Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Greta’s heart swelled at the idea that she could spend further time with Carys.
A flat-bottomed wooden boat approached with a load of what looked like rebar and other construction materials on it.
“Where’s the dock?”
Carys pointed downriver. “A lot of the houses in the Marigny and Treme are built with barge board—wood from boats like that one,” she said. “When boats would come down the Mississippi in the nineteenth century, there was no economical way to get them back upriver against the current, so they would be dismantled at the harbor once they’d been unloaded, and the lumber sold cheaply.”
Greta turned to look at the city, imagining walking through a house that had come down the river a century and a half before.
“You wanna get some food?” Carys asked. “I’m ravenous.”
Greta absolutely did. She wanted this day never to end.
Carys led them through a place she called the French Market and back into the winding streets of the Quarter. “You like oysters?” she asked.
“Yeah. I think Maine oysters might be different, though.”
“Shall we find out?” Carys held a hand out to her, and Greta let her palm settle against Carys’, savoring the warm press of her skin.
All Greta could do was nod.
They settled on stools at a bar that was open to the street. The man behind the bar nodded at Carys and slid menus in front of them. The words on the menu seemed to blur before Greta’s eyes, and she said, “You can just get whatever you want. I’m not picky.”
Carys’ eyes narrowed as if she wanted to address that comment, but the bartender came back, and she gave him an order Greta hardly understood.
“Do you drink alcohol?” Carys asked.
“Uh, sure.”
Carys ordered two Bloody Marias—that at least Greta understood.
“Is that like a Bloody Mary?”
“Yeah, but with tequila instead of vodka.”
The drinks were slid in front of them, and Carys took a deep gulp, sighing in bliss. Greta sipped tentatively, and the sharp, rich tomato flavor burst over her tongue. It was sweet and sour and pickles and pepper, and Greta was instantly in love.
“Holy shit, that’s so good.”
“Right?” Carys clinked their glasses together. “Cheers. Now.” She settled her elbows on the bar and looked at Greta like she was getting down to business. “Why the hell did you end up in New Orleans for a month doing a house swap with a guy who names his dog Horse?”
Greta regaled her first with her recent dating app fails, how everyone on Owl Island knew her only as one of the Russakoff sisters and not as herself, and how her parents thought not knowing what she wanted to do with her life meant they could count on her to join the family business.
Before she knew it, she’d moved on to the story of the Holiday Fair. Carys’ face told her that she found the notion of auctioning people off just as abhorrent as Greta did, and when Greta got to the part about her mom clearly going along with Sadie even though she knew Greta would hate it, she had to clench her jaw to keep the fury out of her voice.
“So,” she finished in a rush just as silver plates of oysters nestled in ice were slid before them, “here I am.”
Carys looked at her—really looked—and Greta got the sense that maybe in hiding her fury, something else had leaked out. But Carys didn’t push her to say more. “Here you are,” she murmured.
They each took an oyster. Carys smothered hers in chili sauce, and Greta drizzled hers with mignonette.
“Cheers,” Carys said for the second time, and they touched oyster shells, the pearl-pale flesh quivering as they raised them to their lips.
“Cheers,” Greta echoed, her voice just breath as she watched the oyster disappear into Carys’ mouth.
The salt sea burst on Greta’s tongue, the tang of vinegar and mellow malt of meat. As she swallowed, she felt intoxicated with tequila, salt, and the woman whose thigh pressed hotly against her own.
Lost in mapping the exact topography of where their bodies touched, Greta almost forgot what they’d been discussing. When Carys asked what her family thought of her being in New Orleans, their conversation snapped back into focus.
Greta grimaced. “I’ve kind of been ignoring their texts,” she admitted. “I love them, but I’m just, like, powerless against getting involved if I engage. So I’ve disengaged.”
Carys nodded. “What about this?” She arranged the plates of oysters and the cocktails in front of Greta and pulled out her phone. Slowly, she raised her hand and brushed Greta’s bleached-platinum bangs to the side slightly. Her fingertips lingered there, and Greta’s breath caught. Then she handed Greta an oyster and said, “Smile.”
Greta looked not at the camera but at Carys and smiled with everything she had. She was far away from home, far away from everything that had ever made her who she thought she was. She was eating oysters with a gorgeous woman, for god’s sake—how could she not smile?