I REALIZED THE jeans hadn’t been bad as Lila Kate came walking out of the department store wearing a short black skirt with a sleeveless silver top that tied above her navel. Then the heels. Did she really plan on walking around New Orleans in those heels?
I was still trying to decide if her “sex on the beach” comment had been completely made up or she’d been as serious as she looked when she said it. That was completely irresponsible. If she had then she was even more naïve than I ever thought.
“That’s completely functional,” I drawled trying not to be annoyed that most of her body was on display. I could see men turning their heads to check her out without even looking at them. I knew men. I was one. And I wanted to look at her too.
She lifted one bare shoulder as if I knew nothing. “I thought so.”
She had two other bags in her hands. I was carrying the one full of her toiletries she’d picked up at a pharmacy before we walked to this place. “Don’t get any more shit. That’s all that is going to fit on my bike.”
“This is plenty,” she told me. “Let’s drop it off at the hotel then I want to see Bourbon Street. “
Of course, she did.
We headed back from where we came and she seemed completely fine with the idea of walking in those damn heels. Didn’t they hurt? I decided to let it go and asked something else I’d been putting off. “You talked to your parents?”
I was expecting her to say “yes,” she called them as soon as she got to the room. Instead, she shook her head no.
“They’re probably worried,” I pointed out.
She shrugged. “I’m grown.”
That was not a Lila Kate response. I couldn’t decide if I liked this change or not. I’d grown up knowing there were two things I could depend on. That my dad was never going to make me forget what was expected of me. And that Lila Kate Carter was going to always do the right thing.
She’d just blown that out of the water.
“You’ve been grown awhile. What made you decide to embrace it?”
She didn’t look at me. She kept her gaze straight ahead. “Life.”
That was all she was going to say. Life. As if that made sense. I was in New Orleans babysitting her, and she was dressing like . . . like . . . like a fucking girl I’d pick up in a club, giving me one-word answers, and rebelling against everything she’d ever done.
I pushed for more answers. “What inspired this fit of rebellion?”
The pinched frown that came over her face was interesting. There was something, but I doubted if she was going to tell me. At least not yet. Our journey had just begun. Eventually, she’d tell me.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” was her final answer.