Higher Ground (4 page)

“Early enough?” he asks, smiling against my skin.

“Not if I have to redo my hair…”

He turns me until I’m facing away from him and then pushes his hips to graze my ass. Then his fingers toy with the hem of my dress, tickling my thighs, while his kisses move to my back. “There are ways…” He walks forward, his body nudging mine, until my knees hit the bed. “Bend over, and I’ll show you.”

I nod, lean forward, and rest my forearms on the bed. He takes his time dragging his fingers over flesh and pushing fabric out of the way as he inches my dress up. The sound of his zipper follows while he uses his other hand to ready me.

My fists grip the blanket beneath me, and I shudder when he replaces his fingers with his cock, moaning in simultaneous want and satisfaction. He knows exactly what’s he’s doing. The intensity of his grip on my hips and the sounds he’s making—the grunts and the whispered “fuck”—continue at a steady pace until I’m close, and then it’s something unleashed and just as needy after I’m taken care of.

He’s still for a few precious moments after, resting his cheek against my back. Ever the gentleman, he helps me to my feet first before he toes off his shoes and sheds his pants. “Take all the time you need in the bathroom.” He leans forward to kiss the corner of my mouth. “I’m going to change.”

“We’re cutting it close,” I say.

“If it’s okay, I’d like to drive. I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Perfect.” I kiss him back. Things have been hectic lately, and we haven’t had nearly enough time alone.

A quick glance in the bathroom mirror reveals a healthy glow across my cheeks and a few wrinkles in my dress that weren’t there twenty minutes ago. A few curls have fallen flat against my back, but considering the payoff, it’s minimal damage.

During the drive, he tells me Human Resources contacted him forty minutes after he submitted his application for the manager position. His interview’s already been scheduled for Tuesday, which is the day I’m supposed to get on a plane. “I’m still working on the time off,” he says. “I didn’t have a lot of time to talk to people today, but I’m going to try to call in a couple of favors over the weekend.”

“It’s okay.” I nod and look out the window. “All of this was a last-minute surprise for both of us. I’ll understand if you can’t make it until Sunday.”

“Don’t give up on me.” He slows the car at a red light and turns to look at me once we’re stopped. “You know how stubborn I can be.”

“I know.” I move my palm to touch his cheek. “But no matter how much I hope you can be there, it’s out of your control this time.”

He parks near the theater, and we walk to the restaurant, holding hands and making plans to pack his things when we get home tonight. Nick and Wren are already seated when we arrive. The four of us share a bottle of wine over dinner and make plans to resume basketball parties after the holidays.

As many times as I’ve seen the same ballet performed, I still get butterflies when Wade holds the door open for me and hands over our tickets at the theater. Sixth row center is by far the closest I’ve ever been to the stage. Wren’s little sister is Dewdrop in this year’s performance, so we invested in good seats.

Nick and Wren opt for more wine during intermission, but Wade and I decline. He’s driving, and I rarely have more than two glasses, especially when I have to wake up early the next day. I reached my limit at dinner.

The lights blink a five-minute warning.

“Come with me to the ladies room,” Wren says, wrapping my hand in hers and tugging me toward the stairs.

“I’ll see you back at our seats,” I say to Wade.

Since we’re the last ones in line, there’s a small wait. “What’s going on with you and Wade tonight?” she asks from the stall next to mine.

“What do you mean?”

“He seems… different. I mean, he’s always been a goof for you, but he seriously can’t keep his eyes or hands off you tonight.”

“Things are good. Really good.”

“Are you…? Are you getting engaged or something?”

“No, but my brother got married last weekend.” We meet at the sinks and stare at each other in the mirror. “I leave for New Orleans Tuesday morning.”

“Oh.” She takes a moment to think as she dries her hands. “Is Wade going with you?”

“I hope so.”

We barely make it back to our seats before the lights lower and the curtain rises, so she isn’t able to ask any of the millions of questions I’m sure are running through her mind, and for that, I’m grateful.

