Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
I asked, “Was it hard to fake being sick with two doctors as parents?”
“They were almost always out of the house by the time I got up, which meant I only had to convince our housekeeper. I usually went with an upset stomach, since that was hard to disprove. Clara wasn’t a pushover, but I’m pretty sure she knew I was faking and let me get away with it anyway. She must have understood how much I needed that down time.”
I grinned and told him, “The way you and I played hooky was very different.”
“I can’t wait to hear this.”
“When I was twelve, I figured out I could ride the express bus to New Orleans, spend two hours there, then hop on the afternoon express and be back before my mom got home from work at five-thirty. The next day, I’d just have to forge her signature on a note for school. I was good at that.”
“Wow. Did you end up getting caught?”
“Eventually. I got away with monthly trips for almost a year, until I missed the afternoon express and didn’t get home until ten. Boy, was my mama pissed.”
He asked, “What would you do in New Orleans?”
“I’d head to the French Quarter and just take it all in. A lot of times, I’d sit outside a jazz club, listen to the music, and people-watch. Oh, and if I had enough money, I’d treat myself to some beignets. All of that was pretty touristy, but I was a kid, so what did I know? It was great, though. It felt like visiting another planet, compared to my small town.”
“Didn’t anyone ever question why a kid was traveling alone?”
“It was always the same driver for the morning express. The route ran every weekday from Shreveport to New Orleans, and my little fly speck of a town happened to be where they’d stop to fuel up. I told the driver I had to go to check on my gran in New Orleans once a month because she lived alone, and he bought it,” I said. “For the bus out of New Orleans, I’d just make sure I boarded right behind a family or an older lady. The drivers always assumed we were together.”
He asked, “How far were you traveling?”
“It was something like a hundred and fifty miles each way from Bunkie to New Orleans, which took a little over three hours on the express.”
“So, you’d travel over six hours, just to spend two in New Orleans?”
“Totally worth it,” I said. “Baton Rouge was a lot closer, but I had these romantic notions about New Orleans, so that was where I wanted to go.”
“I still see that brave, determined, clever boy in you.”
I tilted my head to look up at him. “You think I’m brave?”
“Of course I do. You live your life according to your rules, unapologetically, and you don’t seek validation from anyone. I really admire that.”
“I don’t feel brave, most of the time.”
“You are, though.”
I reached up and ran my fingertips over his cheek. “You are, too.”
He tried to laugh it off. “Hardly.”
“I’m serious. I see it in you, Wes, even if you don’t see it in yourself.”
He thought about it, then murmured, “I don’t know what to say to that.”
I put my head on his chest and told him, “You don’t have to say anything.”
In the early evening, Wes said, “We should go out.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “It’s our last day in Bora Bora, so we should make the most of it. Want to go into town and find a bar?”
“Absolutely.” I figured it had more to do with staying distracted as the wedding drew near, but I was all for it.
Maybe half an hour later, we found ourselves seated in an eclectic, colorful bar off the main drag in Vaitape, the biggest village on Bora Bora. Its walls were completely covered with a hodgepodge of stickers from all over the world, and while it wasn’t a gay bar, there were a couple of prominently placed Pride stickers which made me feel right at home.
It was still pouring, which might have been why the bar was pretty dead. In addition to us and the bartender, there were eight other patrons. Most of them seemed as if they’d just ducked in here to avoid the rain, and the energy level in this place was definitely low.
The bartender was a big man of Polynesian ancestry, who introduced himself as Georgie. I liked him immediately, and we chatted with him while we polished off our drinks.
Partway through our second cocktail, Wes’s phone beeped, and when he read the screen he looked surprised. After he sent a message and returned the phone to his pocket, he told me, “That was my grandfather’s assistant, asking where we were. I sent back the address of the bar, but the wedding’s starting soon, so I doubt he’ll make it.”