The first time I saw someone scream “STELLAAAAA!” at the top of their lungs in front of a packed crowd, I thought they were having a breakdown.

Now, I never missed the Ste Screaming Contest.

The Tennessee Williams Literary Festival was one of my favorite weekends in the city. Writers, poets, ywrights, professors, actors, and fans filled the French Quarter, holding on to the unspoken belief that art would save the world.

The festival was a tribute to a man who loved this city deeply, and whose heartbreak bled into every line he ever wrote. I felt that more this year than ever before.

“This is going to be epic,” Aurelie whispered as Jules, one of our crew from R Bar, stepped up to the roped-off area on the street near Jackson Square and took a deep breath.

We were shoulder to shoulder with a few dozen other festival-goers, all squinting under the bright spring sun.

Tourists had gathered too, drawn in by the sheer weirdness of it: grown adultspeting to scream “Ste!” with as much tortured, theatrical yearning as they could muster.

“He’s been practicing.” Simone, a painter from Bywater who wore a crown of tiny, sculpted birds, grinned. “Like…in front of mirrors. In the shower. In my car.”

“That’smitment.” I took a sip of coffee, needing the caffeine as I’d woken up only an hour ago, thanks to yet another crappy night.

At least I didn’t have to open the store today. My part-time employee Kadisha was taking care of Aire Noir while I flitted around the Quarter with my friends.

Each participant got three chances to scream Ste—and the organizers egged them on with dialog from Streetcar Named Desire or by heckling them.

Jules, number three, stepped in front of the table onto the makeshift stage. He cupped his mouth and let out the most guttural, operatic “STEELLLLAAAAAA!” I’d ever heard.

People pped. A few cheered. Someone whistled.

“He sounds like a dying alligator in a Shakespeare y,” Aurelie muttered.

“That was his first try. I wonder if he has juice for more,” I mused.

Simone gave me a sly look. “Oh, he’s got juice alright!”

The organizer said something we couldn’t hear clearly, and Jules went for round two. This time he was dramatic but didn’t scream so loudly.

And then, after a pause, he went for gold, cause as he screamed, he went on his knees, a Marlon Brando, and ripped open his shirt. “Steaaaaaaaa.”

There was silence for a beat and then a whole hell of a lot of apuse.

“Jules, my man, that was something.” Aurelie pped his shoulder when he joined us, pumped.

He took the coffee from my hand and sipped, made a face. “How do you drink it this bitter?”

“’Cause I’m hardcore, baby,” I replied.

Simone hugged Jules. “You’re so gonna win!”

He didn’t win, but he was one of the honorable mentions, which he took as a win. Jules was positive like that.

After the contest, we wandered across Jackson Square, past the tarot readers, the street musicians ying swing under the iron balconies, and the scent of fresh beis curling through the air like a delicious love letter.

I knew every crack in the sidewalks, every faded sign, every alleyway that felt like a secret.

New Orleans didn’t apologize for who she was. She celebrated it. That’s why I’d stayed—built my life here.

When I first came to New Orleans, I’d worked, like so many others did, in the service industry. I bartended while I went tomunity college—not because I had a clear n, but because I knew one thing for certain: I wanted something that was mine.

How did I have the courage to dream that big when I had nothing? Who knows.

Maybe it was survival.

Maybe it was wanting to honor my parents, who loved me.

Maybe I just needed to prove that the girl no one rooted for could build a good life.

I stumbled into Aire Noire the way most beautiful things in my life have happened—unexpectedly.

I’d been hired part-time to help with the window disys and the weekend rush. The owner, Madame Marguerite, was a sharp, elegant woman who wore red lipstick like it was armor and had a wicked sense of humor under her couture. She taught me the art of pairing lingerie, not just by size or color but by mood.

When she decided to retire three yearster, she pulled me aside and said, “You’ve got good bones, mon coeur. You see women the way they want to be seen.span”

She could’ve sold the building to a developer or folded entirely. Instead, she gave me a deal I could just barely manage—one that only made sense if you factored in faith.

I took it. Never regretted it.

For the first year, I ran the shop for her. By the second, I’d scraped together enough money to buy her out, and she gave it to me for a steal. Now, I rented the store and my apartment from Madame Marguerite, who was somewhere in Cannes, sipping Kir Royals and living her best life.

Someday, I dreamed of buying the building from her.

We ended up at Fives, the bar just off Jackson Square, tucked beside a tourist store that sold aprons that said: “It’s not going to shuck itself,” and an array of packaged spices to take home and try a hand at making authentic jambya.

The best thing about Fives was that they liberally offered happy hour rates to some of us locals. It was moody and cozy with a wraparound bar. All four of us settled onfortable barstools as we said hello to our friend yton, who worked there.

“What’s up, baby?” He leaned over and kissed Simone’s cheek.

