Chapter 12
Twelve
CHARLOTTE
Something’s wrong.
Very wrong.
I know Nix well enough by now to clock that a text like the one he sent around noon isn’t good—Can we talk?
In person? I’m spiraling and could use some advice from someone I trust to keep a level head.
If you don’t have time this afternoon, I totally get it.
But maybe tomorrow? I don’t have practice, so I could meet you whenever, wherever.
I just… I don’t know who else to ask. I’m afraid my guy friends might react the same way I am right now, and that wouldn’t be good.
I texted back right away, assuring him there was no need to apologize and offering to meet him here at three, in a place where we’re pretty much guaranteed privacy.
High tourist season is over, and even the “spooky NOLA” lovers gathering for the pre-Halloween festivities rarely make it to Metairie Cemetery, though I don’t understand why.
Yes, it’s more off the beaten path than Saint Roch’s or the Lafayette tombs, but so much quieter and cooler, and every bit as lavish.
The tombs are like tiny mansions, topped with ornate sculptures and marble carvings, arranged along pathways shaded by ancient oak trees that have been here as long as some of the cemetery’s residents.
I have a great, great-something aunt resting in the far corner, tucked into a gorgeous stone sarcophagus on a pedestal surrounded by a marble shell protecting her from the worst of the elements.
As a child, my family used to swing by for a visit every once and a while, bringing her daffodils from our yard in the spring or Mom’s roses in the summer.
I was always proud that the inscription on her tomb said her full name—Marjorie Henrietta Dupont-Delaney, beloved wife and mother, the very soul of charity.
Most of the tombs simply listed the deceased woman as “Emily, Wife of John” or sometimes, even worse, just Mrs. John Whatever, her identity completely erased by her marriage.
But for a long time, wives and children were considered the property of the “man of the house.” It’s why there are still so many laws forbidding even adult children from severing a father’s paternal rights in favor of adoption by a stepfather or other adult who’s had boots on the ground during their childhood.
My friend, Christopher, had to go to court our sophomore year of college and fight to be free of his bio dad, even though the man hadn’t paid child support in years, and being adopted by his stepdad was the only way Chris could get affordable medical care.
The world is deeply fucked.
And unless something changes pretty drastically, it likely will be for quite some time, a fact that feels heavier today for some reason. Maybe it’s the fact that the summer heat is back, infusing the humid air with the sickly-sweet scent of flowers rotting in cast-iron vases by the crypts.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Teddy.
About how I knew better then.
And how I know better now.
As I pace back and forth near the Millionaire’s Row entrance, my stomach twists and cramps. I was looking forward to showing Nix the pyramid tomb, my favorite when I was a kid, but the longer I wait here in silence with the dead, the more I can’t help seeing that I’m repeating the same pattern.
Just with better abs.
“Not fair,” I whisper, the words carried away by the first breeze to move the leaves since I got out of my SUV twenty minutes ago, just as Nix texted to warn me that there was a wreck on the highway and he’d likely be late.
Nix is a lot more than a nice set of abs. He’s smart, funny, hardworking, sexy as hell, and already values me in a way Teddy never did. If that weren’t the case, he wouldn’t be turning to me for advice.
I like Nix. I really do. I like him a lot.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s too young or that we’re at completely different stages in our lives.
It doesn’t change the fact that I’m looking for a partner to bring love and companionship to my middle age, while Nix is in his prime “ready to settle down and start a family” years.
He hasn’t expressly stated that he wants kids, but most men his age do.
Or think they do.
I spent just enough time on the dating apps to realize that the fact that I couldn’t have kids was a deal-breaker for a staggering number of men. Even men whose arrogant, insufferable, self-involved profiles made it clear they would likely never be quality father material.
Not like Nix…
The way he kissed Bea’s forehead last night, the way it so obviously comforted her, was all the proof I needed that he knows how to love his people. A child would be lucky to have a man like him for a father.
But I can’t have biological children, and I’m already forty.
Even if Nix and I decided to jump into love, marriage, and baby makes three right away—which would be crazy—the adoption process would take time.
