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I ignore my daughter. “Chris?” I call out. He doesn’t answer, and the house is quiet. It’s early evening, so he’s usually in his studio anyway. “He’s probably working. You’ll meet him later, but for now, let me show you your room.”
There’s a lot of gawking and squealing, though, at one point, Zoe wrinkles her nose. “How old is this guy? You’d have to be, like, in your sixties to enjoy this decorating style.”
“It’s a rental,” I say as I lead her up the stairs. I show her the guest room and let her freshen up while I go back downstairs. When Zoe joins me, I’ve got a bottle of wine open and am prepping for dinner.
“What are we making tonight?” Zoe asks, helping herself to the second glass I poured.
“Those wild mushroom crepes you love and some roasted veggies.”
“Yum.” Her eyes light up. “What can I do?”
An hour later, the vegetables are in the oven, we have a stack of crepes, and Zoe is starting the vegan Bechamel sauce. A door opens and closes in Chris’s wing over the soft music we’ve got playing on the Bluetooth stereo.
“Chris!” I call out. “Zoe’s here.”
“Coming,” he calls back.
The pan for the sauce is just hot enough, so I add the flour into the oil and stir. I have to keep a close eye on this lest the flour burn. Zoe’s sitting at the counter, sipping her second glass of wine, when Chris steps into the room behind her. “Chris, this is my daughter, Zoe,” I say, turning my attention back to the pan. “Zoe, this is my roommate, Chris.”
Chris’s low voice says, “Hello,” and a glass shatters.
17
Chris
Zoe doesn’t seemto realize that she’s shattered her wine glass all over the kitchen floor, but Sara steps into mom mode.
“Oh my god,” Zoe says. Sara doesn’t notice that Zoe’s looking at me and not the glass on the floor.
“Don’t move. I’ll get the broom.”
“Oh my god,” Zoe repeats, her fingers pressed into her lips, and I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that this would be a thing this weekend. Having Sara treat me like a normal person has lulled me into a false sense of security, and that security is being yanked out from underneath me.
“Mom,” Zoe says, her tone soft. When her mother doesn’t respond—can’t hear her over the music and the clatter of cleaning supplies in the utility closet, I assume—Zoe raises her voice. “Mom! MOM!”
“I’m coming. Relax, sweetie.”
Zoe stands up abruptly and then shrieks when her bare feet come in contact with a piece of glass. I don’t have shoes on either.
“Stop!” Sara cries. “You’re not wearing shoes. Why is no one wearing shoes?” she laments, never mind that she herself is barefoot.
Zoe’s back on the stool, fanning herself and quietly chanting under her breath, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” I think she’s forgotten about the glass in her foot now.
Brusque and business-like, Sara sweeps a path from the closet to where I stand, and then she hands me the broom and the dustpan. “You, sweep.”
I sweep. Zoe stares at me. And Sara bends down to attend to her daughter’s injured foot.
“Mom,” Zoe whispers.
“Yeah, sweetie?”
“Why is Chris Rächer here?”
Sara’s brow wrinkles. “Who’s Chris Rächer?”
I clear my throat. “That’s my stage name.”
“Your stage name?”
