Page 38 of Death Card

As soon as I text her, she steps out of the door on the left. Her usual 3B curls are straightened in silky layers with a bejeweled headband. Her charm bracelet glimmers from her wrist as she reaches for the passenger-side door. No triple-moon necklace this time. With a megawatt smile, she slides inside.

“Nice car!” she remarks.

I tuck my braids behind my ears, suddenly self-conscious of my fuzzy new growth. “Girl, you don’t have to lie.”

She motions to the green steering-wheel cover and the mini cactus hanging from the rearview mirror. “It’s got charm, and it’s way cleaner than my old car.”

“Oh, you should have seen the amount of trash my brother left in the back seat. I tossed it all before I came.”

“Well, I think it’s still cute, like you.”

My cheeks warm beneath Joelle’s gaze as I turn on my blinker and merge onto the busy street.

“So, where are we headed?” she asks. “I can listen to all the guidebooks and blogs on where I should visit, but the locals know best.”

“There’s a restaurant my grandparents loved over near City Park. Have you been there yet?”

“Nope,” she says. “Although I can stare at the trees in Audubon Park all day and still not get enough of them.”

“The live oak trees are pretty impressive,” I agree. “City Park has plenty of those, too. I was thinking we could eat and then walk around the botanical garden.”

“That sounds fun!”

She’ll likely change her tune after I’m done questioning her.

We sit in companionable silence for the rest of the drive. Joelle is glued to the window, seemingly committing every corner of the city to memory.

Mama Anne’s Seafood is located a few blocks from Lake Pontchartrain, in an unassuming squat building. The parking lot is bustling, which is normal for a Saturday at lunchtime. I find a spot near the back because the last thing I need is a dent from someone opening their car door on mine.

I extend my hand to take hers before quickly smoothing it against my jeans.This isn’t a date.I have a feeling it’s a mantra I’ll need to keep repeating in my head for the rest of the day. I wish I could take her hand in mine. Her delicate fingers would feel good wrapped between my own.

But this isn’t meant to be that type of story. Mine is a tragedy, not a rom-com.

The smell of oil hits you before you’ve even stepped one foot inside the restaurant. The interior isn’t much, especially when compared to some of the higher-priced restaurants in the French Quarter. Some of the booths have holes in them, and a couple of the chair legs are wobbly. The server might hand you a sticky menu or one that’s falling apart at the corners. But the food is what matters, and the food isgood.

The hostess seats us at a table near the wall. Sure enough, my menu looks like it has a dried ketchup stain in the corner. Joelle,to her credit, doesn’t seem to mind. She looks around at tables covered with full plates of steaming food and booths of chattering people smiling ear to ear, and I can practically see her mouth begin to water.

“Oh, this food is gonna slap, isn’t it?” Her tone is nearly giddy. “All right, what do you recommend?”

I study the menu myself, trying to see it through the eyes of a newcomer. “You can’t really go wrong with anything. They’ve got po’boys and gumbo, which are both pretty good. The catfish platter is my Gramps’s favorite.”

“Your grandfather seems like a wise man—he hired me, after all.” She sets her menu down and roots around in her purse, pulling out a travel-size hand sanitizer. “Plus, I love seafood, so I’ll try the catfish.”

The waitress shows up a moment later to take our orders. A catfish platter for Joelle and a shrimp po’boy with a side of coleslaw for me.

As the wait for our food begins, I realize I’ve never asked her the myriad of basic questions one would usually bring up when they’re first meeting someone. The last thing I want is to slip up and mention her tennis prowess when we’ve never talked about it. The first rule of internet stalking is not to give yourself away. I don’t want to come off as aggressive in my questioning as I did in the store.

“So,” I begin, pausing to take a long swig of my sweet tea. “You’re from Massachusetts, right?”

She chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

Joelle places both elbows on the table and rests her face in herhands. “I see you consulted one of the many ‘questions to ask on a first date’ lists floating around the internet. Number one: Ask about where they’re from.” Her eyes are luminous, sparkling with a warm playfulness that sends my stomach on an Olympic gymnastics routine.

“What—No, I was just…making conversation.”

And this isn’t a date, although something stops me from saying it aloud.