Chapter 36
LUKE
I found myself peeling crawfish at a folding table in the backyard, elbow to elbow with Uncle Robby, who kept up a running commentary about his adventures in love, life, and everything in between.
“The secret to life,” Uncle Robby announced, waving a crawfish tail for emphasis, “is knowing when to twist and when to pull. Works for crawfish, stubborn jar lids, and getting out of family obligations.”
I stared at him. “That’s... your secret to life?”
“Got me through three mortgages and two hernias.” He pointed the crawfish at me. “You’re in with a good one over there, by the way.” He nodded toward Anna, who was laughing with her cousins across the lawn.
I followed his gaze, and everything else faded.
She was standing in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight, her head thrown back in laughter at something Mary had said.
The golden light caught in her hair, and the way her whole face lit up—man, she was beautiful.
Not magazine-cover beautiful, though she was that too.
It was something deeper. Warmth that drew people in without her even trying.
She looked over then, like she could feel me watching, and our eyes met across the yard.
My chest tightened. This. This was what I'd been missing my whole life without even knowing it. Not the parties or the premieres or the moments that looked perfect on camera. Just... this. A backyard full of people who actually cared about each other.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
“Luke! You in or what?” Uncle Charlie called out, already tossing a football in the air.
“What am I in for?” I asked, reluctantly tearing my gaze from Anna.
“Touch football. Winner gets first pick at dessert, and Aunt Mona made her famous bread pudding, so the stakes are high.”
“The stakes are very high,” Uncle Ray confirmed solemnly. “That bread pudding is delicious.”
Within minutes, I was being tagged by a ten-year-old who had apparently been training with the Saints, while Uncle Steve provided play-by-play commentary like we were in the Super Bowl.
“And Fisher goes down! Taken out by Little Michael! The crowd goes wild!”
Anna was on the other team, and she was competitive. When she intercepted a pass clearly meant for Uncle Charlie, she did a victory dance that had everyone howling.
“That’s my girl!” Aunt Sharon yelled.
“Showoff!” I called across the lawn, grinning.
She stuck her tongue out at me, and my heart did something stupid and complicated in my chest.
Yeah. I was completely gone for this woman.
Two plays later, I caught a pass and dodged around Mary, heading for the makeshift end zone (Uncle Ray’s cooler), when Anna came out of nowhere and tagged me so hard I stumbled.
“Gotcha, movie star,” she said breathlessly, eyes sparkling.
“That was an aggressive tag,” I said, laughing.
“Bread pudding’s on the line. No mercy.”
By the time Anna’s team won (she caught the winning touchdown, naturally), I was sweaty, grass-stained, and happier than I’d been in months. Maybe years.
I grabbed a beer from the cooler and was about to rejoin the group when I overheard two of Anna’s aunts talking near the porch.
“Do you think this means Anna will move to Hollywood?”
“Not a chance. After everything she’s been through, that girl’s never leaving New Orleans. Not even for a Hollywood star.”
“I know you're right. New Orleans girls like Anna don’t leave home. This place is in their bones.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut.
I stood there, beer forgotten in my hand, as the implications sank in.
I'd been thinking—maybe not consciously, but somewhere in the back of my mind—that if I got the part, if things between us kept going this well, maybe Anna could come with me. She was a writer. She could work from anywhere, couldn’t she?
But what if she couldn’t? What if she wouldn’t?
What if I asked her to choose, and she chose New Orleans over me?
I tried to shake it off and rejoin the chaos.
Uncle Steve was attempting to teach the kids how to have a watermelon-seed-spitting contest, demonstrating his technique with the enthusiasm of an Olympic coach.
At the same time, Aunt Mona stood behind him, shaking her head and muttering about “teaching children bad manners.” The energy was infectious.
But those words kept echoing. That girl’s never leaving New Orleans.
How could I ever ask her to leave this behind? Her family, her city, everything that made her her?
Then, a shout from across the yard shattered the moment.
“Anna! You’re famous!”