Chapter 21 Best Friends and Bad Timing
POV: Catherine Hale
New Orleans has two specialties: heartbreak jazz and best friends who know exactly where to twist the knife, and Anastasia proves it without even trying. She stirs her chicory coffee and watches me over the rim before she says it, plain and brutal.
Which is great—if you can keep your feelings out of it. The question is: can you?
The August heat in Jackson Square is already sticking to my skin, but her words freeze me anyway. That is not the question of the year. That is the question that ruins lives, and right now it is gunning for mine.
I have had that nightmare before. I know how it ends. Him looking at me like I am nothing, Liam asking why I ruined everything, and me alone on some French Quarter balcony because I could not keep my mouth shut or my heart locked down. I do not think about it during the day. I do not sleep at night either.
Thank god for Béatrice interrupting. My phone buzzes against the wrought-iron table and I grab it like a lifeline. Satan’s Right and Left Hands flashes on the screen. I flip it so Anastasia can see.
"Jesus. Ignore them."
"Better the devil you know than the devil you sleep with," I mutter, and it is not even a joke.
Anastasia rolls her eyes and heads for the counter. "Get me another coffee if you survive."
I answer. "Béatrice."
"Catherine!" She weaponizes cheerful like she always does. "You didn’t return my calls last week."
"Been swamped at work." My knuckles are already white around the phone. "Busting my ass for Liam, you know?"
"Mm, yes. Your father said."
My teeth click together. "You talked to my father?"
"Of course. He’s my brother. And my niece has been screening my calls."
I have twenty-six years of practice swallowing this woman’s bullshit. It should be easy by now. It is not, especially since Mom died and left me to deal with her alone. "Your niece is working two jobs because your brother hasn’t gotten out of bed before noon in three and a half years."
"Catherine, he’s grieving. Your mother was his whole world."
I bark out a laugh and it sounds ugly even to me. "She was my whole world too, Béatrice. The difference is that I still feed her son. I still show up to parent-teacher nights. I still remember his damn birthday."
"Catherine Hale! There’s no need to shout."
I am not shouting. I am vibrating. "Was I shouting? Sorry, hard to tell when I’m having an aneurysm."
She does that wet, offended sniff she has perfected. "I’m only saying he needs support."
"And Liam needs food. Clothes. A dad who knows what grade he’s in." I dig my nail into the flaking paint on the table until it stings. "You remember Liam, right? Your nephew?"
"Of course I remember Liam, darling. His birthday is coming up soon, isn’t it?"
I want to throw my coffee cup at a passing streetcar. "It was two months ago, Béatrice. He is fourteen. Ninth grade. Not eight. Not five. Fourteen."
"Oh." No pause, no shame. "Well, if you brought him to visit more, I’d keep better track."
There it is. Béatrice’s specialty is turning her neglect into my failure, and she could teach masterclasses on it.
"Bring him this Saturday," she chirps like she is doing me a favor. "It’ll be perfect."
"For what? Your garden club? Your charity auction? What pony show do you need him for this time?"
"Catherine!" She gasps like I slapped her. "You sound just like your mother—"
The line goes dead for half a second. We both hear what she does not say. Your dead mother. My throat locks up. Not a crack, it seals shut, because if I let it crack I am done.
Anastasia is back by then, watching me. I do not have air left for this. "Béatrice, I have to go."
"Wait. The offer still stands."
"What offer?"
"Let us take Liam. You’re struggling, you won’t take our money—"
"I won’t take money with your fingerprints all over it, Béatrice." Anastasia’s brows hit her hairline.
"No strings, darling. We just want to help. Introduce him to our circle. Give him opportunities."
Opportunities to become her favorite accessory, more like. "I’ll think about it." No, I won’t. "Bye."
I hang up before she can say love you because we both know she does not.
Anastasia pushes a napkin toward me. "Let me guess. She wants Liam."
"Again. Like I didn’t say no the last ten times." I shred the napkin into powder under my fingers. "She thinks I should be grateful. They have money."
"You deserve help, Cath."
"Not theirs." I look her dead in the eye because she needs to understand this. "Béatrice and her husband don’t help. They collect. And Liam is not their collection. He’s my brother. He’s all I have left of her."
My voice does not tremble. It goes flat, because if I let myself feel that sentence I will shatter all over Jackson Square. Anastasia’s hand finds mine anyway.
"I know," she says, softer now. "I’m just scared you’re going to burn yourself out. That there won’t be any Catherine left."
God, that hits. Because there is already so little left of me. Just work, and Liam, and him.
I force a smile because it is easier than crying. "Have I told you I love you lately?"
Anastasia smirks, and just like that the mood shifts. "You can prove it. Details. Bad boy boss. Now."
I groan. "Ugh."
"That bad?"
"Worse." A stupid, traitor smile betrays me anyway. "I mean… no. It was—"
"Explosive?"
I hide behind my coffee. "Shut up."
"YES, QUEEN!" She snaps her fingers and does that ridiculous shoulder thing that makes the tourists stare.
And for a second, I believe her. I am a queen. Not just a daughter with a dead mother, not just a sister barely holding it together, not just a woman who cannot afford feelings.
Rules are easy to break when Anastasia is around and the jazz from the Square drowns out everything else. The problem is that I am not sure I want to stop breaking them.