Wells
THIRTY
The Easter Vigil: Holy Week ends in a dark church where a single new flame is carried in and passed light to light until the whole room glows. He stood in the open with every eye on him and never once looked for the exit.
Families spread across the grass under the string lights. Kids circle the outdoor gym, testing the equipment, climbing on things Lin will have to tell them to stop climbing on.
The renovations have pulled the whole block into the yard, standing here at the front of it with a microphone in my hand, I have every set of eyes in the yard on me.
I hate this.
I don't speak in public. I've spent the better part of my adult life making sure people can't find me, can't see me, can't pull my name up in a room where it doesn't belong. That instinct runs so deep it might as well be genetic.
But I am standing here anyway, because this is important and something I'm proud of.
Not because Ridge thought it would be good for the company. In fact, none of my brothers are even here. This was never for them, never for show, never part of the family reputation machine.
This is about the building and the neighborhood, and, most importantly, the kids who will walk through the front door tomorrow and find a place waiting for them that wasn't there last week.
I lift the microphone. "Hello."
I realize the mic isn't on. Someone behind me raises a finger and then nods. I tap the top, and three pops boom from the speakers.
"Thank you for being here."
My voice comes out steady, which surprises me.
"The Sol House is a youth wellness center. It's free, open five days a week after school and on weekends. Kids from the neighborhood can come here to move, learn, create, and be outside with people who are going to keep showing up."
I pause. Someone near the front nods. A little girl pulls on her mother's sleeve and points at the swings.
"This wouldn't exist without the team who built it.
Lin Tepple and his staff made this place real.
Charlton Grant and his vision brought it to life.
The contractors who restored the building did it fast and did it right.
The people funding the programs believe in what we're doing here, and I'm grateful for that. "
I shift my weight. The microphone is slick in my hand.
"The Sol House is for kids who need somewhere safe to land. That's it. That's what this is."
My eyes move across the crowd. And then I see her. Near the back of the crowd, her hair catches the light from the strings overhead. Her brown eyes lock on me.
Cera.
The words I was about to say disappear. My hand tightens on the microphone, and I lose my train of thought.
She's here.
Someone coughs near the front row. I force myself to pull air into my lungs.
"We're glad you're here. The doors open tomorrow at three. I hope this is a place of refuge for everyone in the neighborhood for generations to come."
I lower the microphone and hand it off to Lin, who takes it without comment.
The crowd claps. A few people move toward the tables set up with food. Kids break toward the swings.
I stay where I am. Half of me is still trying to finish the speech I started. The other half is trying not to look at her again and failing.
She's still there in the same spot, near the back, standing next to a couple with a stroller.
She's wearing a white sundress with thin straps, showing off her clavicle I love so much. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. She's darker now, warmer, and the health that radiates from her is so visible it makes my chest ache.
Her eyes move from me to the building behind me, then back to me. I never thought she was coming back to New Orleans. I built the last months of this believing she was gone for good and would never set foot in it.
A little boy bumps into her leg, and she steadies him without looking away from me.
Someone taps my shoulder. I turn to see Bob West, from the Krewe of Argentum, offering congratulations. I thank him. I shake his hand. I answer his question about the gym equipment.
The whole time, I'm aware of where she is.
Still near the back. Still watching.
The crowd shifts, and I lose her for a moment. My heart rate kicks up even faster. I search the yard quickly, trying not to be too obvious.
Then I see her again.
She's walking toward the building now, moving slowly, her hand trailing along the restored railing of the porch steps.
I should go to her and speak. We both know the other is here, so it would be awkward otherwise.
I step off the grass and start moving through the crowd.
She crosses the grass and stops in front of me, her hand reaching out to pat my arm. The touch is brief, warm, familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten.
Then she shoves me, grinning.
"Look at you! I saw this earlier, and I didn't connect the dots, but holy shit. This is amazing, Wells."
The shove is light and playful, and it cracks something open between us that has been locked tight for months.
I don't move. I don't know what to do with the kindness in her face, or with her touching me at all.
"It's been an interesting experience. I had no idea of everything that goes into restoring a property, while simultaneously getting a board full of people to sign onto the project."
"I should have known."
"Known what?"
"The second I walked in here last week. When I met Lin. When he told me about the center and the programs. He said it was a krewe, so I never thought it was you."
She shakes her head, still grinning, and the expression shifts into something softer.
"You don't get to give me the credit," I say. "It was your idea. I just handed it to people who could bring it to life."
"So let me get this straight. You quit smoking, took up yoga, and now you stand in front of crowds and give speeches."
Her tone is teasing, but there is something underneath it I can see even if she does not say it out loud.
"Speech. One speech, let's not get carried away."
"It's really great, Wells."
"Thank you."
She looks at the building, then back at me.
"The renovation is beautiful."
"Charlton Grant," I say. "Out of Savannah. He's a historic preservation architect. My mother loved restoring old houses. She taught me to respect what was already there. Grant made sure the building kept its bones."
Cera nods, her eyes moving over the porch, the fresh paint, the details I know she is cataloging without realizing it.
For a second that day comes back to me as a complete memory: her stopping on the sidewalk, pointing at a building everyone else had written off, her excitement as she described what it could be while I watched her.
I don't tell her I started it the week after that walk, or that I kept going after she left, building it out while I believed she was across the world and would never know I'd done it.
"Come on. I want you to see the inside."
"I got a peek the other night with Lin, but I'd love to look again."
I touch her back without thinking, steering her toward the building.
She lets me guide her through the crowd. Her dress brushes against my arm, and the contact lands harder than it ought to, sharper and louder than it has any right to be after everything.
