicated.
Tonight, we’re celebrating a victory after four long, brutal quarters against Western Mississippi State bringing us one step closer to the conference title. It’s a bit more crowded around the fire this evening, and the volume is about ten notches higher than usual.
