“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“If I didn’t already know you’d never lived in New Orleans, this would prove it,” I say as we walk to his car. “Between Halloween, Mardi Gras, and various theme parties, you need a few costumes in case of emergency. A lot of people there have what we call ‘costume closets,’ so you can put together an outfit or help a friend.”
“Do you have a costume closet?”
I shrug. “Just a pith helmet, a couple cloaks, a couple wigs, some go-go boots, and this.”
“New Orleans,” he says, as if it’s another planet. He’s not that far wrong, actually. His eyes drift toward the cleavage revealed by the tugged-down peasant top. “You look sexy as hell, by the way.”
“Thanks. So do you.” It’s all I can do to keep from fondling his ass right here in the driveway. I take pity on my neighbors and restrain myself.
It’s a relief to hear him laugh, and for conversation to flow freely between us. In the days since we got back, Jonah’s coolness has lingered. He only e-mailed twice: once to make sure I had settled in well, and then again to accept my invitation to Arturo and Shay’s party.
He had a lot to do, I remind myself. Remember how you had to bust ass all week to get back up to speed?
True. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something has changed between us, and maybe not for the better.
Arturo opens the door in his Star Trek redshirt getup. I get a big hug, and Jonah gets a handshake. Not the warm, half-hug, hetero-guy handshake good friends often share—more businesslike—but surely Arturo’s grin makes up for it. “Good to see you again, Jonah. What’s your poison?”
“I’m driving tonight,” he replies.
“Which means I get to have a glass of wine,” I interject.
Arturo laughs. “Not a beer? It would match your costume better.”
“Not unless you’ve got the steins to put it in.” With that, I lead Jonah into the party.
Already a large crowd has gathered. Arturo and Shay can’t entertain quite as extravagantly as Carmen does, but their friends trust them to provide a good time. (Plus, to judge by the umpteen six-packs and bottles lying around, it looks like at least half the people here contributed to the refreshments.) Décor is at a minimum—mostly a couple of white drapes in the windows stained with “bloody” handprints and slash marks. But a few candles burn here and there, and the stereo is thumping with a Latin beat. There’s that creep Mack wearing a neon-green “pimp suit,” complete with zebra-striped lapels. The costume is as repulsive as the guy himself. Carmen, on the other hand, looks radiant—a long skirt, peasant blouse, and embroidered shawl in brilliant colors, her thick black hair braided atop her head and pinned with paper flowers, and for the finishing touch, a penciled-in unibrow to make her a perfect Frida Kahlo. I spy Kip in the corner, one of two guys dressed up as punk rockers. To my delight, the other one turns out to be Ryan the bartender from a few weeks ago. Kip must not have wasted any time after getting Ryan’s number.
As Arturo leads us toward the bar area, I catch sight of the person I’ve been most nervous about seeing. At least his getup gives me a ready opening line. “That does not count as a costume.”
“I beg to differ,” Geordie says. He’s in full Scots regalia: kilt, high socks with ribbon, velvet evening jacket, and even a sporran hanging in front. Like any true Scotsman, he somehow manages to look manlier while wearing a skirt. “Yes, back in Inverness, this would be evening wear appropriate for any wedding or formal function. Here in the U.S.? It’s a costume.”
“If you say so.” Deep breath. “Geordie, I think you might have met Jonah Marks, from the earth sciences department? Jonah, this is Geordie Hilton. He’s getting his LLM here in Austin.”
“Pleasure,” Geordie says, with enough gusto that it passes for sincerity.
Jonah nods. “Vivienne speaks highly of you.”
Geordie smiles in surprise. “Does she, now? Then she’s being too kind.”
With his impeccable sense of timing, Arturo appears with a glass of wine in one hand and a can in the other. “This is for you, and can you take the ginger ale to Shay?”
“We’d love to,” I say, seizing the graceful exit Arturo has provided. “We’ll catch you later, okay, Geordie?”
Geordie smiles, somewhat stiffly, then turns to start pouring himself more wine.
In the town house’s living room, Shay holds court from the sofa. She’s lying there comfortably, while different guests come by to say hi or chat for a while. Her face lights up when she sees Jonah and me. Or maybe it’s the ginger ale. “Tell me honestly,” she says as I hand her the can. “Isn’t this the most boring costume ever?”