Nick invites us for drinks after the show, but we decline. Suitcases don’t pack themselves. We’re waiting to turn out of the parking lot when Wade takes me right back in time again. “I’ve never seen you drink more than a few beers or a couple of glasses of wine at a time, even at parties. It’s hard for me to imagine you smoking pot from a one-hitter in a public place. That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned what I shared with him last night, but there’s no judgment in his voice, only questions.

I shift in my seat and avoid his gaze. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” I say.

Then

I never expected to see Oliver again after that day, so it was a surprise when he showed up at the cemetery the next morning. It caused me to choke on a lungful of smoke like some amateur.

Instead of saying hello, he pointed to the pipe in my hand. “You gonna let me hit that?”

My imagination slipped back to the thoughts I’d had about him hitting something else the night before. “Sure.”

He pulled out a lighter, took the pipe from me, and fired the bowl. His eyes closed as he inhaled, and I used the opportunity to stare at his lips and hair. Without a word, he passed the one-hitter back into my hand, lifted his camera, and exhaled as the shutter clicked over and over.

“That’s some weak shit,” he said.

“Sorry.” I shrugged and looked down at the ground. “It’s old. My ex’s friend was my hookup. I’ve been rationing a quarter since May, and it’s not like I can keep it in the freezer next to my grandmother’s fudge marble ice cream.”

“Your grandmother lives with you?”

“More like we live with her.” His head tilted in question. “It’s her house. My grandfather bought it for next to nothing in the sixties. It’s the house my dad grew up in. My parents moved in with her right before I was born, because she was having a hard time.”

“So your dad’s her only kid now?”

“Yeah. It was just him and my aunt.”

“Aunt Violet.”

“Yes.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “Did you get in trouble yesterday?”

“For what?”

“Going into the city with me and disappearing for half a day.”

I shook my head and sighed. “No. I was the least of my parents’ worries last night.”

“That sounds ominous,” he said. “Care to tell me all about it while we repeat the trip? I love my morning coffee.”

“Sure.”

He reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a fat, tightly rolled joint. “Let’s kill some of this first, okay?” After I nodded, he continued. “Throw that shit out when you get home. I’ll get you some good stuff.”

It was hard not to read too much into the casual way he talked about hooking me up, like we were already buddies or something. Plus, he’d have to see me again to make that happen.

Oliver was easy to talk to. He listened without interruption while I told him about my sister and the bomb she’d dropped on my family the night before. It’d been so easy for her to look my parents in the eyes and tell them she was walking away from Tulane, their home, and their “stupid” rules. For a moment, I’d been jealous. Anytime I’d mentioned wanting to go out of state for college, my parents had laughed it off or ignored it.

It was Tulane or the highway in our family, and my sister had made it clear she was choosing the highway.

We had to wait for a table at the café that morning, but Oliver made the best of it by posing me beneath several of the rusted tin signs to take pictures.

“Why do you look down at your shoes every time I take a picture of you?” he asked after we were seated.

“Why do you take my picture?”

“You have a beautiful neck,” he said.

Our server arrived before I had the chance to formulate a response. Oliver ordered beignets and coffees for both of us, and as I sat across from him, I tried not to feel overwhelmed by his attention. His long fingers tapped out a beat against the metal napkin holder in the center of the table as he spoke, and when we were alone again, he smiled at my frustration.

“Are you allowed to go to The Quarter at night?” he asked.

“Not alone.”

“Would your parents let you go with me? Tonight?”

I wanted to ask why and if it would be a date. His easy-going nature made it hard to tell if he was into me or if he was just a flirtatious friend. My only experience with boys prior to Oliver had been with the silent, athletic type. Elijah was more of a doer than a talker, and he found me more attractive when my clothes were on his bedroom floor.

Oliver was asking me to spend time with him, to talk and hang out, and after the year I’d had, I needed a friend. I’d walked away from all of my old ones, my brother had been nursing a bruised ego over losing a fight in front of his big sister, and my sister had been busy getting knocked up.

I was desperate to get out of the house and away from them every chance I could.

“I can go,” I said.

He smiled and leaned back in his chair so the server could set our plates and coffees on the table. “Good.” He nodded, turned his cup, and then lifted his camera to take a picture of it.

After our snack, we walked around Jackson Square again and eventually made our way uptown on the streetcar. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted on walking me to my corner again.

