Chapter 20 #2
“Fun for you, maybe.” Nona lifts her chin. “Besides, I know all about estrogen cream. And testosterone cream, for that matter. My doctor put me on some to help prevent muscle loss. But Hugo and I have found it has…other benefits.”
Charlotte beams. “Hell yes, Nona. Get you some.”
“Oh, stop. Beatrice will think we’re both hussies.” Nona wiggles her fingers Charlotte’s way, while I fight a smile.
“Never, Miss Valerie,” I assure her. “I think you’re both awesome. And if you’re hussies, I want to be one, too.”
They laugh, and the conversation turns to other things—Charlotte’s party planning for the film festival and Nona’s fundraising for her crew’s Mardi Gras float.
But my thoughts keep drifting back to Hussyville…
That night, back at Charlotte’s house, I sit cross-legged on the guest bed with my guitar across my lap. The window is cracked, letting in the sound of crickets, distant traffic, and a crisp autumn breeze that feels delicious on my skin.
My skin that is feeling more sensitive, awake, and alive the longer I’m away from Kai.
I hadn’t realized how cut off from my body I’d become until the numbness from being constantly on my guard started to fade.
Now, my skin tingles at every breeze, my taste buds dance, and creative energy vibrates in my bones, surging back to life after years of lying fallow.
I mean, I’ve written songs. Lots of them.
I produced new material pretty consistently through the dark years—was even nominated for a Grammy for a ballad I co-wrote with my friend, Shaima, last summer—but the music didn’t touch me the same way anymore.
In my steadier moments, I assumed I’d simply reached a less volatile, more mature stage in my evolution as an artist. In the less steady ones, I feared that a part of my soul had shriveled and died on the vine and would never bear soul-feeding fruit again.
But I was wrong.
Thank God, I was wrong. Even if I never find love with a man again, reconnecting with this long-lost creative magic will be enough to keep me going.
More than enough.
My fingers find the chords, riffing through familiar combinations, then new ones. I play with the time signature, then shift into a different key, the slide from C major to A minor sending a melody surging out of me in a rush.
I find the words next.
Words about a harvest I thought I’d lost, about dark fruit that never gave life, about Demeter with a heart full of fire, charging into the underworld to demand her daughter’s freedom.
Fuck Hades and his tricks.
Fuck his kingdom and his rules.
Either he returns Persephone to her family and to herself, or Demeter is going to burn it all to the ground. And Persephone is right there, singing back to her mother, telling her to strike the tinder, insisting she’d rather die in the pyre than live another day in captivity.
I work through the verses, the bridge, the hook, whisper-singing so I won’t disturb Charlotte.
And because I’m a superstitious creative weirdo.
I can’t share a new song with anyone else until it’s nearly done—until I’ve birthed it, nurtured it, and feel confident it can stand on its own two feet.
By the time I’m done, tears are streaming down my cheeks again, but they aren’t sad tears. This isn’t mourning. This is the celebration that comes with rising from the grave, a gratitude so beautiful it hurts.
Because you know what it’s like to be dead. To be cold and alone, with no magic left in your bones, and no hope that it will ever return.
But it did, and now…
Well, now, you’re so alive you barely know what to do with yourself.
And you’re weirdly…horny.
My humming, buzzing, vibrating awakening continues on Sunday, as Charlotte and I join some of the hockey-adjacent friends at Café Emelie.
The brunch spot is tucked into a courtyard that shields us from the increasingly brisk breeze. Brick walls covered in climbing vines surround us on three sides as we perch on mismatched vintage chairs, sipping mimosas that arrive in old-fashioned glasses Makena calls “boobie cups.”
“Because look,” she says, leaning her chest over her now-empty glass halfway through the meal. “It’s the perfect size to put a boobie in there.”
“Maybe one of yours,” I say, the bubbles making me bold. “Some of us could fit both our boobies in there.”
“Oh, girl, stop,” Makena says. “I’m totally a member of the itty-bitty tittie committee. Get one more drink in me, and I’ll lift my sweater and show you.”
We all laugh, then laugh harder as Makena insists she’s not kidding, and Elly seconds that, warning us not to encourage her.
“We’re already banned from my other favorite brunch spot,” Elly says, shooting a mock glare Makena’s way. “Since somebody had to pick a pastry fight with the chef.”
Makena lifts her nose into the air with a prim sniff. “It wasn’t a pastry fight. It was a Dutch baby fight, and it’s not my fault that he’s a sore loser. I won the taste test fair and square.”
