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“I know how to take care of Zoe,” he says, and yes, that gets me to stop and turn around.
Chris catches up to us, and Zoe tilts her head back to look up at him. “You’re so pretty,” she says.
“It’s just pot,” he says, panting slightly. “She can’t OD, and it’s legal. She doesn’t need to go to the hospital, I promise.”
I scowl at him. “She didn’t think she was breathing.”
“Was she breathing? She might be a little paranoid right now, but she just needs time for it to wear off.”
We both look at Zoe, who’s holding a hand up and trying to flick her wrist to twirl the bracelet one-handed.
“She is breathing,” I say slowly. “A bonbon is pot?”
“It’s just laced chocolate,” he assures me.
“Oh.” Oh. Crap. I just freaked out about pot in front of people who I’m pretty sure have done way worse, plus threatened Alwin. My cheeks heat, but I still think the situation is shitty. “So, what, these bonbons were just out, and Zoe ate one?”
Chris shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, probably.” He scratches his cheek, eyes darting from me to Zoe and back. “She might have known, you know,” he says quietly.
“Zoe doesn’t do drugs,” I say firmly.
“Okay,” Chris says, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, Sara. I’ll talk to the band about it.”
The band. He’ll talk to the band about it, and what the hell are they going to do? They’re a rock band, for Pete’s sake. My daughter’s high, I’m wearing a ridiculous outfit that makes me feel ancient, and I’m dating a guy who’s in a band.
Chris is oblivious to my thoughts, though. I hold up my hand. “You’ve got your meeting with the band tomorrow, and I’m going to spend the day with Zoe. Let’s just . . .” I shake my head. “Go back to the hotel, and I’ll text you, okay?”
I nod, and for the first time tonight, I don’t wish that I could kiss him.
In our hotel room,Zoe’s still loopy. We wash her face, change her clothes, and I sit on the couch with her with the TV on. She lays her head in my lap and occasionally says in a sleepy voice, “Am I still breathing?”
Until one time, she says, “I’m sorry I ate the bonbon.”
I sigh and brush some of her curls out of her face. “You didn’t know, sweetheart.”
“I did know.” Her lips turn down in a pout. “They’re just a lot stronger than I’m used to. I thought a half would be okay.”
I close my eyes and sink my head back on the couch.
She keeps talking. “I wanted the full experience. And like, Alwin and the rest of the band would think I was cool.”
“Sweetie,” I say, opening my eyes and looking down at her, stroking her head. “They already thought you were cool.”
“No, they didn’t,” she says, as a tear slips down her nose. She swings her arm around so her hand is in front of her face. “I freaked out when I met Chris. I’ve got wild, crazy hair. I have no boobs. I took too much pot.”
“Why does this sound like a list of things you don’t like about yourself?”
“Because that’s what everyone sees!”
“No, it’s not. We see things about ourselves that no one else does. I promise. Chris has gotten over that first weekend. He’s had tons of people freak out when they meet him. And I’m also sure they are no strangers to people who make mistakes with drugs. You know that Ram OD’ed.”
“But my boobs!”
“I am very certain that no one is paying attention to your boobs.”
“No one? Mom! I thought guys are always looking at boobs.”
“No one in the band,” I correct. I really want to laugh—I mean, it is kind of true about men and boobs, and lord knows I could stop obsessing about how my chest looks, too—but Zoe, with her head in my lap, is getting really upset.
