Her face looks thoughtful as her eyes drift back and forth between her hand enveloped in mine and my eyes, and just when I think she might jerk away and run out of here screaming, she relaxes a little, pressing her lips together before giving me a slight smile. “I feel it too, Curtis. I do. But there’s something about me you need to know before you go wanting to make commitments, because in the end, I can’t give you what you want out of life. I can’t give anyone what they want in the end. Not even myself.”
I squeeze her hand, pulling her closer across the table. “So why don’t you take me to the more adult destination you promised me, and let’s have a grownup talk about everything, and you let me decide just what I want out of life,” I suggest gently, and she nods.
Without another word, she weaves her fingers through mine, picks up her drink with her free hand, and leads me out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. The street isn’t as crowded as it was before, still full of life and partying, but not nearly as packed. It makes it a lot easier to travel down the walkway to the next place she wants to show me.
We walk in heavy silence. Not exactly uncomfortable, but with an air of anticipation of a serious conversation. I’m both excited to learn more about her, and anxious to hear what she seems to think is a deal breaker when it comes to herself. In my mind, there is nothing this woman could tell me that would make me not want to be with her. Not just in my head, but in my heart and soul as well. There’s nothing we couldn’t overcome. No demon I wouldn’t fight for her. Whatever she has to say, I’ll just have to convince her it doesn’t matter. All that matters to me is her.
We walk until it seems like we’re at the end of Bourbon Street. It’s quiet down here, and dim, almost eerily so, after being in such a loud and bright environment. We come to a small brick building with several doors lining the front and sides, which are all open. I read the wooden sign hanging beneath the covered doorway, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, Piano Bar & Lounge.
It’s dark inside, to the point I’m not really sure if it’s still open, until a couple walks out one of the doors lining the front before heading in the direction we came.
“Lafitte? As in…?” I prompt, wondering if it’s the same Lafitte her best friend made a huge discovery about a few years ago, and let Erin lead me inside the little building.
“Yep. According to the legends around here, this place is the oldest structure to be used as a bar in the entire United States. It was built in the early 1700s. So that means it survived all those fires we learned about on the tour. Later on in the 1700s, they say it was used by John Laffite and his brother Pierre for their smuggling operation. Their pirate friends would bring all their stolen goods and store them here to avoid all the government fees and shit. Jean used the building as a blacksmith shop, which was the perfect cover,” she explains as we lean against the bar.
There are several people here, but nothing like the crazy crowd from earlier up the street. The atmosphere is almost soothing, even if it is a little creepy. The entire place is deeply dim, with the only light coming from candles on each table. There are dark wooden beams spaced out running along the entire ceiling, and dead center on the bar is an ancient brick double-sided fireplace that looks like it could crumble and collapse at any second. It looks like we’re on the set of a period-piece movie, and I’m pretty sure if I glanced toward the other side of the bar, Jack Sparrow would be rallying a crew to go steal back his Black Pearl. I decide this is my favorite place we’ve been so far in all of New Orleans.
I pull Erin close as we wait for the bartender, nuzzling her ear when I lean down to tell her, “Thank you for bringing me here. This place is amazing.”
She snuggles closer to me. “It’s one of my all-time favorite spots. And wait ‘til you try the drink.”
Just then, the bartender makes it to us and asks what we’d like. “Two Voodoo Daiquiris please,” Erin answers, giving me an excited wiggle of her eyebrows and making me smile.
“Coming right up,” he tells us, and turns away to create our concoction using unmarked bottles before filling the rest of the large white plastic cups using a slushy machine. When he sets them in front of us, I hand over my credit card, signing the slip when he places it in front of me.