We walk up the porch steps. The front door is propped open. Inside, the floors gleam under the overhead light, the walls are finished, everything is clean and new, and smells like fresh paint and wood polish.
A kid runs past us, laughing. His friend chases him toward the media room.
Cera stops near the entrance to the yoga studio. She looks through the open door at the cork floors, the mirrored walls, the stacked mats and blocks along the side.
"You know, I put in an application before I knew this was your place."
"It's not my place. It's the kids'. I'm just the face of it, I suppose."
"And you made it happen."
"I had a hand in it, sure. So, will you be teaching here?"
"I haven't heard back, but I'd love to be a part of it."
She crosses into the room and walks to the center. Her bare feet make no sound on the floor. She looks up at the ceiling, at the exposed beams, and I watch her face change into something I can't put a word to but know on sight.
She turns back to me.
A woman in her mid-forties comes into the room. She introduces herself as Maya, one of the wellness counselors. Cera asks about the programs, and Maya explains the schedule, the age groups, and the rotating workshops.
Maya mentions a kid named Darnell who has become a sort of ambassador for the kids who live around here. He's quiet, she says, but he likes the gym.
I met Darnell when I was here doing the final walkthrough the other day. He's a neighborhood kid who's been hanging out by the fence the entire renovation, the contractor told me. He made an immediate impact on me when I met him.
"He's over by the basketball hoop," I say. "You want to meet him?"
Cera nods. "I'd love that."
We walk outside, where Darnell is shooting hoops with another boy. He sees me and waves.
"Mr. Wells."
"Darnell. This is Miss Cera. She teaches yoga nearby."
Darnell looks at Cera with mild curiosity, then back at me.
"You do yoga?"
"I do now."
He grins. "You any good?"
"Not yet."
Cera laughs, and the sound is so natural it pulls something loose in my chest.
Darnell's friend asks if we want to play, and I tell him maybe later. The boys return to their game.
We move back inside. Cera stops near the craft room, looking at the tables set up with supplies. A little girl is already sitting there, coloring.
"What are you making?" Cera asks.
The girl holds up a drawing of a house with flowers around it.
"That's beautiful."
The girl beams and goes back to her work.
We keep walking. I show Cera the library corner, the meditation room, the storage closet where the extra equipment is kept.
Then we turn the corner and see Lin. He spots Cera and his face opens into a grin.
"Cera. I was going to call you Friday, but it's been a bit insane around here."
"You two have met."
"Last week," Cera says. "Lin gave me the abbreviated tour."
Lin nods. "And I've been thinking about it since. Look, I know you're teaching at Om in the mornings, but if you're interested, I'd like to offer you the head instructor position here in the afternoons."
Cera's eyes widen.
"Head instructor?"
"Yeah. You'd design the yoga program, train other instructors, teach classes yourself. It's funded. Thirty hours a week, flexible schedule. You can keep your morning classes down the street if you want."
"Yes."
The word comes out fast, certain, with no hesitation.
Lin grins. "Great. Let's set up a time next week to go over the details."
"Perfect."
Lin excuses himself to handle something near the food table, and I stand there, watching Cera's face as she processes what just happened.
She just agreed to run the heart of this place, the part that was the central part of her dream for a space like this.
I keep my expression neutral because I don't want her see how much this lands on me.
This is hers now, not mine.
I excuse myself to speak with a couple with Argentum. Cera wanders off, but I keep spotting her around the yard.
The crowd thins in slow, natural waves after a few hours.
Kids leave first. A mother pulls her daughter off the swings, and the girl protests but comes anyway. A group of boys circling the basketball hoop gets called over, groaning, and trails the crowd toward the gate.
The noise drops.
I stand near the porch steps, watching it all settle. Lin and Maya stack cups near the food table. Another staff member folds chairs and carries them inside.
The renovated house sits solidly behind me. The kids are gone, but the space is still warm from them. The air smells like grass and late New Orleans summer.
This is the best night I can remember in a long time.
I don't say it out loud or let it become dramatic or heavy. But the truth lands anyway.
The old Wells would never have stood at a microphone or invited a crowd into something he cared about. He would never have let anyone see what mattered to him.
That version of me is gone. Or maybe he's grown. But he's not here anymore.
Across the yard, Cera talks with Lin. She laughs at something he says, and the sound is easy and unguarded. She belongs here already. When things were taking shape, I was sad in a way that she wouldn't see this or get to be a part of it. And it came together anyway.
Lin excuses himself to help Maya with the tables, and Cera walks toward the front, where her bike leans against the railing.
I cross the grass and reach her as she straightens the handlebars.
"Can I drive you home?"
She glances at me, then back at the bike.
"I only live a few blocks over. I can ride, but thank you."
I look past the yard lights. The street beyond the gate is dark. A few streetlamps break the shadows, but it's not enough.
"Can I walk with you, then? I don't want you riding alone at this hour."
The words come out evenly. It's not a command or control, but a request.
Cera studies me. The pause stretches long enough to register what it costs her, the visible work of deciding whether to let me back in even this far.
Then she nods.
"Okay."
Relief moves through me, quiet and sharp.
We step through the gate and onto the street. The noise from the yard fades behind us. The air is cooler here, away from the lights and the lingering warmth of the crowd.
Cera rolls her bike between us. The soft tick of the chain turning fills the silence.
We walk side by side. Close, but not touching. The bike sits in the space where our hands might otherwise be.
I don't try to fill the quiet. I don't ask her where she went or what she thought when she left or whether she forgives me.
Those thoughts belong to her. Maybe one day she'll want to share them. Maybe not.