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Fingers fly over phone keyboards as they leave, and a small crowd gathers. I shake hands, autograph things, pose for selfies. Some students even run back to their homes and bring back T-shirts or magazines for me to sign.
Finally, a familiar voice pierces the crowd with an American admonishment delivered in German. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to take candy from strangers?” Zoe’s head of dark, curly hair battles its way toward me. She screeches to a halt at the edge of the crowd.
“What,” she says—no, seethes—at me, “are you doing here?”
“Okay,” I say, snapping the lid back on the cookies. “Show’s over. Time to go. Thanks, everyone.”
There are groans, but I spin Zoe around and march her away from the crowds.
“Hey! Where are we going?”
“Some place private so we can talk about your mom.”
Zoe’s mouth slams closed on a retort, and I let her take the lead. We walk quickly, not getting distracted by people trying to stop us for another selfie or ten, and in a few minutes, we enter a residential building and climb a stairwell up to the second floor and enter an apartment.
There’s a South Asian woman sitting on a couch in the living room whose eyes widen when she sees me.
Zoe switches to English. “Hey, Rhi. Do you mind giving us some privacy?”
I take the lid off the container. “Cookie?”
“Stop with the cookies,” Zoe hisses.
Rhi pauses on her way out and grabs a chocolate chip cookie from the tray. “You’re—”
“Yes.”
“Can I have your—”
“Not right now, Rhi,” Zoe interrupts.
When the door to the bedroom closes behind Rhi, I hold the tray out to Zoe.
“Cook—”
“Chris,” Zoe snaps. “I don’t like anything about you right now.”
“Harsh,” I say. “And I bought these cookies for you. They’re vegan.”
“What am I going to do with three dozen cookies?”
“You’re a university student. Aren’t you programmed to appreciate free food?”
Zoe eyes me.
I gesture at the couch. “Can we sit? That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
She huffs. “Fine.” Zoe sits on the couch, arms crossed, legs crossed, clearly no longer impressed with me.
“Here’s the deal: I need a favor. I want you to fly with me to Austin, give me a makeover, and help me plan a really romantic surprise for your mom.”
Zoe’s jaw drops.
“But,” I say, lifting a finger. “I’m leaving the band.”
Zoe jumps to her feet. “WHAT?”
It takes a few minutes of Zoe pacing and muttering, “Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck,” for her to calm down.