“We need to be there by 8:00,” he said before we parted ways. “I’ll pick you up at 7:00 to give us extra time.”

I responded with my house number and turned to walk away. Even though the temptation was there, I didn’t look back over my shoulder.

Miss Verity was out on the veranda with the palm of a young goth girl in hers, obviously at work. My parents were in their home office with the door shut. Van was nowhere to be found. His bedroom door was cracked enough for me to see the room was empty.

I didn’t bother looking for Ronnie. Her boyfriend—fiancé—Bryan had shown up the night before to pick her up after the fight with my parents. My uptight, perfectionist father had stood in the middle of our front lawn so my sister and all of Dufossat Street could hear him tell her not to come back.

As they pulled away in his car, not knowing if I’d ever see her again, I texted her and asked if she was okay. She still hadn’t bothered answering.

Car and bedroom doors slammed later in the afternoon, but I stayed in my room with my book in hand, reading and trying not to wonder what Oliver had planned.

Van knocked not long after the smell of lemon chicken casserole made its way through the house. “Dinner,” he said.

“Where were you earlier?”

He waited for me to mark my place and walk over to join him. “I went for a walk. Where were you?”

“At the cemetery.” It was a partial truth. I
had
been at the cemetery for a while.

My parents didn’t have much to say at the dinner table that evening. While Miss Verity made small talk about the neighbors, we ate casserole, turnip greens, and baked carrots. Van and I were the only ones listening. My parents were focused on their forks as they pushed food around on their plates.

I waited as long as possible—until the clock ticked over to 6:45, my brother stood to help Miss Verity clear the dishes, and my father pushed away from the table—before I blurted, “I’m going out with a friend tonight.”

My mother lifted her head long enough to give me a small smile. “Did Lucy finally call you?” The hopefulness in her voice was almost amusing. It might’ve been if my former best friend hadn’t deserted me after I stood up to my ex and his buddies. Her boyfriend had been there that afternoon in the stairwell, too. “Chicks before dicks” turned out to be a myth.

“No. I haven’t talked to Lucy at all.” Her smile fell, but the doorbell rang before she could give me another consolation talk. “Do you remember Oliver Bergeron from St. Luke’s?” I asked as I stood. “He invited me to hang out for a little while.”

I left them in the dining room and walked across the foyer to the front door. When I opened it, Oliver was standing there with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cargo shorts.

“Hi,” he said.

“Come in,” my father said from behind me.

I winced and mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” but Oliver grinned and stepped over the threshold to stand next to me.

“Mr. Foster,” he said, holding out his hand to shake my father’s.

It was becoming embarrassing. I’d known Oliver barely twenty-four hours, not counting elementary school a decade before, and my dad was treating him like this was a first date. I wasn’t even sure what it was.

“Dad, this is my
friend
, Oliver.” My father nodded, and I tried to steer Oliver back out onto the porch, but Miss Verity nipped that idea in the bud.

“Would you like some bread pudding, Oliver?” she asked.

“We can’t,” I said. “We have somewhere to be.”

“Your father will drive you.” When Miss Verity wanted something, she made it happen. She seemed determined to keep us there.

“Bread pudding sounds delicious,” Oliver said, stepping toward the dining room. “What’s up, man?” He nodded to my brother, who’d taken a step back to get close to the stairs.

“Van, this is Oliver,” I said.

Oliver lifted a hand in a small wave.

Van nodded and turned to walk upstairs. “Have fun,” he said.

He had no reason to trust my judgment in boys, but that didn’t lessen the sting of his dismissal. Miss Verity stepped forward to take the focus off of Van. “I’m Verity Foster, Violet’s grandmother,” she said before pointing to my mother. “This is Evelyn, and you’ve met Virgil.”

My father took that as his cue to reenter the conversation. “Where are you going tonight?” he asked.

I faltered. Other than the French Quarter, I wasn’t entirely sure where we were going.

Oliver glanced at me, and I tried to shake my head without being noticed. “To a movie,” he said. “There’s a late showing of the new
Harry Potter
.”

“You’ve seen it twice already,” my mother said. “There are other good movies out right now, Violet.”

