After two fun hours at Pat O’Brien’s, Jude and Stacy’s irritation melts into silence and sly glances. And an unanswered question lingers between Mitchell and me. We stumble out of the bar onto Bourbon Street like drunken sailors and push through foolhardy spring-breakers performing brazen acts for Mardi Gras beads from crowds on balconies. The group want to call it a day, but I fear the wanton wraith will return when we settle inside our quiet suite.
I continued dizzily through the lobby, drawn toward the live jazz band in the ‘Bourbon “O” Bar’ inside the hotel.
“What’s gotten into you?” Stacy asks, following on my heels.
“Gh-ghosts,” I say, chuckling. “I’m not ready to end the night. I’m enjurring myself,” I slur. My right foot kicks my left, and my knee dips. I stagger into the club t
