FORTY-THREE

COURTNEY

"I think I'm drunk on gumbo and jazz," I murmur, leaning harder into Auguste's side as we stroll down Royal Street.

The cobblestones beneath my feet seem to sway slightly, though I've had nothing stronger than sweet tea with dinner. It's something else—the thick night air, heavy with promise, or maybe just the weight of his arm draped across my shoulders, anchoring me to him.

His arm tightens around me. "Pretty sure you're drunk on me."

I can feel his words rumble through his chest before they reach my ears. The vibration travels from his body to mine, settling somewhere low in my belly.

"Mm. Arrogant and probably correct. It's annoying."

He smirks and presses a kiss to the top of my head. His lips linger there, warm against my hair, and I feel the gentle inhale as he breathes me in. "You love it."

I do.

God, I do.

There is nothing I don’t love about him. And being here with him feels like I’ve won the lottery and simultaneously hit the jackpot.

The Quarter hums around us. Brass horns in the distance echoing off ancient buildings, the sticky-sweet scent of beignets hanging in the air like an invitation, and streetlamps that flicker like they're keeping secrets only the city knows.

New Orleans is unlike any other place I’ve been to. It’s alive with history, with stories, with ghosts that refuse to leave. I can’t get enough of it .

The wet stone beneath our shoes makes soft splashing sounds with each step while the balconies overhead drip with ivy and mystery. Wrought iron twisting into patterns that seem to shift when you look away.

We turn a corner, and a chalkboard sign leans outside a crooked old storefront, the lettering done in swooping white chalk that glows against the black background.

Paranormal Tour

Haunted Lovers, Lost Souls, & Forever Flames.

Last Call.

I point at it, my finger tracing the words in the air. "Too on-the-nose?"

Auguste tilts his head, considering. The streetlight catches his profile—that jaw that could cut glass, the slight curl of his hair at his temple where sweat has made it damp.

"Sounds like us."

"You think we're haunted?" he asks, brow cocking.

My stare finds his and when he thumbs my cheek my heart squeals.

"I think we're forever," I reply, watching his thick lips tick up into a grin.

“There’s no fucking think about it, Court. We are forever.”

Auguste pulls me into him for a kiss before we step inside. It feels like we’ve entered a different world and simultaneously gone back in time.

The tour is weird and wonderful. Auguste loves the scary parts and I swoon at all the forbidden love stories paving the city.

Auguste's hand never leaves mine. His thumb traces circles on my palm, and each sweep sends electricity racing up my arm.

By the time we end up in a candlelit back room lined with dusty mirrors and velvet drapes the color of dried blood, my skin's buzzing. The air feels charged, heavy with incense and anticipation. The mirrors reflect our faces a dozen times over, and in each reflection, Auguste is looking at me.

Only me.

The fortuneteller is already seated at a small round table. She doesn't look up when we enter. Just gestures wordlessly for us to sit, her long fingers adorned with rings that catch the candlelight.

Her eyes are pale. Clouded over. I wonder if she's blind at first, but then she lifts her gaze to mine, and I swear she sees everything. Every secret I've ever kept. Every fear I've buried. Every time I've lain awake thinking about the man beside me.

There are no names. No questions. Just her hands on the table, her fingers ghosting over a deck of worn, gold-edged cards. She doesn't shuffle them. Doesn't ask us to cut the deck. She simply places her palm flat over them and closes her eyes.

"You've chosen each other," she murmurs, her voice like smoke. "There is no alternate path. Only this one."

Auguste shifts in his seat beside me. I can feel the tension radiating off him, the way his breath has gone shallow. I grab his thigh under the table and squeeze, feeling the hard muscle beneath my fingers. His hand drops over mine, warm and solid.

"You'll be showered in love and in success," she says. "Two souls bound together… air—” One of her hands shifts in front of me while the other moves in front of Auguste. “—and water. Like the tide kissing the shore… beautiful, ever-changing, and never quite still.”

“What does that mean?” I blurt the question when her stare meets mine.

“Your love won’t come easy… but it will come deep. Magnetic,” she says when Auguste rests our tangled hands on the table.

After a moment, her hands bracket ours. Like she can feel who we are without even touching us.

“I see… a house. White, sun-drenched, with a wild garden and room for too many shoes. I see laughter echoing off porch swings and muddy boots on polished floors. A yard big enough for children, and maybe second chances.”

Tears cloud my eyes.

How does she know all this?

How does she know about our house?

“Before that…” She squints, circling her hands over ours. “I see ivory and blue. A union on the water. A kiss as the tide rolls in. The sky will cry just a little. But only for joy… for fortune…”

“Mmm… it’s time.” The fortuneteller spreads the deck in a semi-circle in front of her and then tells us, “Pick one. Together.”

I look at Auguste and he looks at me and we do as she says without looking.

She turns the card face up to reveal a golden child riding a white horse across it. “The sun.”

“The sun?” Auguste asks, his fingers lacing with mine on the table .

“Yes, you’ll have warmth. Clarity. Love that glows long after the fireworks fade.

But first, you must survive the coming and going of the tide.

Let it crash. Let it pull.” She picks at the table cloth on either side of our wrists and out of nowhere, she plucks a gold thread.

While tying it around our wrists she says, “Just don’t let go of each other. ”

I forget how to breathe. The air in my lungs turns solid, and my heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Next to me, Auguste is so still I wonder if he's breathing. His hand around mine has gone tight, almost painful.

She reaches behind her, fingers pulling a small leather pouch from a nail on the wall. The movement is fluid, practiced. When she presses it between our joint palms, the leather is warm, like it's been sitting in sunlight instead of hanging in this dim room.

"This is an alm," she says. "Blessed in the name of Saint Valentine. For protection. For passion. For forever."

Not another word comes from her mouth as she sits back in her chair, head lowered, hands clasped in her lap. Exactly how we found her when we walked in here.

Neither Auguste or I speak as we leave. Not for a while.

The night air feels colder now, or maybe it's just the chill that's settled in my bones. I keep glancing down at the charm in my hand, the faint smell of lavender and salt clinging to it. It feels heavier than it should, like it contains something more substantial than herbs.

“That house she described…” I start.

“I know,” he says with nod.

“How…”

“I don’t know,” he says, pulling me to his side as we cross the road. “But I like it. Everything she said.”

“Me too.”

He keeps glancing at me, his fingers finding mine, twining and releasing, as if he can't bear to be disconnected from me for more than a few seconds.

We're halfway back to the apartment when the horns start.

A jazz band has spilled out onto the sidewalk, music pouring into the night. The trumpet player sways as he plays, eyes closed, lost in the melody. The saxophonist leans against a lamppost, his instrument gleaming gold in the streetlight.

Auguste stops. Turning to me with a tender smile, he offers me his hand.

I raise an eyebrow. "Here? "

"Practice with me, Princess."

"Here? On the street?"

"Right here. Right now."