Page 47 of Old Flames

Vicky and Ayesha had seen it. Jules and Leo hadn’t. Matty qualified his answer. He’d seen it, but only because someone had shared it in a group chat. For those who hadn’t seen it, Ayesha provided a summary. “Our friend was onstage to receive an award. Just when he’s concluded his opening remarks, up comes Alexandre with a bouquet of roses and an engagement ring. The crowd loved it.”

“We were in DC, staying at the W. We had a reservation at a rooftop restaurant. He could’ve proposed at any time that weekend, not onstage in front of my peers and editors, people I was trying to impress.”

“The timing was certainly off,” Ayesha agreed. “My husband proposed in Paris. We were there for my book launch, but he had the good sense to wait until after the event.”

“Can you get past his insecurities?” July asked him.

“Not sure I can sign up for a lifetime of this,” Sebastien replied soberly.

This should have prompted Ayesha to launch into a vigorous defense of love and its ability to conquer all obstacles, but she didn’t. Everyone fell silent.

“Let’s not sit around like a bunch of losers,” Sebastien said, suddenly defiant. “Let’s go out.”

“We were just out,” Ayesha reminded him.

“Yeah,” he said, “chasing Hemingway or whatever fuck else. We haven’t hit a gay bar or caught a drag show. This is Key West. I caught shit for doing absolutely nothing, now I want to have fun.”

“Should we be aiding and abetting him?” Matty asked.

“We should,” Vicky replied, “but I can’t walk anymore. My feet hurt.”

“I’ve got a car,” Leo said. “I’m good to drive.”

“Where would you go?” Ayesha asked, cleverly extracting herself from the plan.

“I don’t know,” Sebastien said. “Let’s google and find out.”

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Ayesha said. “Have fun, everyone! Good night!”

“NO!”

Jules slipped off the edge of the desk where she’d been perched, quiet and withdrawn, and doled out orders. “Leo, get the car. Sebastien, choose a spot. Ayesha, change out of your pajamas. Matty, Vicky, get up off the floor. We’re going out.”

Leo, who’d never seen her like this, sat riveted, until she snapped her fingers. “Let’s go!”

16

It’s cool to contact the dead, but crucial to connect with the living.

Jules could always count on Vicky to knock sense into her, whether intentionally or not. Sitting alone in a garden, at three in the morning, waiting for a chance encounter without a can of pepper spray, was a ludicrous idea. Her overprotective mother would’ve cautioned against it. But as soon as they piled into Leo’s sports car, doubts crowded her mind. Go and connect with the living or stay and contact the dead? The debate raged on. Even as they cruised ahead, the long strings of guilt pulled her back.

The drag show was long over when they arrived at the club Sebastien had chosen, but a queen would host a private karaoke party for a fee. Leo was greeted as a hero when he ordered the mandatory round of drinks. Cher was their host for the hour. Rather than take turns at the mic, Sebastien, Matty, Vicky, and Ayesha all rushed the stage. Together they belted one disco anthem after another. Cher, in a spot-on Bob Mackie re-creation, all beads and feather trim, dragged Leo onto the dance floor to join her in the shuffle or whatever other dance moves John Travolta had perfected in Saturday Night Fever.

Jules watched the scene play out from a corner. A veil separated her from the others. Her friends laughing, stumbling, singing “Hot Stuff.” Leo looking handsome on the neon-drenched dance floor, his dark hair stained red and blue. Everyone, Cher included, looked a little frayed at the edges but not him. He looked vibrant. He could dance the night away or debate H. P. Lovecraft’s patchy legacy or complete a crossword puzzle on the spot.

She was so busy admiring him that she missed when the music and the singing and the dancing stopped. Leo crossed the dance floor, coming straight at her, sure-footed, focused, tearing down the veil on his way. Jules panicked and retreated. It was stupid, but she’d never seen the man so determined. He caught up with her and said, “Follow me.”

He didn’t leave it to chance. He took her arm and led her out a door marked Exit. It opened to a dim stairwell. She wouldn’t have felt safe with any other person but him.

“What’s troubling you?” he asked.

“Nothing!” she replied. “I’m—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupted. “You’re tired. You have a headache.”

“All of the above,” she said.

“Once more,” he said, gravel-voiced. “What’s troubling you?”