I am in official freak-out mode.
My. First. Date. My first date!
It's here. And it's happening NOW.
I'm sitting in the passenger seat of Sully's SUV trying not to stare. It's not working very well. His golden hair is extra messy today, but the kind of messy that looks practiced and intentional. And super-duper hot. And every time I steal a peek, I find him peeking, too. Like he's completely aware of me planted in the seat next to him. I'm frazzled and excited and terrified all at once. The air between us is absolutely buzzing, and ohmygod, can he feel it too?
"You look really pretty," he says, breaking the awkward silence. "Have I mentioned that yet?"
He has. Twice.
I can't meet his eyes. "Thank you ... I had some help."
His gaze drags from me to the road. "What do you mean, you had help?"
Why did I just tell him that? Can't a girl have any secrets? My lips pucker in thought. "Never mind. I probably shouldn't have said anything. It's sort of ... nontraditional."
Beauty advice from a drag queen. Nontraditional is putting it mildly.
He gives me a funny look but doesn't pry. "So, what sounds good to eat?" he asks, changing the subject. "Gumbo? Crawfish Etouffee? Jambalaya?"
I crinkle my nose. "Jambawhata?"
"Oh no." Sully stares back in mock horror. "You're not serious?"
My cheeks begin to tingle, which I know from past experience means they're turning a humiliating shade of pink. "I am serious. I have no idea what those are."
"You poor thing." He shakes his head. "What do they feed you in Ohio?"
"You know, normal things." I shrug. "Pizza. Burgers. Chicken McNuggets." Oh.
He arches an eyebrow. "Chicken McNuggets?"
Did I seriously just say that out loud? "I've been a huge fan of McDonald's ever since I sprouted teeth. My parents even said french fries were my first words—except it came out more like frah frees." I beg myself to shut up, but my brain refuses to listen. "It's disgusting, I know. And completely embarrassing. Promise you'll never tell anyone? I don't need a lecture from Hartley."
Sully bursts into laughter. "I cannot believe the girl I have a crush on prefers McNuggets to gumbo. You have such refined taste!" He laughs even harder. "Your secret is safe with me."
Wait. He has a crush on me?! My next words come out slow and deliberate—the exact opposite of how I feel. "I never said I prefer them. I said I've never heard of gumbo before."
"Are you feeling adventurous?" He gives me a slow grin. And holy crap that dimple!
"Um ..." There's a good chance my heart might pound its way out of my chest. "I think so?"
He looks pleased. "Then gumbo it is."
A few minutes later, Sully parks his car and we start walking. Apprehension curls in my stomach as his arm brushes against mine. For half a second, I wonder if he's going to try and hold my hand, but the moment passes and he shifts away, giving me space.
Wandering through the French Quarter is like traveling to another world. It's quirky and historical and crawling with all sorts of different people. The buildings boast colorful Spanish and French-inspired architecture along with several newer structures made to squeeze inside narrow lots. The atmosphere is both restless and exhilarating. It's a contagious combination. I'm tempted to pull out my phone and snap pics of everything I see, but don't want to look like some awestruck tourist. Which, of course, I am.
"Where are we going?" I finally ask.
He cracks a smile. "Gumbo Shop. Have you ever heard of it?"
Well, that sounds ... original. I hope the entrees are more creative than the name. "Nope."
"It's probably the best place to go for Creole cuisine. It's won Best Gumbo in New Orleans for, like, the past twenty years."
"I've never tried anything Creole. Is it spicy?"
He gives this some thought. "Creole is a term used to describe the people born to settlers in French colonial Louisiana. Specifically, New Orleans. They were mostly descendants of the French and Spanish upper class, but the meaning eventually grew to include native-born slaves of African descent. Creole food is a blend of all the different cultures that make up the area. The dishes are a little spicy, but not in the way you're thinking. It's spicy in a depth-of-flavor sort of way, but not necessarily spicy hot. Cajun's sort of the same way, only they don't use tomatoes."
A giggle escapes before I can stop it.
He frowns. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. You just sound like a chef, is all."
Sully's cheeks flush, and it's so darn cute I want to reach over and touch him. But I fight the urge because that would just be, well—weird. "That's actually my dream job," he admits.
I'm surprised. "Seriously?"
"Oh yeah. I love messing around in the kitchen. I cook all the time at home. Especially this past year."
"Why this past year?"
He grows quiet and I can tell I've hit some sort of nerve.
"After Sawyer died, my parents took a mini-vacation from life. Especially my mom. Dad buried himself in his business, but Mom completely shut down. She's still not quite the same. So, I learned to cook out of necessity. But it turns out I enjoy it."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make things weird."
"You didn't. I don't mind talking about my brother. It actually feels kind of good. My friends avoid the topic altogether, like he didn't even exist. I guess they don't think I can't handle it. Even some of my family acts that way."
"I can understand that. They don't know what to say so they don't say anything at all." My fingers fiddle with the pearl on my chain. "The kids at school did the same thing when Hartley's dad died. They weren't trying to be rude, they were just scared to say the wrong thing. It used to piss Hartley off."
Sully chuckles. "I'm sure it did. She's not one to hide her feelings."
A comfortable silence falls over us and I'm drawn into my surroundings. The air outside is less gross than it's been, and for the first time since my arrival, I don't feel like I want to hop in the shower. The building across the street from us looks like it belongs on the cover of a postcard. Each floor is trimmed with its own black iron balcony, an interesting contrast against the pale beige brick, and a street performer strums a folksy tune with his guitar. Everything we pass feels whimsical, the same way it does in dreams.
Without warning, we stop and I'm jolted back to reality.
"What's going on?" I lean over to one side, gaping at the line of people stretching down the sidewalk.
Sully gestures grandly. "This is it."
I'm confused. "This is what?"
"Gumbo Shop." His smile grows wider and my breath catches. In all the years I've been breathing, it's like my brain has suddenly lost connection with the respiratory control center in my brain.
I stand on tiptoes to get a better look at the crowd curving into a building up ahead. "We're going to be standing here forever," I tell him. "I hope you're not hungry."
When our eyes meet again, I find him already staring at me. It makes me crazy when that happens. "Do you have someplace else you'd rather be?"
Dumbfounded, I shake my head.
"Neither do I." His smile fades, and very slowly, he leans closer. "Can I see your hand?"
"My hand?" I try to swallow but my throat is so very dry.
He nods.
My arm is weak and heavy and my brain is still on the fritz. I command my hand forward, and after what feels like an eternity, it finally meets his. And in a moment reminiscent of the cheesy 1980s movies my mom forces me to watch, Sully laces his fingers through mine.
And I want the feeling to last forever.