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A she-devil in heels who believes every idea that’s ever crossed her mind is the most brilliant idea that’s ever been thought.
Greer Hudson is by far the most insufferable woman I’ve ever met in my life. And trust me, my best friend is Cap, therefore I’ve met a lot of fucking women.
At work, she is everywhere I am, a sarcastic, pursed-lipped, thorn in my side, and when I get home, she’s still there. All around me.
There’s something about knowing she’s on the other side of my bedroom wall that is stealing my sanity and turning me into an insomniac.
For a building as expensive as the one we’re both living in, you’d think they’d have better soundproofing.
But they don’t.
I can hear her every step. Her every cackle. Her goddamn reality show preferences buzzing from her television.
Even the sounds of her shower running reach my ears through the walls.
If this isn’t the definition of hell, I don’t know what is.
I’m tired. Grouchy. And a headache the size of the Empire State Building is taking up residence in my skull.
Needless to say, I’m in need of a short break from the stress that is the job site, and there’s only one place that’ll do.
The instant the nostalgic sign for Coastal Crepes fills my vision, relief relaxes my shoulders, and I cross the street and head toward the entrance.
This restaurant holds special memories for me. When I was a kid, my mom used to bring me here whenever we visited New Orleans, and just the smell of it brings the woman I used to know to my mind.
Three years ago, she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and the progression has been fast. And she’s not the same as she used to be, mostly because of the depression dealing with the disease has driven her to.
She used to be fun and fun-loving and a positive peace-keeper in the tense relationship between my father and me, and while she’s still mostly positive when it comes to me, she’s become ruthlessly unforgiving of herself.
I still see the woman who gave me care and attention, no matter how much success I garnered, and I want her to know I do.
For the last year or so, I’ve spent my weekends taking her on coffee dates and to the movies, shopping for a new outfit to make her feel good, and to the park even if it’s just to feel the sun on her face. And her quiet enjoyment of each outing only motivated me to do more before I left to head the project that is the Vanderturn New Orleans hotel.
Before I knew it, I was delaying my NOLA departure date just so I wouldn’t have to skip out on time with her.
But my desire to be near my mom in New York has only created an even bigger sore spot between my father and me, and when I finally committed to coming down here, she told me she didn’t want me to come back. Not on the weekends to visit, and not when anything else came up.
I was to stay in New Orleans, one of her favorite cities in the world, until I finished the hotel.
I don’t know if her demands were a martyr-like self-sacrifice in the name of my relationship with my father or something else, but any time I try to bring it up, she shuts me down.
Instead of getting sucked into the sadness of what I wish were different about my life, I shift my focus to the things I can control.
The hotel, and currently, the specifics of my lunch crepe.
Peanut butter, Nutella, banana, and just about as much bacon as one man can handle—the actual cure, I’m sure, for a ravaged soul.
The bell above the door rings when I pull it open, and it doesn’t take long before I order my food and sit down at a two-person table in the middle of the restaurant. The great part about this place for workdays is that you can either sit down and a server will take your order, or if you’re in a lunch-hour rush, you can order up at the counter and find a seat on your own.
With this restaurant only five blocks from the hotel construction site, I have a feeling I’ll be a frequent customer over the next several months.
I cut into the edge with my fork, bring the bite to my mouth, and look right into the ass of Greer Hudson at the counter.
Seriously?
I wish I could say my eyes are deceiving me, but they aren’t.
I can tell it’s her, even from the back.
I’m ashamed to admit that when we aren’t fighting, I spend way too much time looking at the round, plush surface of her ass.
It’s perfectly shaped and just the right size, and if we hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot in the Vanderturn Manhattan gym that day, I might have accidentally told her so.