“Jules here was an honorable mention at the Ste Screaming contest,” Simone gushed.

“No kidding!”

yton gave Jules a drink on the house.

“Thanks, man,” Jules said with mock seriousness.

He held up the ss like it was an award and gave his victory speech, “I’d like to thank Mr. Marlon Brando and bourbon, and Simone, my darling, for helping me reach this pinnacle of sess.”

We cheered him.

We ordered a couple dozen oysters and a bottle of champagne.

I felt light in my heart.

Yes, I was going to be okay, I thought, suddenly feeling deliciously happy.

I took a sip of champagne, still musing over everything, when my eyesnded on the man responsible for my sleepless nights.

Gage!

My breath hitched.

Just like that, the sweet buzz of happiness curdled, turning sharp and sour, like champagne left too long in the sun until it tasted more like vinegar than celebration.

He was at a high table in the back with a guy I didn’t recognize—tall, dark-skinned, well-dressed in a way that said money but didn’t scream it.

Gage looked rxed. Smiling. He hadn’t seen me.

The universe was messing with me!

But then again, I wasn’t surprised to bump into him. This city was a thousand winding streets and still small as a coin when it came to fate.

“Do we need to leave?” Aurelie asked gently, sliding her gaze toward him.

“No.” I straightened my shoulders. “I’m fine.”

The guy with Gage noticed us first. He said something to Gage, nodded in our direction, and then, after a moment, they both started walking over.

I felt my chest tighten.

Jules gave me a look that said, “You want me to cause a distraction?”

I gave a slight shake of my head.

“Naomi.” Gage had his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Nice to see you.”

He also greeted Aurelie, Jules, and Simone.

“We’re here for the Tennessee Williams Festival,” Simone told him cheerfully, aware that I was still shaky when it came to Gage. She showed off, again, about Jules’s honorable mention.

“You never miss the festival,” he murmured, his eyes on mine.

I swallowed.

The man next to Gage elbowed him, and he grunted. “Right, everyone, this is Ezra. We went to LSU together. He’s visiting from DC.”

As Ezra said hello to everyone and Aurelie mentioned how she’d just been in DC for a gig, Gage smiled at me. “You look lovely.”

I’d made the effort because Madame Marguerite always said that if you were having a bad day, dressing up and wearing a red lip made everything better. I’d forgone the red lip, which I felt would be too much for the daytime, but I was in a cream dress with bows on my shoulders that held it up. I wore gold hoops, and I’d done my hair up with a silk scarf.

Jules asked Gage about some work he was doing on Chartres when his friend Ezra leaned against the bar right next to me. “Naomi, I’ve heard lovely things about you…and your store.”

There was something about the way he said it. Not casual. Not polite. Like he knew who I was to Gage, or rather what I had been.

I made a nomittal sound, not sure what to say and how to handle this. I didn’t know this man from Adam, and he was standing too close, and…I couldn’t put a finger on it, but he was making me ufortable.

“I must stop by and check out your lingerie,” he continued.

Okay then! He was hitting on me, despite knowing about Gage and me.

“Ah…yes, we’re on Royal. We’re open today.”

“But you’re not there.” He was flirting. Hard.

“No, I’m not,” I said tightly. “But the store is open.”

He leaned back, resting against the counter, his eyes lingering on my face. “You know, Gage didn’t tell me you were a hot Creole goddess.”

My smile froze.

“Oh?” I said carefully.

Gage seemed to finally catch on that his friend was monopolizing me and turned his attention to us. “Ezra.” There was a warning in his tone.

“Since you are free…and not at the store, maybe I could buy you a drink.” Ezra grinned.

Something sharp and cold settled under my ribs. Was Gage passing me around to his friends? Is that what he was telling them? I was just a hot woman he knew. A warm body, a pretty face.

A fuck.

My fingers tightened around the stem of my champagne ss.

“I’m afraid I’m busy.”

Ezra chuckled. “Maybe next time then.”

Gage nced at me, his mouth in a tight line. I wanted to believe he looked ufortable—but I wasn’t letting myself get sucked in.

Not again.

They didn’t stay long. Gage mumbled something about having an appointment.

Ezra gave me onest smile before they left. Gage nodded toward me and turned away.

He didn’t say goodbye.

When the door swung shut behind them, I reached for an oyster and swallowed it, feeling a strange sense of doom suffusing me.

Later, when Aurelie and I walked back toward Royal Street, weaving through the festival-goers and the booze-drenched streets, she asked, “You okay?”

“I will be,” I assured her.

And I meant it.

But not tonight.

I was going to go home, take a bath in my gorgeous wfoot bathtub that Madame Marguerite had bought for the apartment because it was so French, and work to forget the look in Gage’s eyes when his friend flirted with me like he knew that Gage had fucked me; and now, since he was done with me, I was somehow avable to his friend.

It made me feel dirty and used.

It also hurt. A lot.