“Anyway, he told me the situation, and I gave you a look over.” She glanced around. “Where’s your man now?”
“Oh, no, he’s not…my man.” I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Teddy’s just a friend. No, more than that. My best friend. He’s actually my boyfriend’s brother. I mean, he was. Jonah…he’s my boyfriend… Was my boyfriend. He…passed away.”
It was the first time I’d had to say the words out loud. I had zero practice talking about Jonah’s death. I had no canned response, no rehearsed story. I couldn’t even get the tense right. When I could say my boyfriend had passed away without bringing the world to a screeching halt? It hurt, like a hammer striking my chest with every syllable.
“Anyway…well, I used to live in Las Vegas, but I moved here after Jonah… I wasn’t doing so well, and Theo helped me. What you heard and saw was me coming off the booze. I’m sorry. It must’ve been awful.”
“Not as awful as it felt for you, baby.” Yvonne reached across the space between us to take my hand, her dark eyes warm. “It wasn’t pretty, but you came out the other side, didn’t you?”
“Barely,” I said.
“Barely is still a ‘yes.’ Remember that.” Yvonne’s grip on my hand became a pat and her eye caught the watch on her wrist. “I wish I could stay longer but my shift starts in forty. Don’t be a stranger now.” She chuckled. “You know I won’t.”
I hurried to catch up and open the door for her. “I won’t either. Thank you. For the casserole. And for helping me when I was…”
“Down? You’re welcome. And honey? If you need anything? If you want to talk or if the craving gets bad? Give me a holler or knock on my door.” She peered at me intently. “Are you in a program?”
I wanted to tell her I was determined to do this on my own, but to a healthcare professional like Yvonne, it would sound like an excuse. You can’t bullshit a nurse.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said
She pursed her lips. “Think about it. And don’t think you’re alone. This is New Orleans, baby. We stick together.” She started down the steps of my porch, shaking her head. “Boy, do we.”
“Thanks, Yvonne.”
She waved over her head and marched the five steps to her own shotgun house. It wasn’t as garishly colorful as mine, but it was ten times better maintained.
I closed the door and stood inside the quiet of my home.
Alone and sober.
Not entirely alone,I thought, and pulled the foil off the casserole. I cut a block of noodles, covered with crispy croutons, and ate it straight from the dish. It tasted heavenly. I ate that piece and another, standing up in my kitchen. I noticed my window faced Yvonne’s house. Only three feet separated our kitchen windows.
I threw open mine. “Yvonne!”
From inside her house. “Yeah, baby?” She came to her window and opened it, leaned her forearms on the sill. “Good, right?”
“It’s perfect.”
She laughed and made a shooing motion, then retreated back into her place. I laughed and shut my window.
My new cellphone chimed a text. It was Theo.
Wanted to make sure you got in okay.
I smiled.Nope. Not alone at all.
On Thursday, I showed up for work at Le Chacal, right on time.
Singing sober wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. The tears still came at the end of “The Lighthouse.” But instead of being walled off from my audience by alcohol, I could feel the intense emotion working its way through the crowd. No one drank, whispered, or moved during the song. When it ended, I heard a collective intake of breath before the applause.
“Thank you,” I murmured into the mic, feeling strangely shy. I left the stage and took my guitar to my usual seat at the bar.
Big E planted his hands on either side of the old wood, grinning. “What’ll it be, sweets?”
“Seltzer with lime, please.” I slapped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “And keep’em coming.”
He bellowed laughter and set the drink in front of me. “You done good, kid. How do you feel?”
