Chapter 5
five
GREER
Pulling my stool up to the stove, I rest my bottom on the plush leather and reach for the wooden spoon. A bubble slowly rises on the surface, bursting as I move the mixture of flour and oil around the heavy bottom pan.
It’s my turn to stir the thick roux until it's the perfect shade of acorn brown. My French Bulldog, Hank, zips around my feet, then anxiously bats at them.
To keep him busy, I grab the toy on the floor and toss it overhand.
He jogs off as fast as his short legs allow, stubbed tail flicking a mile a minute as he makes excited panting noises.
With the stuffed duck in his mouth, his stocky body disappears into the den.
Thank God my aunt and uncle don’t mind taking me in with Hank while I get settled in the area.
I worry about how he’s going to adapt to us living alone for the first time.
He’s used to being catered to by others when I’m away from home.
The constant squeaking from the direction of his bed tells me he’s attempting to pull the stuffing out.
The toy’s survived for a whole week. It’s about time for him to demolish it, leaving a pile of fluff on the floor.
French Bulldogs are as much work as a human toddler, highly sensitive to hot and cold, and snore like a trucker.
Despite the trouble, my life wouldn’t be nearly as happy if I didn’t have my gray gremlin waddling around underfoot.
From the other side of the kitchen, Aunt Marcel complains, “We’re gonna have leftovers for days…” She’s right. There are two whole chickens thawed, sitting on a butcher block waiting to be cut up for tonight.
“The littles will eat it all when they get back, I’m sure,” I scoff. With Allie’s much younger brothers and sister out of the house for the week, it’s been peaceful. School starts Monday, so they’re spending the last days of freedom with cousins their age.
Eyes carefully trained on the ever growing piles of onion, celery, and bell peppers, Allie announces, “Dad asked P.J. to help carry the mattress and stuff upstairs.”
Something weird in her tone prickles my ears. Does she not want to see P.J.? Even when they’re on a break, they act like friends. They’ve been together since they were so young that it’s only natural to need a little room to grow up sometimes.
Given that Allie’s not remedying it, she either doesn’t mind or doesn’t want to explain why she cares if P.J. helps.
Well, I do.
“Can’t we move things next weekend?” I argue. “I can bring a box or two every day to work so that it goes faster.” Then we won’t need extra help. Things are weird between them right now. I don’t want her to have to see him if it makes her uncomfortable.
Aunt Marcel wipes her hands on a kitchen towel, then pulls out a butcher knife from the block before arguing in her Cajun lilt, “So you pay rent, plus gas? Not good, sha. Plus, the kids will be back and underfoot. We’ll get you moved this weekend. I’ll call Marie in a few minutes to tell her.”
I’m not surprised at all when the phone almost instantly rings. After my aunt answers, I call out, “Hi, Mom.”
Aunt Marcel turns in my direction. “Marie wants to know why you aren’t excited about your apartment.”
“I am excited, but I only signed the lease a few hours ago. I’m in no hurry.”
“You didn’t even unpack much of your stuff. It’ll only take a bit to get it all together. Why wait?”
I’m fighting a losing battle. All the details of my move seem to be ironed out.
Utilities are included with the rent, so I can’t use that as an excuse to delay things.
I’ve been back in Louisiana less than a month, and thought I’d be living with Aunt Marcel and Uncle Cooper a bit longer.
I hate that it’s now a rush. It takes time and planning for moves to go smoothly.
I should know, I’ve done it often enough.
But this is the big one, the start of my forever life.
“It’s a little overwhelming to move and start a new job within three days. Maybe she needs the time to adjust,” Allie smart mouths.
“Our girls,” Aunt Marcel declares, her expression identical to the one Mom wears when she’s frustrated.
Allie and I are constantly paired together, but it’s no surprise with my family’s…quirk.
We look normal enough. Dad is an Army officer, and Mom works as a medical transcriptionist. My brother enlisted right out of high school, following Dad into the military. It’s when you factor in the wider view that things get a little unusual.
Mom and Dad are both identical twins. In itself, that’s noteworthy, but a year after my parents married, Aunt Marcel, Mom’s twin, married Uncle Cooper, Dad’s other half. We get a lot of double takes when we’re together in public.
