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Offstage, Nick waits with a proud smile, rivaling mine. “I knew you could do it.”
Without a second thought, I reach for him and wrap my arms around his neck. His leather jacket squeaks in the crooks of his elbows when he squeezes me back. “Thank you, Nick. Thank you for not letting me give up.”
He kisses the top of my head the way only someone who loves you can. Gentle and genuine. “Bernie was right about you,” he says, holding me steady. “You got somethin’, kid.”
That old familiar pitter-patter in my chest kicks into high gear. It’s so loud that it feels like his chest is vibrating too. Is he feeling what I’m feeling? And is it a road we should go down?
“Welcome to the stage, Nick Leto!” the emcee calls, and Nick and I let each other go.
“Wish me laughs,” he says, and hikes away.
—
After the show, I join Nick at his merch table, where we chat with our newfound fans until they rush out to find a good spot to watch the firework show.
“Sold a lot of shirts tonight,” Nick says, holding up a single tee. “Just one left.”
“You know what?” I say. “I want to buy it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, so what if I have no room in my suitcase.” I pull out my wallet and hand him my credit card.
He refuses. “Nah, your money’s no good here.”
“What? I can buy the shirt,” I say, actually wanting to spend what little money I have left on it.
“I know you can but I want to give it to you.” He hands over the black cotton shirt and I fold it over my arm, gently smoothing it out.
“Thank you. Can I at least buy you a Fourth of July drink?”
Nick checks his watch. “Sure, but let’s get it to go. Fireworks start in half an hour.”
We grab a couple of beers from the bar in plastic go-cups (the only legal way to drink in public in these parts). The chilled barley-flavored beer is deliciously crisp—the perfect companion to a hot summer night in Louisiana.
Outside, the sky grows duskier by the second as we head toward the river. The sticky air clings to my skin like these pleather pants. Walking along the Mississippi in eighty-six-degree weather, I know I’m not the only one sweating.
“Hold on. Have you ever had a beignet?” Nick stops and wiggles his brows suggestively.
“Is that a French sex thing?” I say, because that’s how he makes it sound.
He snickers. “It’s a French donut but some do describe the experience as orgasmic.”
My cheeks redden at the word. Am I embarrassed because he knows I haven’t had one in a long time or because there’s still a part of me that wants to have one with him?
“There’s a place famous for ’em not far. You up for it?” he asks.
“As long as I don’t have to fake it,” I joke. Nick takes it in stride and steers us in another direction.
After getting through the line at the famous café, Nick and I find a space against the building on the sidewalk. Horns from a nearby brass band blow with fervor while a slew of people saunter up and down the street. It’s like being back in New York on a warm summer night but with a more soulful soundtrack. I gaze up at the night sky, feeling the anticipation in the air. Everyone here is waiting for the show to begin.
“You ready for this?” Nick opens the paper bag and I reach inside, pulling out a palm-sized square of fried dough, a mound of powdered sugar cascading off it.
“So it’s like a funnel cake?” I ask.
“Funnel cake ain’t got shit on this beignet.” Nick takes a bite, his lips covered in white sugar.
“You look like Tyrone Biggums.” I laugh, sinking my teeth into the warm pastry.