“You did,” Elly admits fondly. “I was very proud. Sad that I can’t grab biscuits and gravy there anymore, but proud.”
“I’ve got your biscuits and gravy right here, woman,” Mack insists. “My biscuits are way better than Chef Poo Poo Pants’ biscuits.”
“You can’t cook all the food for everyone all the time,” Charlotte cuts in, reasonably. “We do have to seek out nourishment and yumminess elsewhere from time to time.”
Makena bleats in protest around a bite of crepe.
“We do,” Elly agrees. “Especially since you’ve started closing the food truck at five to get home to bottle feed the raccoon.”
“He’s just a baby!” Makena protests with a vehemence that makes us all laugh. “You want me to starve the baby so you can get po’ boys after five p.m.! Are you a literal monster, Eloise Thibodeaux Graves?”
As they continue to debate whether or not Elly is, in fact, a monster, or simply a logical human being with a little girl to raise and a class load too intense for takeout not to be a part of her weekly routine, I turn to Sierra, who’s been pretty quiet so far.
“How about you?” I ask her with a smile, always conscious of the person who might be feeling left out. I’ve been that person far too often not to be. “Any other favorite brunch spots? I’m going to be in town for a while, I think. I need to start my list of the best places to try.”
She grins and blinks faster. “Oh, yeah. Tons! I can text you a list if you want. If you want to, like…give me your number.”
“I’d love that,” I say, typing my details into her phone when she passes it over.
“It’s so funny you ask, actually,” she continues with a laugh.
“I’ve been working on a ‘Best Healthy Brunches in NOLA’ series for my new project.
” She takes a sip of her mimosa before adding with a self-conscious shrug.
“I’m starting a health and fitness in New Orleans channel.
It’s in the super early stages, but I’m crazy excited about it.
It feels like a step in a better direction than I was headed before. ”
I hand her phone back, forehead furrowing. “Oh, yeah? In what way?”
She shimmies in her chair, lifting her gaze to the blue sky. “I don’t know. I guess I’m tired of just being that girl who looks good half-naked next to my boyfriend. I want to do something real. Something actually useful and smart or whatever. You know?”
I nod, her energy resonating. “Yeah, I do. It’s a good time to be a woman who stands on her own two feet.”
Sierra nods, some of her nervous energy settling. “Yeah, it is. I mean, I love Torrance so much, but…I want to be more than his girlfriend.”
“You already are,” I assure her. “And pretty soon you’ll prove it.”
She beams as she squeezes my arm. “We should hang out while you’re here. I can show you the best clubs, too. Do you like to go dancing?”
I shake my head, exhaling a laugh as I confess, “I don’t know. I’ve never been to a club. I mean, I’ve played clubs back when the band was first starting out, but I’ve never gone for fun. My ex thought they were cheesy, so…”
“Ugh, I had an ex like that, too. I swear, he was allergic to fun.” She smiles as she lifts her mimosa in a toast. “Don’t worry, girl. We’ll get you all caught up on fun. That’s one of the things NOLA is best at.”
“She’s right,” Charlotte says, catching my gaze across the table. “New Year’s Eve is insane, and then Mardi Gras is just around the corner. You’ll have more fun than you can shake a stick at.”
“Speaking of sticks,” Makena says with a wicked grin. “We should set Bea up with Jean-Louis. Allegedly, his stick is the stuff of legend, and he knows exactly what to do with it.”
“No thanks,” I say, holding up a hand, fingers spread wide. “No hockey guys for me. Too risky with a brother on the team.”
Elly nods, sobering as she agrees, “Oh, yeah. Way too dangerous. One step out of line, and Nix would totally freak out.”
“In my boyfriend’s defense, I will say that he’s freaking out a lot less,” Charlotte says. “But I agree it’s best not to test his newfound patience. Besides, there are tons of gorgeous, fascinating men in New Orleans who have nothing to do with the Voodoo.”
“Oh yeah? Where are they?” Elly asks. “Because honestly, until I met Grammercy, I’d pretty much given up hope. And all the younger girls in my college classes are doing that 4B thing.”
Sierra frowns. “4B? What’s that?”
I lean in, listening as Elly describes a women’s movement originating in Korea committed to avoiding dating, sex, marriage, and having children with men.
“Wow,” Sierra says after a beat of silence. “What’s left to do with them once you’ve cut out all that? I’m not sure Torrance is capable of doing anything else. I mean, except playing hockey.”
We all laugh, but it’s not entirely comfortable. It’s clear even the ladies in great relationships know what it feels like to be in one that isn’t so well-rounded.