Chapter 8 Luke
LUKE
Why did I think this would be a good idea?
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while I waited for Anna to ring the doorbell.
I had to admit, I’d outdone myself. The disguise was perfect.
A battered straw fedora tilted just so, dark aviators covering half my face, and a thrift-store Hawaiian shirt that screamed, “I’m definitely not famous.
” That, paired with khaki shorts and flip-flops, and I was practically unrecognizable.
Just another middle-aged dad on vacation.
As soon as Anna spotted me, her eyes flicked up and down, and a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She tilted her head as she took in the full glory of my disguise.
“You look like you just stepped off a Bourbon Street party bus. You’ll fit right in. Everyone’ll think you’re a tourist here for a bachelor party.”
I stared at her, unsure if she was serious. “Is that a compliment or an insult?” I asked, tugging at the collar of my Hawaiian shirt.
“It’s an observation. But”—she gave me a pointed look—“we’re not going with your bodyguards.”
“Yes, we are.” That wasn’t negotiable.
She rolled her eyes. “This is New Orleans. They’ll stand out more than you do.”
“They’ll be inconspicuous,” I argued, pulling out my phone to text them.
“Inconspicuous? They’re built like tanks. You’ll get more attention with them trailing behind you.”
“They’re not just for show. If something goes sideways, they can handle it. Crowds getting too close? Fans figuring out who I am? These guys get me out of sticky situations before they escalate.”
Anna raised an eyebrow. “Do you think people are going to swarm you at the French Market? This isn’t a red carpet.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve been mobbed at a gas station before. One photo gets out, and it’s chaos. Trust me, these guys have saved me from more than one awkward escape. And they’re trained to be subtle.”
Anna shook her head, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Fine. Bring your tanks. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when everyone in the market starts whispering about the linebacker squad shadowing Hawaiian Shirt Guy.”
* * *
An hour later, Anna and I stood at the edge of the French Market, the scent of fried dough and spice wafting through the air. Hal and Tom trailed behind us. They wore cheap sunglasses and held café au lait cups as props.
“See?” I gestured toward them. “Totally inconspicuous.”
“If you think two guys the size of refrigerators wearing ‘I Heart Bourbon Street’ T-shirts are inconspicuous, we need to talk.”
I ignored her, focusing on the market ahead of me. It was a feast for the senses. Colorful stalls overflowed with beads, paintings, and food; the buzz of voices mingled with the wail of a saxophone; and the rich aroma of pralines mixed with the tang of hot sauce.
Anna weaved through it all like she owned the place. I followed behind, trying to look as casual as possible. That’s when I saw someone pointing.
A woman near a booth of hand-painted masks was nudging her friend, her eyes fixed on me. My pulse spiked.
“They’re pointing,” I hissed to Anna, my voice low.
She barely glanced at them. “They’re pointing at the masks being sold over there. Relax.”
“No,” I insisted, leaning slightly closer to her. “They’re pointing at me.”
Anna stopped walking, her hands on her hips. “Luke, you’re wearing sunglasses that could double as ski goggles and a hat that looks like you bought it on Canal Street five minutes ago. No one thinks you’re famous. They think you’re a lost tourist.”
But I couldn’t shake the feeling. Another nudge from the woman, followed by another glance in my direction. I had to act. I pretended to browse a display of decorative vases at the nearest stall.
The problem? These vases were balanced precariously on a rickety wooden table.
The second my arm brushed the edge, the whole display wobbled. My attempt to steady it only made things worse, and in slow-motion horror, I watched as one vase toppled, setting off a chain reaction that ended with half the table’s contents shattering on the ground—probably a dozen vases.
Anna whipped around at the sound of breaking pottery. “Oh my gosh,” she muttered, rushing back to the stall. Hal and Tom were close behind.
The vendor was a wiry older man with a weathered face. He glared at the destruction, his jaw tightening. “What in the—”
“I’ve got it covered,” I said quickly, holding up a hand. “Hal. Tom.”
Hal stepped forward. “Yes?”
“Pay him,” I whispered, gesturing to the vendor, whose face hardened, his arms tight over his chest. “Cover everything. Whatever it costs.”
The vendor’s eyebrows shot up. “Whatever it costs, huh?” He let the words hang in the air like a challenge, his weathered face betraying no amusement.
Anna groaned audibly, dragging her hands down her face. “What a disaster,” she muttered before turning to the vendor. “I’m so sorry about this.”
Hal stepped forward with his wallet, looking as awkward as someone who had just walked into the middle of a family argument. “Uh, how much are we talking about here?”
The vendor tilted his head. “These were hand-painted vases. Genuine work by a local artist. Let’s say... a hundred bucks each.” He gave a slow, deliberate shrug. “That would be a steal.”
Anna winced, crouched, and picked up one of the unbroken shards. She flipped it over. “Made in China,” she read flatly. “Local artist, huh? I wouldn’t pay more than twenty dollars per vase. And that’s generous.”
Hal froze, a credit card suspended in the charged air between them. “Sooo... what do I do?”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “One hundred dollars a vase is fine.”
Anna shot me a look that could’ve turned me to stone. “Are you serious? You’re just going to let him make up a number?”
“It’s not like we have time to haggle,” I said, glancing around nervously.
The last thing I needed was for this little incident to become an internet sensation.
I turned back to the vendor, who was leaning on his stall with a smirk, enjoying the show.
“What’s the damage?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.
“Two thousand,” the vendor replied without missing a beat, folding his arms.
“Dollars? Two thousand dollars?” Anna looked like she was going to explode.
“Done.” I turned to Hal. “Give him the card.”
