My Favorite Souvenir(35)

“Oh. Okay. That sounds like fun.”

“I walked over to the tourism office a few blocks away and asked if they knew any good areas to take pictures. The woman I spoke to happened to be into photography as a hobby.” He unfolded a map. “She circled a bunch of places she thought you might like. Most of them are not too far from different stops along the bus-tour route.”

“That was really thoughtful. Thank you. I can’t wait to check out the city some more. But what about you? If we’re doing an afternoon of photography for me, we should do something you like to do, too.”

Milo wiggled his brows. “We’ll do that when we’re back here in three months.”

I laughed. “I’m serious. This is both of our adventure.”

“I did make some plans for me, too. On my way home from getting the coffees, I passed a bar that had a sign hanging in the window about an open mic night tonight. So I signed up.”

“You’re going to sing again?”

He smiled. “I am. As much as I enjoyed our duet, I think it’s time I got up there on my own. It’s been a long time coming.”

I smiled. “You’re full of shit that you enjoyed our duet. But that’s okay. I’m excited you’re going to sing again. Sounds like you had a productive morning while my lazy ass was in bed.”

“I made one other plan for us.”

“What’s that?”

He locked eyes with me. “I booked a room for us, three months from today.”

My heart started to race. “Oh wow! That’s so exciting. What’s the date?”

“You’re never going to believe it. I had to count ninety days from today three times to make sure I’d gotten it right.”

“Why? What’s the date?”

Milo deadpanned. “Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh my God!” I clapped my hands together. “That’s totally perfect.”

“I thought so, too. Unless of course you stand me up in three months. Then that would be just sad.”

“Valentine’s Day. It’s...” I shook my head. “It’s…I don’t even have words for what it is.”

Milo smiled sheepishly. “I do. Too damn far away.”

? ? ?

“If we get off in the Garden District…” Milo held up the city map he’d picked up this morning at the visitors’ center and pointed to an area. “The woman said there are a lot of places to take pictures. There’s a neighborhood with big, old Victorian mansions, and she said there are a few cemeteries people like to photograph in, too.”

“Ooooh. That sounds good. I was looking at the welcome book in the hotel yesterday and saw some pictures of those mansions, and I love cemeteries.”

After two more stops, we hopped off the bus and walked a few minutes through the Garden District. The area was gorgeous. Lots of ornate period homes with tall oak canopies draping over the streets and colorful hibiscus and crepe myrtle dotting manicured lawns. Some of the mansions had plaques outside, and the houses dated back almost two-hundred years. I could feel the history as we walked around.

“When I was a kid, I wanted a Victorian dollhouse more than anything,” I said. “It was the first item at the top on my Christmas list from ages five to eleven.”

“Oh yeah? Did you finally get one?”

I shook my head. “My parents didn’t buy me large or fragile toys because we’d have to leave them behind when we moved. I mentioned it to my ex once, though, and he bought one of those kits to make me one. It was actually really sweet.”

“He bought one of those kits? Did he build it for you?”

“No. But I guess it’s the thought that counts.”

Milo made a face. “Anyone can swipe their credit card to buy something, Mads.”

“I know. But…” I shrugged. “Whatever.”

I realized it had been dumb of me to bring up Brady. Yet again, I’d proven Milo’s point that I still thought about him. I guess I had three months to stop that from happening. A change of subject was definitely in order.

Looking around at all the beautiful architecture had me wondering what type of lifestyle Milo led at home. “Do you live in an apartment building or a house back in Seattle?”

“An apartment. It’s a two-story walk up.”

“What does your living room look like?”

Milo’s forehead wrinkled. “My living room? What do you mean? It’s square. Has a couch and some other furniture, I guess.”

“What’s on the walls?”

“On the walls?”

“Yeah. Like, what kind of art do you have hanging?”

He seemed to give it some thought. “I don’t have anything on the walls.”

“Nothing at all? How come?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I never thought of my living there as permanent.”

We stopped in front of a stunning Victorian home. The entire house was whitewashed in a soft yellow with tons of ornamental blue trim. An old man sat on a rocking chair on the wraparound porch.

I waved and called to him. “Your home is beautiful. Would it be okay if I took some pictures of it?”

“Help yourself. What’s the point of beauty if you don’t share it with others?”