It was the quiet moments that got me.

    Not the memories. Not the heartbreak.

    It was the space Gage filled now.

    The way he’d hum something old—Billie or Otis or E—while tying his boots.

    The way hisugh would rumble low in his chest when I exercised my dark humor.

    I didn’t miss the man who’d walked out.

    I missed the man who came back.

    The one who was still here.

    And I had a choice not to miss him, if I could get past the fear that he would revert into the man who had walked out if I gave in.

    It was confusing.

    But as Lysander said about Hermia, “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

    If we’re going by Shakespeare, Naomi, didn’t Hamlet’s mama Gertrude say, ”Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; and where little fears grow great, great love grows there”?

    Maybe I shouldn’t be looking to Shakespeare for love advice, since he had a habit of turning every romance into a tragedy, usually with at least one stabbing and a dramatic monologue before the credits rolled.

    “Did you see this?” Aurelie opened the door of Aire Noire, shrieking.

    “See what?”

    Aurelie pushed her phone into my hand. On the screen was a photo of the Aire Noire disy from the Marigny Trunk Show.

    It had—holy mother of God—made it onto Martha Stewart Weddings.

    I read through the short but glowing write up; and said aloud thest sentence, “Aire Noire is the lingerie boutique every bride needs but doesn’t know she’s dreaming of.”

    We both began to scream, “Oh my God,” as we jumped.

    No bridal magazine overview would beplete without mention of Martha Stewart Weddings, which was one of the highest-rated wedding publications in America.

    “You know what.” I gripped her shoulders. “I didn’t pay attention when someone said something, but…now it makes sense. I’ve had tourists stop by, and a bride sent an email asking for opening hours.”

    We shared a split of Ruinart, and when Kadisha came in, she joined us in our celebrations.

    I texted an image of the write-up to Gage.

    Gage replied immediately: Fuck yeah!

    I giggled.

    “What?” Aurelie asked as she sprawled on the daybed in the boudoir.

    “Her beau probably sent her a dick pic.” Kadisha raised her ss and fluttered her eyshes.

    I rolled my eyes and shot her a look of mock exasperation. “If you must know, he said congrattions.”

    Aurelie arched an eyebrow. “He said congrattions? That doesn’t sound like Gage.”

    “Well, he said fuck yeah. Same thing.”

    “That sounds like Gage,” Kadisha agreed.

    The rest of the day I couldn’t help but think of the write-up, because three brides came by looking for lingerie for their trousseau. It was almost as if all the brides in New Orleans had read the article and were now migrating toward Aire Noire like swans in veils—ready to preen and purchase.

    One of them was the kind of bride I usually had no patience for.

    Tall, airbrushed, and clearly fueled by champagne and superiority, she swept in wearing white sunsses and barking orders into her phone about the florist’s ck of vision”.

    She dismissed one of my silk chemises as “too French”, demanded another in “bridal white, not funereal ivory”, and called her maid of honor “useless” for not bringing the mood board.

    On any other day, I might’ve needed a double espresso and a five-minute breathing break in the back room just to avoid saying something sharp.

    But today?

    I didn’t care, ‘cause I was still humming with the echo of that beautifulpliment about Aire Noire in Martha Freaking Stewart Weddings.

    My store was doing awesome, my mood was light, and even Bridezi couldn’t ruin that.

    So, I smiled, handed her a pair of embroidered tulle panties with a pearl button detail, and said, “Try these.”

    Bridezi beamed. “I love it. They scream ‘I’m expensive and hard to impress,’ which is exactly the vibe I’m going for.”

    God help her future husband.

    Gage came in just before closing, a small parchment-wrapped bouquet in hand.

    Not red roses.

    Orange blossoms.

    He said I smelled like them—no surprise since I made my own perfume with essential oils, orange blossoms being the featured scent.

    You couldn’t just pick up these flowers at any corner store—he would have had to look for them or maybe he ordered them.

    He handed them to me and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m proud of you, baby.”

    I hugged the flowers to my chest because my heart felt so full that it wanted to burst out of me.

    That simple sentence cracked something wide open.

    Three dayster, I came back from a vendor meeting and found a slim package wrapped in brown paper on my counter.

    Kadisha waggled her eyebrows. “Mr. Construction Worker came by.”

    Excited, I opened the package and gasped. It was a first-edition print of The Architecture of Old New Orleans—a book I’d mentioned once in passing when we were walking down Royal and I’d pointed out an old mansard roof I loved.

    Tucked into the front cover was a blueprint of the Lafitte House, the one he’d taken me to when I’d wanted to learn more about what he did. I wanted to see beauty the way he did.

    I stared at the photo, my throat tightening. On the back was the date of when he’d taken me there, nearly a year ago. The day I fell in love with him—the day he has told me he felt a connection with a woman he’d never felt before.

    I opened the book. Folded neatly inside was a letter, written in French.

    His French was better than mine, even though it had a Cajun ent, while mine was from three years of high school.

    Je t’ai vue. Je t’ai entendue. Tu m’as bouleversé. Tu as réveillé en moi quelque chose que je croyais avoir enterré depuis longtemps. Je ne veux plus vivre un seul jour sans cette lumière.

    I saw you. I heard you. You moved me. You woke something in me I thought I’d buried long ago. I don’t want to live another day without that light.

    I stared at the words until they blurred.

    “Naomi?” Kadisha asked, concerned.

    I shook my head as I wiped the tears.

    I showed her the book, and she sniffled after she read it. “Well hell, that’s not just violins, it’s the entire orchestra.”

    I let out a wateryugh. “I…can you close up today?”

    “Sure.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay to forgive him.”

    “I know,” I said, and I meant it.

    I texted him and asked him toe over to my apartment when he could. He said he’d be there in fifteen minutes. I told him the door was open.

    There was a knock on my front door before it opened.

    His face dropped when he saw I was crying. “Baby.” He came to me as I sat on the couch and hauled me into his arms. “What happened? Are you okay?”

    “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

    “About what?” He wiped my tears but it was futile because I couldn’t stop crying.

    “I want us…but, I’m scared.” I buried my face in his chest.

    He held me, rubbing his chin on my hair.

    After the crying jag passed, he poured us some wine, and we sat in the nook by the window, surrounded by silence, now waiting to be rewritten.

    “Thank you for the book…and the note…and…everything.”

    For the past months, Gage had been the perfect boyfriend. The irony was that when he hadn’t been perfect, I gave him everything I had, and now, when he was the best boyfriend any woman could want, I was holding back.

    “You’re wee.”

    I drank some wine. He drank some wine.

    We sat in silence for a long moment and then he asked, “What are you scared of, baby? Of loving me again?”

    His eyes held mine.

    I nodded.

    He opened his palm and held it out, waiting for me to give myself to him; and I did, letting his warmth seep into me through that touch.

    “Then let me love you,” he said, smiling, “until you’re no longer afraid.”