Page 44 of Old Flames

“My character does,” she replied. “I’m not an adventurous time traveler.”

“You know something about yearning,” he repeated stubbornly.

Jules joined her hands to resist the very feminine urge to scratch his eyes out. “You and Matty seem close. You look like great friends, but I’m willing to bet good money that you haven’t shared any of your issues with him. I’d go further and bet against the house that he knows close to nothing about your life, your past or future.”

“Matty is busy falling in love with Vicky, if you haven’t noticed,” he said. “He doesn’t care what I do or who I do it with.”

That could very well be true, but it didn’t negate her point. “Everyone here admires you,” she said. “They think you’re smart, clever, hot. From brief encounters with you across the globe, they’ve painted a portrait of you in their minds. I’ve been listening to them praise you all weekend long. Praise that you may or may not have earned. Want to know what I think? They’re right and they’re wrong. The thing is, they’ll never know for sure. They’ll never know you.”

Leo’s expression changed—not in anger, but with something close to relief. The relief of finally being seen.

“You never disappoint,” he said, at last.

Oh, yes, I do, Jules thought. Let’s hope you never find out.

Matty and Vicky, giddy with the flush of fresh love, dragged chairs to their table. “This looks intense,” Vicky said. “What’s going on? Are you two plotting a murder?”

Jules laughed off the question because, as Leo had astutely pointed out, she hid things from her closest friend to make their friendship possible.

Had the novelty of Duval Street died down? At a quarter past eleven, they were ready to call it a night. All they wanted was to return to The Aurora, their cozy rooms, and their rituals. Jules was eager to head back, but for other reasons. When would be the best time to return to the garden? she wondered. Midnight? Two in the morning? Three? She was eager to meet her mother’s spiritual counterpart. That was how she had come to think of it. The apparition was not the flesh and blood person who’d loved her and raised her to be brave, independent, and strong. At best, it was a representative or go-between. She was not “Mom” but “Ruby.” Approaching it in this way helped her to manage her expectations. Ruby’s cold and curious stare wouldn’t sting as much.

They settled their tab, stumbled out onto the sidewalk, and advanced into the night like a sweaty pack of roaming wolves. As the night before, the moon glowed in a tranquil indigo sky, indifferent to their laughter and chatter, to the noise of late-night traffic, car stereos blasting country music or reggaeton. Jules glanced over her shoulder. He was two steps behind—his lone silhouette striking in the moonlight. She stalled and waited for him to catch up. They continued, together.

At The Aurora, Sebastien was visited by a ghost of his own. Waiting on the porch was a striking Black man with a cascade of Basquiat-style braids. He was slumped on a peacock chaise. Sebastien spotted him from well across the street. He gasped and rushed ahead. It was his fiancé, Alexandre Montclair.

Sebastien confronted him. “What are you doing here?”

The ghost lifted a tortured face. “I haven’t heard from you in days.”

“What are you talking about? We spoke yesterday.”

“No, we didn’t!”

“Well . . .” Sebastien grappled for an excuse. “I’m at a conference! I’m busy! For you to fly down here . . . it’s only been two days.”

A couple of days? Was that all? It felt like an eternity to Jules. This house, this city, this island was sapping her of something vital, leaving her disoriented.

Alex pointed an accusing finger at Sebastien. “Barhopping, rolling in past midnight, that’s your conference?”

He immediately lost the group’s sympathy. How dare he, an outsider, intrude like this?

“It’s called bonding!” Sebastien cried, exasperated. “Team building!”

“I bet,” Alex hurled back. “You’ve turned down public appearances in New Haven and Rhode Island this year, but Key West is what you go for?”

Vicky, mouth agape, sought out Jules to confirm what they both knew. Key West was a gay man’s playground. Every pride flag in the city promised fun in the sun. Alex did not trust his hot man on the loose on these hot streets.

Sebastien faced the group and tried to drum up support. “Vicky, Jules, tell him I’ve spent all my time with you guys.”

Vicky, irked at being called in as a character witness, retorted, “I’m not telling him shit! You’re not on trial.”

Sebastien took a moment to process this. “That’s right,” he said, finally. “I’m not on trial here. Showing up like this, demanding answers . . . you’re in the wrong. I silenced my phone because you call every hour! I need a break!”

Leo was standing by the fountain, watching the scene playing out on the porch like a community theater production. Jules drifted toward him without ever deciding to. He reached for her, a hand to her waist, and drew her close enough to whisper in her ear, “This won’t end well.”

It wasn’t going to end anytime soon, either. Jules watched, despairing, as Sebastien dragged Alexandre off the porch and along the stone path leading to the garden, removing themselves from the public forum. She checked the time. It was 12:10 a.m.

They entered the lobby and regrouped.