The local newspaper did a human interest story on the nuptials, and then again when Dad came home from a deployment, so it’s far from a secret. The uncommon situation tends to make our little branch of the Guidry family a little more memorable.
Born ten months apart, everyone jokes that Allie and I are the family’s third set of twins. As different as our circumstances are, I love the invisible bond that draws us together and keeps me close to my extended family.
Right now, though, I’m being tag-teamed by the dynamic duo. They’re doing me a favor by helping me move, so I don’t want to be too pushy. Since rental is an impulsive decision, I'd like to get my feet under me and figure things out.
I reduce the heat on the roux and give it a stir. The still beige color tells me I’m in for a long wait.
Feeling restless, I reach for my phone to turn on some music, not surprised when there’s a long line of notifications from social media, almost all from one person.
Jude’s making his presence known, leisurely scrolling through all of my posts, double-tapping at will.
Now I’m racing to my phone to check every alert, eager to hear from him again.
It brings to mind Mom’s Candy Crush addiction a few years back…
the constant reaching for the phone, hyperfocused on the screen.
A part of me expected the usual male interactions from him…flame emojis on a post, followed by a dick pic in the DMs. God knows I’ve given a guy my socials before only for that to happen. Instead, I’m left staring at a collection of messages that leave me laughing, blushing, or stupefied.
On a picture of Hank cuddling with me on the couch, he wrote, “Tell the dog he’s in my spot.”
About an hour ago, I replied, “Hank would argue that the entire couch is, in fact, his.”
The newest message, just below, “It’s not the couch I won’t share.” It makes heat surge straight down my core.
On a selfie of me in my college graduation gown, he posted, publicly with no thought of privacy, “Your eyes are beautiful. Our kids will look amazing with them.”
My friend Avery has already seen it and posted a flame emoji. Not in response to my picture, but to Jude’s comment.
As if he needs any encouragement.
He is doing this in the open, where anyone can see, with zero fucks given. He’s certainly giving the illusion that we’re more than strangers who have met twice on the street.
While I’m flattered by the lavished attention, it’s based on looks. Turnabout is fair play, though. I’ve spent more time than I should imagining what it would be like to run my tongue down the tattoo on his neck.
Away from the cloud of pheromones Jude exudes, it’s easier to think.
Everything about him screams alpha male.
There’s this bad boy in leather vibe around him that promises the ride of a lifetime, but what’s the price?
He boldly chased me down to get my number, going as far as informing me we’re going out to dinner.
Then, to make sure I couldn’t run away again, he blocked my car in with his bike.
Hot as hell, but twice now he’s been high handed.
From our interactions on social media, I’ve gotten a whiff of a possessive nature.
Again, a huge turn on, but how deep does it go?
It’s by far the fastest I’ve ever seen red flags flying around a man. Normally, they would make me run for the hills. On Jude, it’s sexy and makes me want to put on blinders. Red means go when he’s got ink and a Harley, right?
It feels like jumping off the sea wall into the bayou with no regard for what’s in the murky water below. I’ve watched my cousins and brother do it countless times, swearing they’re having fun. But as they say, “In Louisiana, if the water is wet, there’s an alligator in it.”
I want Jude more than I’ve ever wanted anything, but something’s holding me back.
Maybe it’s the last of my practical side fighting for dear life, reminding me that I’m putting my heart in danger.
I’ve only dated friends of friends or people I’ve hung around with a while and gotten to know.
Jude’s a stranger. While those red flags make me want to simper like a little girl with a crush, they are still a warning.
I dated a man with enough charisma to knock a girl's panties off before.
Evan treated me well enough on the surface, but I always felt like he was looking for someone “better.” He found his “better” and left me in the dust, proving there was never any substance to the honeyed lies he told.
I learned a valuable lesson from our year long relationship… all that glitters is not gold.
Why aren’t I listening to my better judgment with Jude? Because he makes my heart palpitate at a very unnatural rate, and it feels damn good.
Still, I’ve been here before and don’t want to make the same mistakes.