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Ohgodohgodogod!
“Thanks! Hi! Julius! Wow!” I slid the charm into my pocket.
He looked at me curiously. We hadn’t stood this close to each other in a while. Waving from cars and after-school handoffs had become the norm as Gus got older. I almost didn’t recognize him. He looked … good. Happy.
“What are you doing down here?”
Quick. Think. “Well … I should ask you the same thing. Where’s Gus?”
“He’s still at Janet’s. I just came out here for an hour to see how my new business was doing on a holiday.”
Janet was his younger sister. We still kept in touch because Gus and her sons were close in age. I glanced over his shoulder at the idling food truck behind him. It didn’t look like the other food trucks. It was painted glossy black, JULIUS’S BAYOU BITES scrolled on the side in red cursive letters. It had a wraparound standup bar that looked to be collapsible and made of cedar planking.
“This yours?”
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
“How come you never told me?”
“I don’t know. Just got the permit a week ago. I didn’t want to say anything until we launched. It’s been crazy, the reception—really great so far.”
Through the truck window, a young employee handed a customer what looked like a small, brown burrito in a nest of waxed paper, surrounded by hush puppies. I shivered, feeling a winter breeze up my coat, and clenched my thighs.
“That looks good,” I said.
“It’s like a roti, but creole-style. You remember my mom’s sauce? I use that as a simmering base—reduce it, put in some chicken, shrimp or pork, or just veggies, and cheese to hold it together. Bake it in a pocket. Done. It’s all organic, meat’s farm-raised, not fried. Try one?”
“Sure!”
Julius disappeared into the truck. Seconds later, he brought out a warm pocket of food and handed it to me. The crowd of artists and buskers lining up against the wrought-iron fence, waiting their turn, all gave me the evil eye for being served before them. I took a ravenous bite.
“Iss ’ood,” I said, mouth full. Damn I was hungry, and this was delicious.
Julius watched me eat with glowing pride.
“So, I thought you hated the French Quarter. I could never get you to come down here. Especially on a chilly night.”
“I don’t hate it,” I said. “I just hate finding parking here.”
He was smiling that smile, the one he used to wear when I caught him watching me sing in those clubs all those years ago.
“This all looks great, Jules. I mean it. A classy food truck. Traditional food done up a little different. Healthy. Good idea. Great idea.”
“Thanks. That means a lot coming from you,” he said, sounding a little sheepish, his shoulders back, chest all puffed out.
How many times had I told this man to stand up straighter, not just physically but in every way? Nagging him all those years, I had turned myself into his mother. Instead of growing, the man had shrunk.
“You know, if it takes off, I’m going to franchise this.”
“I hope it works,” I said. “Sure looks like it will … Well, Merry Christmas, Jules. I gotta get up early, so … I’ll pick up Gus tomorrow? Noon, your place, right?”
“Yes.”
As I reached for an awkward hug, Julius leaned in and kissed me on the cheek and we smashed into each other. Could he smell sex on me?
“We should do a catch-up dinner soon,” he said. “Make sure we’re on the same page with Gus for the new year.”