Anna’s jaw dropped. “You’re just going to hand over two grand like it’s nothing?”
I shrugged. “I’ve spent more on a pair of shoes.”
The vendor chuckled, swiping the credit card with a flourish. “Pleasure doing business, mister...?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I looked around to make sure no one was getting too curious.
As we walked away, the tension between Anna and me was palpable. I couldn’t figure out why she was so upset. The vendor had probably made enough to pack up his table for the day. She spoke first.
“You didn’t have to just throw money at the situation,” Anna said under her breath, not looking at me.
“I fixed it, didn’t I?”
Anna straightened, her expression somewhere between exasperation and resignation. “Next time, try not to destroy half the stall.”
“Next time,” I said, half-joking, “I’ll shop online.”
Her eyes narrowed, slicing through me like a warning. “This isn’t a joke. You can’t just buy your way out of everything. People here care about authenticity. If you keep this up, you’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Fine. I’ll... try harder.”
“Good.” She was already walking away from me.
We walked on, passing a street performer juggling flaming batons while a small crowd cheered him on. Anna tossed a few dollars into his hat without breaking stride, her movements natural and uncalculated.
I wondered how she made it look so easy. For her, being part of this city seemed effortless, like breathing. For me, it felt like trying to dance to a rhythm I couldn’t hear.
Finally, I broke the silence. “How much do you think those vases were actually worth?”
Anna snorted, shaking her head. “Not two thousand dollars, that’s for sure.”
I couldn’t help but smile, even as the tension lingered. “Guess I overpaid, huh?”
“You think?” she shot back, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
I chuckled. “I’ll let you handle negotiations from now on. Can you tell me more about this place?”
The French Market sprawled out before us, a kaleidoscope of color, sound, and smells. Anna walked a step ahead, her voice carrying just enough over the din of the crowd to reach me.
“It’s the oldest public market in the country.” She glanced back to see if I was paying attention. “It’s been around since the 1700s. Originally, it was a Native American trading post. Over the years, it’s been everything from a butchers’ market to a bazaar selling spices and coffee.”
“And now?” I sidestepped a man selling feathered masks.
“As you can see, now it’s a mix of everything. You can find anything here if you look hard enough.”
We stopped near a stall selling colorful handmade pottery when I caught someone staring at me. A young couple, holding iced coffees and wearing matching sun hats, exchanged whispers before one of them pointed right at me. And they weren’t subtle about it.
My stomach dropped. My heart picked up speed. They recognized me. The couple approached, and I braced myself. Here it comes. The awkward smile. The sheepish, “Are you…?” And then the inevitable selfie request.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, her voice polite.
I gave a tight smile. “Yes, I am.”
She looked confused for a second. “Uh, do you know how to get to Frenchmen Street from here?” she asked.
I blinked. “What?”
She tilted her head. “Frenchmen Street? We heard it’s got great live music.”
“Oh!” Relief washed over me so fast I almost laughed. They didn’t recognize me. They thought I was a local. I could do this.
I straightened, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, absolutely. Frenchmen Street. Super close.”
Or not super close. I had no idea where it was.
“So, uh, you just head that way.” I pointed in the general direction of what I hoped was north, “Take a left. Or maybe it’s a right. You’ll see it. Can’t miss it.”
The couple exchanged a confused glance. Anna stepped in.
“Actually,” she said, her voice cutting through my nonsense like a hot knife through butter, “Frenchmen is a bit farther. Go down Decatur, and you’ll hit Esplanade. Turn left, and it’s a few blocks up.”
The couple looked relieved. “Thank you so much.”
Before they could leave, I added, “And if you make it to Frenchmen without melting into a puddle, consider yourselves lucky.”
Anna’s head wheeled toward me, her expression caught between a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “Really?” she muttered under her breath.
The couple gave an awkward laugh and hurried off, leaving me with Anna’s eyes narrowing slightly in my direction, though I could see the faintest twitch of a smile on her lips.
“What?” I said, lifting my hands in mock innocence. “It’s hot enough out here to cook an egg on the sidewalk. I’m just being honest.”
She shook her head, her expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and begrudging amusement. “Honest? You’re just proving you can’t help but comment on everything.”
“Hey,” I shot back, falling into step beside her again, “they’ll thank me when they don’t pass out on the way.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t press the issue. For a second, I almost thought I’d done something right. Until we passed a hot sauce stall, and inspiration struck.
Normal people tried things, right? They were adventurous. Adventurous was real.
“I’ll take your hottest sauce.” I puffed up like a guy who knew what he was doing.
The vendor grinned. “Someone’s feeling brave.”
Anna’s arms were folded across her chest. “He’s not brave. He’s foolish.” To me, she said, “Don’t do it.”
“Watch and learn.” I grabbed a cracker loaded with fiery red sauce.
The second the hot sauce touched my tongue, my brain short-circuited. Every nerve in my mouth lit up like a fire alarm, and my lungs betrayed me by demanding air in loud, desperate coughs. My eyes watered, and I’m sure my face turned a shade that should only exist on stop signs.
Anna handed me a bottle of water. “You’re trying way too hard.”
I sipped my water, still trying to cool my burning mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I felt myself getting defensive.
“Everything about you screams ‘performance.’ You need to be real.”
“I’m not performing.” But deep down, wasn’t I? The charm and confidence were all a mask. People liked that version of me, the one who always seemed sure of himself. As for the real me? Even I wasn’t sure there was much worth liking. It was easier to stick to the act and let everyone believe in it.
Anna turned to me, her expression unreadable. “Time to go.” She started walking without waiting for me to follow.
I stared after her, catching the edge of her annoyance in her voice. This was not going well.