Page 19 of Play With Me

“I didn’t know she went by Isa,” I said, trying to sound normal.

“She always has,” Has said, still studying me.

“Hasan is the only one who ever called her Lou,” Vivian added. “He was embarrassed to have a girl for a best friend.”

I nodded and smiled tightly. My control was dissolving, and I needed air. “I’m going to step outside for a sec, Hasan. I’ll be right back.”

“The presentation starts in ten minutes, young man,” Vivian called after me.

I heard Hasan ask her why Lou would be seated up front as I headed for the doors, but my head was too fucked up to wait for the answer.

In the courtyard, I bummed a cigarette from a kid behind some tall shrubs, the civilian equivalent of a smoke pit if I’d ever seen one, and burned that thing halfway down the stick in one desperate pull. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.

He looked nervous. “You alright?”

Do I look alright? “No, my dude. I am not alright.”

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked bravely. I finished the first cigarette and gestured for another, pulling a fiver out of my wallet for him. He even lit it for me.

“Good service,” I mumbled around the cigarette, peeling another five off as a tip. “So, I just found out that the chick I’ve been jerking it to these last two months is the same chick I jerked it to for months after my dad died, a year and a half ago.”

The kid shook his head. “Sounds weird, bro.”

“You’re telling me.” I exhaled, blowing smoke away from him. What was he, twelve? “It’s not a bad thing per se, but when you get to be my age, accidentally falling in love with the same woman twice without knowing it is kind of a mindfuck.” I took another drag. “Plus, I think my roommate is carrying a torch for her, too, which makes her off-limits. But if I’d shot my shot back when I first met her, I wouldn’t have had to give a shit about the roommate, you know?”

He shrugged, so I clarified, “I’m retroactively pissed at myself.”

I’d thought about Isa a lot after that night, but never regretted not getting her number until this moment. At the time, I’d been grief-stricken, a total mess, and she was this perfect memory amid the devastation of losing my father.

“You going to marry her then?” he asked. I caught the faint sound of applause inside, signaling the end of my smoke break. Way to hit me where it hurts, kid.

“Nope,” I said, popping the P. I stubbed out my cigarette and pushed off the wall with a resigned sigh. “She doesn’t ever want to get married.”

I blew the last of the smoke from my lungs, tapped my fist to his, and ruffled his hair even though he tried to slap my hand away. Then I took the stairs two at a time and slipped through the doors.

I found my seat quietly. Has had refilled my drink while I was outside wishing I’d never met him.

Now that’s a lad you can count on.

The presentation was mostly boring, self-congratulatory bullshit acknowledging big donors and fellow highbrow art snobs. When the last speaker was introduced, Hasan shifted and straightened in his seat. He drank the last of his cocktail, while his knee bounced under the table.

“Tonight we’d like to celebrate a champion of art access for the children of our city,” the presenter started. “This person has single-handedly transformed our grant program, funding it with dedication, discipline, and ingenuity. The result speaks for itself. Roughly one hundred fifty thousand children living below the federal poverty line received Makers’ Kits this year alone.”

The room erupted into applause. The speaker had to quiet them down. “That’s one hundred percent of kids ages 6 to 13 who received top-of-the-line paintbrushes and paints, modeling clay, sketchbooks and pencils, string, scissors, and beads.”

The crowd went wild—hands over heads, clapping, cheering, and Vivian Reyes walked out on stage. I looked to Hasan. Tears welled up in his eyes as he clapped.

The speaker raised her voice over the crowd again. “Please allow me the great honor to announce the recipient of this year’s Luminary Arts Foundation Lifetime Achievement Award—the youngest in our history… Louisa May Ford.”

The applause was deafening. Hasan broke into a sob beside me, overcome but still clapping as hard as he could. I placed my hand on his back and offered a napkin, which he used uselessly to wipe away the tears. God, the love was palpable. I got a little choked up on his behalf as I watched her take the stairs, accept the award from Vivian, and hug her tightly. Vivian rubbed Lou’s back and pushed her hair from her face.

Several board members shook Louisa’s hand or hugged her, but the crowd only quieted when she stepped up to the podium.

“They told me to prepare a speech,” she said, sniffling, “but I never listen.” She grinned at the audience. Vivian laughed from behind her, and the room rippled with amusement.

“Instead,” Louisa continued, “I want to tell you a story about a baby girl and the person who showed her dedication, gave her discipline when she needed it, and always celebrated her creativity—even when it got her kicked out of a hard-fought placement.”

The spotlights made her blond hair and champagne-colored dress shimmer. Her nose and eyes were a little red, mascara smudged, but she looked angelic.