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I jumped, turned, and saw that Wylie was sitting at the table with the newspaper and a cup of coffee. “Oh,” I said, looking around. Moana was playing on the giant TV, but silently. I didn’t understand why this was happening until I took a step closer and saw that Astrid and Artie were sitting side by side on the couch, sharing a bowl of dry Cheerios, watching the movie with headphones on and rapt expressions.
“It’s our deal,” Wylie said, and I turned back to him. “They can watch Moana as long as I don’t have to hear it.”
“I thought it was good,” I offered, then a second later wondered if I should really be giving my opinion about a musical to a professional musician.
“I liked it too,” he said with a grimace. “The first fifty times. It gets old after that.”
I smiled. “I bet.”
“You’re up early,” he said as he stood up from the table and padded into the kitchen. This morning, he looked halfway between the dad I’d seen last night and the rock star who’d first answered the door. He was wearing black jeans and a white tank top with a gray, soft-looking cardigan over it. He was barefoot, with a single necklace—the one that looked like a shark’s tooth, edged in diamonds—and only three rings. “Sleep okay?”
I’d put on my now-clean jean shorts, a tank top I’d tie-dyed in Didi and Katy’s backyard at the beginning of the summer, and over it, the long-sleeve Silverspun T-shirt I’d paid an exorbitant price for. But as I looked at Wylie, pouring himself more coffee, I was immensely relieved I wasn’t wearing my Nighthawks sweatshirt, and we weren’t having to have this conversation while I wore a garment with his face on it. He looked at me expectantly, and I realized a beat too late that he’d asked me a question.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I did.” Tidbit shook himself and wandered away, and I was suddenly very aware that there was nobody else here—well, except for the two small children currently considering the coconut. That it was just me and Wylie Sanders, having a conversation.
“Early bird, huh?” Wylie asked as he opened the hidden fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. “I wish you’d give my kids some pointers. Well,” he amended as he opened the milk and nodded toward the couch, “not these two. They’re up at the crack of dawn every day. But these days you’re lucky if you see Russell before noon. Coffee?”
“Please,” I said, realizing as he said it just how good it sounded. I was also heartened to see the milk out—I liked my coffee about half milk and half coffee, and when I ordered at Starbucks, I was a sucker for the seasonal, pure sugar, no-coffee-required kinds of drinks. I set my things down by the door and crossed over to join him in the kitchen.
Wylie nodded and pulled a mug down from a cabinet. “I’m not really an early riser most of the time,” I said, not wanting to take credit where it wasn’t due. “I just needed to get moving—I have to get to the Vegas bus station so I can catch my bus back to LA.”
Wylie’s brows drew together as he poured me a cup of coffee, too fast for me to tell him to only fill it halfway. “Do you want to ride with us? We’re flying back to LA tonight.”
“Oh, really?” A moment later, I realized what he meant. He wasn’t offering me a seat on a Southwest flight. He was offering me a seat on his private jet.
We call them PJs, Katy said, her tone blasé.
We really don’t, Didi retorted, sounding appalled.
“That’s—so nice of you. I wish I could,” I said, really meaning it. I had a feeling it would probably be the last time a world-famous rock star was going to offer me a ride on a private plane. Or, if I was feeling optimistic about the kind of crowd I’d be running with in the future, the last time for a while. “But I actually have to get back sooner than that. I’m taking a red-eye tonight.”
Wylie nodded. “Ah. I see. Milk?”
“Thank you,” I said, crossing over to the counter to pick up my cup of coffee. He’d left the milk out, and I used the moment that he turned to open the fridge as my opportunity to pour some—okay, half—of the coffee out and fill the rest up with milk.
“What time is your bus?”
“I was thinking I’d get the eight o’clock? But I could probably also make the nine.” I pulled out my phone. “Let me see how long the Uber’s going to take.”
“We can get someone to drive you.”
“Oh—thank you so much,” I said, surprised. Were all rock stars this generous with offering up forms of transportation? Between this, the plane offer, and the helicopter, it really was above and beyond. “But I can just get a car.”
“It’s not a problem,” Wylie said, shaking his head. “Honestly, we try to limit the Ubers that come to the house—trying to keep the address under wraps.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding like this was just a normal thing. I thought about the gates, the WS three feet high. “I mean, I guess you could pretend it was someone else’s house? Like…” I racked my brain for a celebrity. “Will Smith? Um… Wallace Shawn?”
Wylie grinned, and there was suddenly a flash of the rock star I’d seen onstage yesterday, like he’d just flipped a switch or put on a costume. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll start spreading the rumor that Wallace Shawn has a spread outside Vegas.” I laughed at that. “But in all seriousness, it’s a bit of a trek, and I’d feel better about you not riding in a car with a stranger. If anything happened, your mom would never forgive me.” He opened the secret fridge and emerged with a glass bottle of orange juice, the kind that looked fresh-squeezed. His smile faltered as he looked at me. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” I said quickly, wishing my face hadn’t betrayed me. Usually it was only people who knew me well who were able to read my expressions—it was why Didi always wanted to play poker with me. “I just—my mom isn’t exactly…” I took a breath. “She lives in Connecticut.” It was one thing to tell Russell all about my tangle of feelings about Gillian. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to burden a literal member of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame with them. “So I’m not really sure she’d be weighing in on Ubers. That’s all.”
“Got it,” Wylie said, but he gave me a look that meant he’d clocked something and was putting a pin in it. “But we’ll get you a ride to the bus station, deal? And this way you’ll have time for breakfast. Are you hungry?” He set the orange juice on the table and then opened a different cabinet—one that, to my complete shock, contained a second fridge. How many fridges did this kitchen have? And why were they all disguised as something else?
“Um.” I didn’t know what the breakfast protocol was in a place where dinner was eaten at ten at night. I also didn’t want Wylie Sanders to feel like he had to sit here and talk to me, just because I happened to wander into the kitchen before anyone else. He probably had much more important things to do. But the truth was, I was pretty hungry. “I am, actually.”
“Great.” A second later, he was setting the table—two plates, glasses, linen napkins, and forks. I sat down as Wylie headed back to the kitchen, pulling a carton of eggs out of one fridge, then crossed to the other fridge and took out the milk and butter. “Anything you don’t eat?”
“I eat everything. Well, except oysters.”
