Camryn cackles with laughter, and we both practically stumble the rest of the way through the field, me trying to scrape the shit off the bottom of my shoe while running at the same time, and Camryn’s flip-flops getting caught on the ground as they try to keep up with her feet.
“I can’t believe that just happened!” Camryn laughs, as we finally make it back to the car. She arches her body forward and props her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.
I’m out of breath, too, but I still relentlessly scrape the bottom of my shoe on the asphalt. “Dammit!” I say, rubbing my foot back and forth.
Camryn jumps up on the hood of the car, letting her legs hang over the front. “Now can we say that we did it?” she asks with laughter in her voice.
I stand still and catch my breath. I look at her, at how beautiful and bright that smile of hers is, and say, “Yeah, I think we can safely mark it off our list.”
“Good!” she says. Then she points behind me. “Do it on the grass,” she says with one side of her mouth pinched into a hard line. “You’re just spreading it around doing it like that.”
I hop over into the grass and start rubbing my foot back and forth again. “Since when did you become an expert on shit?”
“Better watch your mouth,” she warns, getting into the driver’s seat.
“What are you going to do?” I taunt her.
She starts the Chevelle and revs the engine a few times. There’s a cruel gleam in her eyes. She props her left arm across the top of the open window and next thing I know she’s driving slowly past me.
I give her the warning eye, but her grin just gets bigger.
“I know you won’t leave me here!” I shout as she goes past me.
Surely she wouldn’t…
She gets farther away and at first I call her bluff and just stand here, watching her get smaller and smaller…
Finally, I take off running after the car.
Camryn
29
The first thing that comes to mind when we make it to New Orleans is home sweet home. I get a rush when the sights become familiar: the great oak trees and beautiful historic homes, Lake Pontchartrain and the Superdome, the red and yellow streetcars that always reminded me of toys. And, of course, the French Quarter. There’s even a man playing a saxophone on a street corner, and I feel like we’ve driven directly into a New Orleans postcard.
I look over at Andrew, and he smiles across at me briefly. He flips on his blinker and we turn right onto Royal Street. My heart flutters and pounds at the same time when I see the Holiday Inn. So much happened here ten months ago. This place… a hotel, of all places… it’s so much more than that to me, to both of us.
“I figured you’d want to stay here while we’re in town,” Andrew says, beaming.
Because the memories are still figuratively taking my breath away, I can’t answer him, so I just nod and match his smile.
We grab our stuff from the car and head into the lobby. Everything looks exactly the same, except maybe for the two women behind the front desk when we approach. I don’t remember seeing them before.
Vaguely I hear Andrew ask about the availability of our old rooms while I’m looking around at everything, trying to soak it all in.
God, I missed this place.
“Yes, looks like both of those rooms are vacant,” I hear one of the front desk clerks say. “Would you like both?”
That gets my attention.
Andrew turns to me. I guess he wants to know what I think.
I switch my bag to the opposite shoulder and hesitate for a moment, pondering the question. I never anticipated this, or that it would be such a hard decision.
“Ummm, well…” I look to Andrew and then the clerk, still undecided. “I don’t know. OK, maybe we should just get the one we…” I stop myself, not wanting to make us look like two immature sixteen-year-olds this time, and then I eye Andrew with that knowing look. “The one where the deal was sealed.”
Andrew’s lips struggle to remain straight, but I clearly see the smile in his eyes as he reaches out his hand to the clerk and hands her his credit card.
We leave the lobby shortly after and ride the elevator up to our floor. On the way down the hall I’m still absorbing everything around me, right down to the color of paint on the walls, because it’s all part of a memory no matter how big or small or seemingly insignificant. The feeling of being here again… I almost feel like I’m going to break out in happy tears. But I’m excited, too, and that saves me from becoming a blubbering mess.
Andrew stops in between the two doors of our old rooms, two bags and the electric guitar I bought him hanging over his shoulders. He’s been meaning to buy a case for the guitar, but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.
“Strange being here again, huh?” he asks, glancing over at me.
“Strange, but in a good way,” I say.
We stay like this for a minute, looking at each other and then at the two doors, until finally Andrew steps up to the one we paid for and slides the key card through the lock.
It really is like stepping into the past. The door swings open slowly, and it’s as if all the emotions that we experienced in this room were left behind and are now greeting us as we enter. As we step inside, I remember every night we slept here, apart and together, as if it happened yesterday. I look at the spot near the bed where I stood when Andrew broke me down and made me his. I glance toward the window overlooking the busy streets of the French Quarter. I envision the day Andrew sat on that windowsill playing his acoustic, and even when I was the one over there, dancing and singing to “Barton Hollow” when I thought I was alone. I turn to see the bathroom, and as Andrew flips on the light in there my gaze falls to the floor first and I recall the night, although vaguely, when he slept next to me.