I’d likely be closer to forty-four or forty-five by the time it was all said and done, and I’m already so tired on some nights.
Would I have what it takes to parent an infant in my mid-forties? With my thirty-five-year-old husband, who’s likely still on the road with his NHL team, only around a third of the time? And possibly even playing for another team, leaving me in a city where I have zero family or support system?
NHL players get traded all the time. But my life is here. Generations of my family have called NOLA home. I’ve never had any desire to leave. But if I fall hard for a pro sports player, there’s a decent chance I’ll be forced to choose between the man I love and the life I love.
The fact that I’ve let myself get to the point where I’m even thinking these thoughts is certifiable. I have to end this.
ASAP. The morning after the wedding.
Hell, maybe even sooner. Is petty revenge on my ex really worth risking getting embroiled in another dead-end relationship doomed to leave my intuition rolling its eyes and muttering “I told you so” over and over again in the dead of night?
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” a deep voice calls out from behind me. “It was a nasty wreck. Took forever for the ambulance to leave, then everyone had to slow down and stare as they drove by. As usual.”
I turn to see Nix walking quickly toward the gate, tension visible in his expression and dark circles under his eyes. He looks exhausted.
And gorgeous.
And…important. To me.
He’s already important. His happiness already matters way too much, a fact I tuck away to worry about later as I say, “No worries. I know how it is, and it’s nice in the shade.
” My brow furrows as I nod over my shoulder.
“Want to walk while you tell me what’s up? You look like you could use a walk.”
He nods, exhaling a long breath. “Yeah. Moving would be good.” His lips twitch as he falls in beside me. “I’m glad you picked this place. Nothing like a reminder that we’ll all be worm food soon to keep things in perspective.”
I wince. “Ouch. That bad, huh? Is your sister okay?”
“I think so? She’s napping before we go to dinner later, but I… I honestly don’t know.” He sighs again as we step through the gate, our footsteps quiet on the path.
By habit, I lead the way toward Millionaire’s Row, though I’m not sure either of us will be in the mood for admiring the art at the moment. Baylor is clearly struggling with something serious, and I don’t know if I’m up for a walk down memory lane today.
As a kid wandering these paths with my parents, I never imagined that a love like my mom and dad’s might not be a part of my future.
And as we pass the “lucky toad” statue I used to rub on the head on the way to Aunt Marjorie’s grave, I can’t help thinking how shocked twelve-year-old Charlotte would be to learn she was forty and still spending most of her nights alone.
“She seems strong and sure of what she wants, but…” Nix shakes his head. “But I don’t know how much of that is real, and how much is an act to keep me from smashing her ex’s face in.”
My brows shoot up my forehead. “What! What happened?” I lift a hand between us, fingers spread wide. “And I hope I don’t need to say that face-smashing is a bad idea, right? Full stop?”
“I know,” he says, but he’s still so tense, like a predator coiled to pounce. Or a gun with the hammer already pulled back… “But he hit her, Char. Her piece of shit boyfriend. I walked in on her this morning while she was covering up the bruise.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” I exhale a soft, sympathetic sound, but I’m not really surprised. There was definitely something strained, almost haunted, about Bea’s energy last night.
Fleeing an abusive boyfriend would certainly explain it.
But shit…
The universe literally couldn’t have thrown a more pointed challenge in Nix’s path. He has a hard time controlling his temper when a stranger is in trouble, let alone his own flesh and blood.
“She said it was the first time the abuse turned physical,” he continues.
“And she left as soon as she could, the second they had a break between shows, but… I don’t know if I believe her.
And I fucking hate the fact that she’s planning to finish the rest of the tour.
I know artsy people think ‘the show must go on’ and shit like that, but not when someone’s life is in danger. ”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree with you. Abusive men are the most dangerous when they know they’re losing control.”
“The fact that she destroyed her cell phone and ran without telling anyone where she was going makes it pretty clear he’s losing control.
And she knows it,” Nix agrees, dragging a clawed hand through his hair.
“Fuck, I hate him. I’ve always hated him.
He’s never treated her the way she deserved to be treated, but now…
” His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“I really want to show him what it feels like to be on the receiving end of this shit.”