“I’ll be back tonight.” She stores it behind the front counter and says her goodbyes to Stogie.
Holding the door for her, I glance at the old man. “Nice to meet you.”
He nods, his mouth pulling down at the corners.
Yeah, he has every right to not trust me. I don’t trust me, either.
“Is the deli next door any good?” Mr. Marceaux holds the door as I follow him out of Stogie’s shop.
“Only the best sandwiches in New Orleans.” My stomach flutters with butterflies. Because I’m hungry. For food. Not because I’ll be eating food with Mr. Marceaux.
Instead of turning toward the deli, he steps to the curb and unlocks the passenger door of a shiny black muscle car. “Stay here while I grab lunch.”
I take in the GTO badge on the door panel, the 70’s-style woodgrain dash, and the black vinyl interior, wondering why he drives such an old ride. “We’re not eating there?”
He removes the aviators from the neck of his t-shirt and slides them on. “No.”
Everything inside me melts. From the heat of the blinding sun? Definitely the sun.
I lower into the bucket seat and give him my order while he starts the engine and turns on the A/C.
As he walks with long fluid strides toward the deli, I can’t not stare at him, because sweet Jesus, I never imagined him in anything except a tie, waistcoat, and buttoned shirt with rolled-up sleeves. But he wears blue jeans like a second skin. The denim was made for his body, cupping his ass and stretching across his thighs as he lengthens his gait. The thin gray t-shirt clings to ridges of muscle in his back and shoulders, the sleeves straining around the bulges of his biceps, just like those models in fitness magazines.
I like the fancy clothes better. They’re safer, like a professional barrier to remind me he’s my teacher.
When he disappears inside the deli, I shift my attention to his car. The loud rumble of the engine and burnt-oil fume of the exhaust. The scent of warm cinnamon wafting from the pack of gum that bakes in the sun on the dash. The stiff seat beneath me, vibrating with the strength of the motor. The silver knobs of the old radio and Axl Rose crooning through the speakers. It’s all so distinctive and different, fascinating and masculine. Like him.
It feels surreal, sitting here. In his personal space. Willingly.
It’s just lunch.
With my teacher. On a Saturday.
I wipe clammy palms on my thighs, wishing I wore something nicer. And less revealing.
Why is he here? In my neighborhood? No one from Le Moyne ventures into my world, as if the poverty might stain their expensive shoes or something. Yet here he is. What does he want?
By the time he returns, my nerves are twisted to nauseous levels.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Down the street.” He grips the steering wheel with a strong hand and merges into traffic, slowly, confidently, like this is his road and he has all the time in the world.
A minute later, he pulls into Louis Armstrong Park and sets his sunglasses in the cup holder. A short walk takes us to a shaded park bench, where we sit side-by-side and dig into our Hook ‘Em Up sandwiches. The thick bread is piled high with meats and cheeses, requiring two hands to hold it.
Halfway through the sandwich, my stomach aches. I wrap up the leftovers, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and stare out over the green-tinged duck pond. “What did you and Stogie talk about?”
“You.”
Maybe I should be surprised by his honesty, but I’m not. He’s always been direct with me, a trait I’ve come to depend on. If only I could do the same. I want to tell him everything. But he would report me. How could he not?
He takes another bite, and I covertly study his jaw flexing and throat moving as he chews. It’s strange watching a man eat. I’ve never done that. Not consciously. I feel like I’m invading his privacy.
When he goes for another bite, I realize he’s not going to elaborate.
“What about me?”
He swallows, grins. “This is really good.” Another bite. Then another.
Two young black men walk along the opposite side of the pond, but the park is otherwise empty, the sun too high and hot for a lazy stroll.
“Mr. Marceaux…”
He continues to ignore me as he finishes his lunch between long draws on his bottled water. Then he sets my uneaten portion aside, throws the trash away, and lounges against the back of the bench beside me, hands relaxed on his thighs. “I asked him how your living expenses get paid.”
Jesus, he’s like a dog with a bone. I twist and untwist the lid on my water. What would Stogie think of me if he knew what I’m doing? And Mr. Marceaux? He’d probably spank me then expel me. My heart gives a heavy thump.