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I lead us toward Chris’s car while asking about her trip here. As we approach, I press the clicker to unlock it.
“Whoa, Mom. What are you driving?” Zoe stops and stares.
“This is Chris’s car,” I say. Yeah, it’s definitely not my taste in cars, and I cringe every time I fill it up at the gas station. The first time I had to call Chris because while I could guess that diesel in German was diesel in English, I wanted to make sure that benzin was gasoline before I filled the tank.
“Okay, one: this is a gas-guzzler, so picturing you behind the wheel is making my brain explode. Two: this is a G-Wagon.”
“A G-Wagon?” I stop and look at the car, tilting my head. It’s one of those kinds of cars that looks like it should be off-roading, but I’m one hundred percent confident it’s never even touched mud, like most Jeep-looking SUVs I’ve seen around Austin. While I haven’t enjoyed the gas mileage, I have enjoyed the space in the back for groceries, but I am completely baffled by the lack of cup holders. The manufacturer is Mercedes, but other than that, I know just as much about cars as you would expect from someone who, until recently, had owned a Honda Accord for the past ten years.
“What’s a G-Wagon? And, excuse me, when did you become car savvy?” I open my door and climb in, starting the car up while Zoe gets in her side. We both have to stretch a little to climb into our seats.
“One of my roommate’s friends is big into cars.” Zoe wiggles in the seat. Once she has her seatbelt on, I pull out of the spot. “Leather. Fancy. Mom, Chris just lets you drive this car? You know it’s like a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car, right?”
Zoe and I both pitch forward when I accidentally press on the brakes too hard. I’m half in, half out of the parking spot.
“What?”
“You know Chris is rich. Your guest room is so fancy.”
“Yeah, but I can’t crash his guest room!”
“Challenge accepted,” Zoe teases—I hope. She reaches forward and presses on a flat surface of the console, which pops up and reveals two tiny cup holders.
“How did you know that was there?” I ask as I inch the car forward—carefully—and do an approximately twelve-point turn to get out of the spot without coming too close to any other cars.
Zoe shrugs. “Lucky guess.” After a few moments of fussing with it, she can’t get her water bottle to fit in the cupholder, so she closes it up and holds the bottle in her lap. “What did you say Chris does again?” she asks while running a hand over the dashboard.
“He’s an artist. The place he’s renting is pretty nice, so I guess it makes sense that he has a fancy car too.”
“What kind of art?” For part of her architecture coursework, Zoe has had to take art and art history classes, though I’m sure that nothing she’s studied has been modern, so what are the odds that she would be familiar with Chris’s work?
“You can ask him all about it,” I tell her as we pull onto the B500.
The trip is quiet, Zoe taking in the sights and scenery. I want to point out everything I can to her, wanting her to like this little town I’ve chosen to be my home for the time being. Instead of taking the Michaelstunnel, which goes underground, I drive through town, pointing out the architecture as we pass by and asking questions.
She does her best to answer them but laughs when I ask her about the style. “Mom, I’m studying environmental design. And my classes on the History of Architecture have been very classic-centric so far—Roman and Greek ancient stuff. I don’t know much about German styles.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “As long as you’re learning something.”
“I am,” she assures me and then tells me about her latest studio project.
When we pull into the driveway of the house, Zoe gawks. “What. Is. Happening. This isn’t where you’ve been living.”
I laugh and get out of the car.
“Shut up. Oh my god. This guy is so rich.” She turns to me. “Mom, you have to date him.”
“Hush,” I say, glancing at the windows like Chris is lurking in one watching us and listening. “I’m not dating him.”
“But he’s rich. And you told me he’s hot.” Zoe slams the car door.
“I did not say hot. And we have absolutely nothing in common,” I say as I open the door into the kitchen.
“Okay, Aunt Jade says he’s hot. Have you at least seen him naked?”
“Oh my god! Hush, you. You’ve been spending too much time with Aunt Jade.”
“You have seen him naked,” she crows.
