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“In the Garden District, leaving … a friend’s house,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the Mansion, now in the distance.
“So?” I said.
“So what?”
“So … wanna hook up?”
“Right now?” he asked, choking a little on his words. “Yeah. Right now.”
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“Yeah!” he said, fully awake now.
He suggested Schiro’s in a half hour. That meant no time to change, I thought, looking down at my T-shirt and jeans. And no time to change my mind. I was going to “hook up” with a guy I had just met.
A wave of nausea overcame me. Could I do this? That was what my year of S.E.C.R.E.T. was for, wasn’t it? To act as a set of sexual training wheels? It was high time they came off. I knew what my needs were. Time to get them met.
Of course Mark Drury was late. Of course he knew the cute waitress, the hot girl eating alone, the androgynous sous chef who he stopped to high-five, and the curvy bartender from whom he ordered a pitcher of beer before taking a seat opposite me at the last empty table. Schiro’s was popular with locals, the musicians and restaurant folks who ate at odd hours. It was almost 5 p.m., lunchtime for this crowd. The place was a study in plaid and piercings, and with a B & B upstairs it also had its share of international visitors. It was like a waiting room for heaven’s misfits. I suddenly felt old.
“Hi,” he said, grinning, pouring himself a glass of draft, then one for me.
I almost hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d shaved, showing off his great face to full effect.
“Hi.”
“I assume you like beer.”
“Live for it.”
He looked sleepy, his hair flattened and his green T-shirt—which set off his light blue eyes—was inside out. I had had butterflies in my stomach before he arrived, but curiously they began to calm down as soon as he sat. He’s just a guy. With needs. Like you. He snatched a menu from the table stand and studied it, stealing a glance at me every few seconds.
“Let’s get some burgers. They’re great here.”
“I haven’t been here in ages,” I said. “My ex and I used to come here for brunch when we first moved to New Orleans.”
Why did I mention Scott?
“Your ex, huh?” He snapped the menu shut. “Would that be ex-husband or ex-boyfriend?”
“Husband. But he passed away a while ago.”
“You’re not messing with me now, right? Because I really was only kidding about my mom.”
“No, I’m not kidding,” I said.
He pried no further about that.
“How have you thusly fared in our Crescent City?”
“You mean, dating-wise?” I followed that question with a big gulp of beer.
“Yeah.”
“Um. Hit and miss. You?” I asked, wiping my mouth.
“It’s hard to meet someone who likes musicians’ hours, you know?”
“And what about this? Is this a date?”