“I haven’t seen it, yet. She promised not to spoil anything for me.” Oliver smiled without blinking, and even though no such conversation had ever taken place, I almost believed him.

He was a good sport through dessert with my family. Thankfully, my sister didn’t burst through the door to drop another life-changing bomb that night. Miss Verity studied Oliver’s face at the dinner table and then asked him to help her carry the dishes to the kitchen when we’d finished eating.

I followed them and managed to catch the beginning of her interrogation. “When’s your birthday?” she asked.

It was an odd question to ask a potential beau. Well, odd for anyone else.

“March 5th.”

“A Pisces.” She turned away from us to put the plates in the sink.

“I guess.” He shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”

I walked around him to give Miss Verity a kiss on the cheek. “Dinner was delicious. Thank you for dessert. If we’re going to get good seats, we have to go.”

“Be careful, sugar.” Her hand closed around mine, and she squeezed, holding my stare long enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“Yes, ma’am.”

We still had forty minutes to get wherever it was we were going, so Oliver and I let my father take us to the movie theater on Prytania. He left us in the parking lot with a wave, and once he was out of sight, Oliver took my hand and guided me away from the building.

We walked a few blocks to St. Charles and waited with a small crowd for the streetcar. “I’m sorry about dessert.”

“Your family’s interesting.”

“Yes. Right now, my grandmother’s probably mapping out whether or not our astrological signs are compatible.”

“That’s really a thing?” he asked.

“It is to her. Everything’s a thing.”

After a short wait, the trolley showed up, and then we filed on with the others to make our way to The Quarter.

“You look a lot like your dad,” he said, eyeing my face. “Except for the hair.”

“I resemble his sister more, only her hair was red and mine’s strawberry blonde.”

“So you share a name
and
a face with your aunt?”

“I don’t look exactly like her. We’re not, like, twins or anything.”

He nodded, gauged my discomfort, and tried a different topic. “What’s with all the Vs? Verity, Virgil, Violet, Van…”

“You forgot Veronica, my sister.” He laughed, and something about the sound of his happiness caused my own lips to turn up at the corners. “She goes by Ronnie, though.”

“Is that one of your grandmother’s ‘things’?”

“My grandfather’s name was Vincent. They started it, I guess, maybe to be cute or funny. I’ve never really asked.” The name thing had been an issue for me for a long time. At least my brother and sister had names of their own. I’d been thrust into my aunt’s shadow from the moment I was born.

The sounds of the city and other passengers were enough to stall the questioning, and when we reached The Quarter, Oliver led the way off the trolley. He didn’t talk about wherever it was we were going, but he occasionally stopped and pulled a small digital camera from his pocket to snap pictures of people who caught his attention.

He made up stories about them—where they were from, why they were here in the Big Easy. Some were obviously on business, some were here to party, and some were lost along a bigger road to nowhere. It was entertaining to see how his mind worked. With only a picture, a small frozen piece of time, he could cook up whatever truth or lie he wanted to. As I’d seen back at my house, he could be very convincing.

Once we reached Bourbon Street, the camera stayed out full-time and swung from a wrist strap. “Where’s your other camera?” I asked. “The big one?”

“It was almost stolen the last time I came down here at night.” He paused for a shot of a carriage shaped like a pumpkin that was outlined in deep purple twinkle lights. “I don’t really give a shit about this one, but the other one’s my baby.”

“Your baby, huh?”

He nodded. “Some guys have cars. I have a camera.” He caught my arm with his free hand when we reached St. Peter Street. “This way.” A small crowd was gathered around a sign for some type of ghost tour in front of one of the head shops. When we reached the group, Oliver left me in front of the neighboring store. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched him maneuver his way through the tourists until he reached a guy wearing black tuxedo pants, a white Pink Floyd t-shirt, and a black vest. His hair was short, blond, and spiked, and both of his arms were covered in tattoos. He stopped his conversation with a college-aged girl in cutoffs as soon as he caught sight of Oliver, and then a lazy grin turned up one corner of his mouth. They did some type of guy handshake and half-hugged with a shoulder bump. It was obvious they were tight.