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It smells like lilies and my favorite candles.
I am so confused. My heart’s racing, and my palms are sweating. I leave the door open in case I need to make a quick escape and tiptoe out of the mud room and into the kitchen. It’s empty, but the corner of the living room that I can see has a bunch of lit candles casting a soft glow.
When the rest of the room comes into view, there’s a strange man standing in the center of the room, surrounded by candles and flowers. His eyes meet mine.
I scream.
His mouth opens and eyes widen in panic, and to my left, footsteps thunder down the stairs to the second floor.
“Mom!” Zoe shouts and slides into the room.
“Sara!” someone else says, and it makes me freeze. I know that voice. “Shit,” the man says, dropping the bouquet of roses he’s holding.
What the . . .
His hair is close-cropped, and he’s wearing a pressed white button-up and khaki pants. And loafers.
It takes my brain a minute to process what I’m seeing.
“Chris?”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Sara. We thought this would be romantic, but now I see that it’s—”
“What did you do to your hair?”
He runs a hand over his head. “I cut it off.”
“Mom,” Zoe says, turning my attention away from Chris. “He left the band.”
“WHAT?” I cover my face with my hands because this is a lot to process. “Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck,” I whisper under my breath, the mom in me still trying not to cuss in front of my grown daughter.
Zoe’s face, twisted in concern, leans into my view. “Uh, Chris? I think you broke my mom.”
“Sorry, Sara. I thought you would recognize me.”
“You thought—I would have, but it’s dark! And you’re supposed to be in London. And have you ever even worn loafers before in your life?”
Chris’s lips flutter upward as he tries to contain a smile. “No, in fact, I haven’t.”
My heart rate is calming down, but I realize I’m sweating under my layers, so I take my jacket off and toe off my shoes. Just wiggling my toes already makes me feel better.
“Okay,” I start. “Let’s try this again. What’s this about you leaving the band?”
“After you left Germany, I realized that I would rather have you than the fame. Your life is different from mine, but it’s a good one.” Chris’s eyes flick to Zoe, who’s tiptoeing out of the room. “You care deeply about the people you love, and I want that.”
“But you just wrote all these great songs, and you are so excited about the next album.”
“My part is mostly done. The album will credit me as a songwriter, and I’ll get paid as such, but someone else will play my songs with the band.”
“What will you do?”
Chris tosses the roses onto one of my upholstered chairs and gently pulls my hands away from my face. “I reached out to South by Southwest to see if there was an opportunity to work with them here, and I will meet with them this week. I will also continue to write songs. I have connections in the industry and can write for other performers.”
“But I thought you kind of hated the writing part?”
Our fingers twine together, and Chris gives a gentle tug, bringing us close enough that our chests touch, and I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. “It’s a love-hate relationship with the writing part. Sometimes it’s really hard,” he acknowledges. His forehead meets mine, and he closes his eyes. “But then you break through and write something amazing, pulling your inspiration from all sorts of places like the beautiful woman who stole your heart.”
His lips brush mine. “I love you, Sara Wallace.”
