“Thought you might be thinking about this,” Friday says, placing my purse down on the porch swing. “Thought maybe you were considering running out on me.”
“I was.” Relief floods through me. I can leave. I can go without having to see Callan again this evening, which makes me feel light headed. For a second I’m so happy I could kiss Friday for giving me such a beautiful out, but then I see the look on her face and my happiness fades. She doesn’t want me to go.
“And how long will it take for you to forgive me if I leave?” I ask.
“I’ll be right with you by the morning, girl. You know me. But you’re better than that. Running away ain’t gonna do nobody no favors. Not you. Not that boy in there. Not your friends. Not me. Nobody.”
I think about this for a second. “He’s not going to leave it alone, Friday. It’s not as though we’re gonna be able to get through this meal without him doing or saying something that’s going to upset me. And he’s already done that once today.”
“So let him upset you. Let it wash over you. If that’s the worst thing you think will happen, then you have to stay. You’re both grown now. You’re both adults. You can discuss your issues and move past them, no matter what they are. And if you’re not meant to be friends or lovers, or even acquaintances, then you can at least say you done everything you could to mend fences. That’s something, surely?”
Mending fences? Mending fences would take more time and effort than I have right now. It would take a miracle. Friday is looking like a kicked puppy, though. I’ve never seen her look this way. She’s always been more likely to bully or coerce me into doing something she considers good for me, but at this particular moment in time, she looks sad.
“Ugh. All right. Okay. But please…don’t sit me next to him. I can’t…”
Friday beams, flashing brilliant white teeth at me. “Don’t worry, child. I’ll sit myself right next to you. And if that boy even thinks about giving you trouble, I ain’t past putting my foot up his ass, believe me.”
******
CALLAN
I’m more of a scotch drinker than a wine drinker, but bringing a bottle of whiskey over to Friday’s would have been a terrible idea. She would have confiscated it pretty much as soon as I walked through the door anyway. Beyond a tiny glass of crème de menthe every once in a blue moon, I’ve never seen the old girl drink.
I’m in dire need of a stiff drink when Coralie comes back into the kitchen, though. And speaking of stiff… a certain part of my body is headed that way at a worrying clip and I don’t think there’s anything I’m gonna be able to do about it. Coralie is so fucking beautiful. She was always so strange looking when we were younger. I remember Darren Weathers being completely and utterly confused when I’d told him I was taking Coralie to the seniors’ dance. He’d asked me why her above all the other girls I could take, and I’d told him the truth. I’d told him she was the most fascinating person I’d ever been lucky enough to lay eyes on. He’d frowned, squinting at her, one eye closed, head tilted to one side, and said that he’d supposed so, and each to their own. She had this draw to her that was impossible to deny. Now, all these years later, she’s grown into herself a little but she’s still remarkable to look at.
Her green eyes are still as haunted as they always were. The dark spot in her iris, the one I told her looked like the storm raging on Jupiter, is still there. Her bottom lip is still a fraction fuller on one side than it is on the other, though it’s nowhere near as noticeable as it was when she was fifteen.
I can’t stop staring at her goddamn collarbones as she carries the huge pot of gumbo from the stove for Friday and sets it down on the table in the middle of the place settings. I always loved her collarbones. They were pronounced and so fucking sensitive. I used to graze my teeth along them, fighting to stop myself from coming like a little punk whenever she moaned or writhed against me.
I look up, and Coralie is scowling at me, obviously knowing exactly what I’m thinking about as she busts me staring at the graceful column of her throat.
“So. Coralie. You’re living out in LA? What are you doing for work?” Shane asks.
“I’m still a painter,” she says, her voice clipped.
“Of course! I can’t believe I forgot about that. You were always so talented. Do you have your work in galleries then?” Tina hasn’t looked at me twice since she entered the building—definitely still pissed about the whole best man thing—but she seems all too interested in focusing her attention on Coralie. Coralie sits herself down in the only remaining seat left at the table—the one opposite me. She looks mighty pissed off as she shoots Friday a none-too-friendly sideways glance. The old woman grins back, apparently pretending not to feel the arctic chill blow across her skin.