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“You look pretty different when you’re in the band,” she says. “Zoe showed me some videos. I asked her not to say anything to anyone else, by the way.”
“Thank you.” I set the guitar down on its stand and swivel the stool around to face her again. “We have stage personas, I guess you could say.”
Her eyes travel to my hair, which is swept up in a tidy bun at the back of my neck. It’s a sandy blonde now, my natural color, but it’s usually dyed black. My clothing choices for as long as Sara’s known me have been sedate. If she watched the video of our performance at Eurovision, Sara would have seen me with contouring, vibrant eyeshadow, painted nails, and an all-black outfit.
I wonder what she thinks of it, but I can’t open my mouth to ask.
“I feel stupid,” she admits. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I liked you not knowing.” Her face falls, and I try to explain. “You and I have been here in this”—I wave my hand around to encompass the entire house—“domestic life. At first, it was refreshing, but then I thought you knowing who I am would change things.” When Sara just stares at me, I add, “For the worse.”
I guess we’ll find out how bad the change will be.
Then the smoke alarm goes off.
18
Sara
The bechamel sauceis a burnt crust in the pan. By the time we get the doors and windows open, the pan outside, the alarm turned off, I give up, and we eat peanut butter sandwiches.
Chris eats his quickly and then leaves, and I don’t blame him. My daughter has no chill. She’s been staring at him and pretty much ignoring any attempt Chris or I make at polite conversation.
“Tomorrow we’ll go get mani-pedis and then have lunch out,” I say, trying to talk about—think about—anything other than Chris.
“You would tell me if you were sleeping with him, right?”
“No! I mean, no, I’m not sleeping with him. Yes, I would tell you if I was.” Well, I would have told her before, but if I started sleeping with him now, I’m not so sure I’d tell her anymore. But that’s a ridiculous thought because I’m not going to sleep with him.
“Have you met any of his bandmates?”
“I haven’t—” I cut myself off when I realize who Alwin must be. “Yeah, I met this guy, Alwin.”
Zoe puts her hands over her face. “You met,” her finger twitches next to her eyebrow, “the lead singer?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Zoe. They are just people.” I pick up my plate, empty save breadcrumbs, and stalk over to the sink.
“No, Mom, they are definitely not just people. Alwin was on the cover ofVogue. Chris is incredibly talented, obviously rich, and he’s in a rock band. They party a lot. His drummer OD-ed last year. Why the hell is Chris Rächer here playing house with you?”
The way she delivers the last word has me fuming. “What is that supposed to mean, Zoe?”
“Exactly what I said,” she shoots back. “Why is he here with you in the middle of bum fuck Germany taking on roommates he doesn’t even know and doing yoga and eating vegan food? You’re not exactly—”
Zoe bites her tongue. I take a deep breath and count to ten. “I’m going to go to bed.” It’s early, so early that Zoe opens and closes her mouth in surprise before she nods. “Come on to your room, so you’ll be out of Chris’s way.” I can picture Zoe lingering downstairs until Chris comes out for a smoke break or—heaven forbid—poking around in his wing.
I turn on my heel. Zoe better leave him alone.
When we get upstairs to the guest bedrooms, Zoe flops down on her bed and whips out her phone.
“Don’t tell anyone about him, okay?”
“You already said that,” she mutters under her breath.
I look up at the ceiling and take a deep breath. “I love you,” I say, and she grumbles a vague “I love you” back.
When I get to my room, I know I should shower and get ready for bed, but I bypass all the normalcy and slip under the covers with my phone.
For the next several hours, I go down an insane rabbit hole reading about Chris’s career, his personal life, his bandmates. That there is so much information about one person on the internet is astounding.
