Still peeing, and clearly waiting for an answer, and likely has a day’s worth of words bottled up because when I don’t reply immediately, she adds, “Oliver? You with me? Or did you pass out in a fish-induced coma?”
I take stock of the small house. My first impression is that the pictures did it too much justice. “Do you always have conversations while you’re impersonating a racehorse?”
“If someone’s around to listen, yeah. Pretty different from the urinal rules, am I right?”
“Are you baiting me on purpose?”
“No, more habit. I’m working on kicking that, but no promises it’ll happen fast. So. This place yours? If so, you definitely should upgrade the doors so that people who aren’t as comfortable with other people hearing them pee don’t have to.”
“If one’s herealone, it doesn’t matter if there’s a door at all.” I check the fridge and find an open carton of half-and-half, a partial stick of butter, and three cans of orange fizzy water.
“That’s a good point.”
She’sstillpeeing.
Or is she running the water in the sink and messing with me?
It’s Daphne, so?—
So I don’t know.
I honestly don’t.
The Daphne I last saw five or six years ago? She’d be messing with me.
This Daphne?
I haven’t figured her out yet.
She pushes my buttons, but then she drives all day without complaint. One minute, she’s telling me it’ll take me a while to fully adjust to life on my own—trulyon my own—as if she understands me better than I understand myself, and the next, she’s bringing up Margot and demanding answers for why I hurt her sister four years ago.
She’s contradictions and controlled chaos, and I need to stay on my toes.
But I’m so damn tired.
Again.
I check the cabinets and locate the coffee maker that was promised in the rental listing and the packets of premeasured coffee, then turn my attention to the living area beyond the kitchen.
It’s a nook with a plain ivory couch adorned with throw pillows and blankets, plus a small bookshelf of—I tilt my head—romance novels. There’s also a loft that should have the bed in it above the couch.
“How many nights are we staying here?” Daphne asks.
And yes, she hasn’t stopped peeing.
She cannotpossiblystill be peeing.
This has to be her pranking me.
“Does it matter?” I ask back.
“Just getting a sense for what kind of road trip this is.”
“What does that mean?”
“Some road trips are about the journey, and others are about the destination.” She sighs, and the peeing stops. “Somuch better. So which is it? Journey or destination road trip?”
“Does it matter?” I ask again.
