The sturdiness of that statement throws me off-balance. It’s so dad-like. “Are you sure? What about Rachel…”
“She wants you to stay,” he says. “I’ve already talked to her about it. She’s put out towels and a scented candle by now.”
I laugh, a kind of laugh that comes from delirium and a softening of resolve. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
The happiness in his eyes feels like a gift.
—
Rachel does indeed have the guest room ready for me. The spare but cozy room has a small bedside sconce with an adorable gingham-patterned pleated lampshade. The comforter is fluffy and white and there is an abundance of pillows on the bed. A set of plush sunny-yellow towels are set on the end of the bed. There’s even a bud vase with a single daisy in it on the nightstand. It’s complicated to think of my dad’s new wife taking care of me.
After a quick routine in the adjoining bathroom I fall into bed like dead weight. My phone has been on Do Not Disturb and I finally look at it. Unsurprisingly, I have a slew of missed texts and calls from my family. A conspicuous lack of any from Daniel. I put my phone face down on the nightstand, plug it in.
These are all tomorrow problems.
When I wake up, I am completely disoriented. Sunlight is streaming in through the shades, and I feel like I’ve slept one hundred years. I look at the time—it’s five p.m. Holy crap.
After I put myself together, I head downstairs. It’s quiet and I wonder if Matthew and Rachel are home. It’s Tuesday, they might be at work. But when I step into the kitchen, I see a woman sitting at the kitchen table, on her laptop. She doesn’t notice me right away, so I clear my throat. “Hi.”
Her eyes fly up to me. “Oh, hi!” The woman, who I’m assuming is Rachel, is around my dad’s age. And whoever I imagined set up my cozy guest room is not this woman. She’s got a graphic tattoo on her right bicep and bone structure that would make a sculptor cry, dark brown skin, and a bleached-blond pixie cut.
In other words: She looks way too cool to be married to my dad. She gets up quickly, wearing a vintage Stones tee over black jeans. “You must be Cassia. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Rachel.” She iswarm and comfortable with me, but keeps her distance, a little indication of good boundaries.
“Hi, Rachel, thanks so much for letting me crash upstairs. I’ll be out of your hair soon,” I say, rubbing my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans.
She shakes her head. “Not at all, please stay as long as you’d like. Matt—he’d love that.”
“Is he around?”
“He’s just on his way back from the pizza place—he went out to grab some dinner for us.” She walks over to the fridge. “Would you like a drink? Water or wine? Beer?”
“I’ll take a glass of wine, thanks,” I say, still hovering in the doorway, really needing that drink.
“Please sit,” she says. “Red or white?”
“Red, please.” I take a seat at the round wood table set into a nook in the sunny kitchen. I look around and notice more photographs—cityscapes and portraits of people. “Are you the photographer?” I ask in an attempt at polite conversation.
Rummaging in a cupboard, Rachel says, “Oh, no. That’s Matt. You didn’t know…?” But the question trails off as she realizes that Matthew and I don’t know each other at all. She’s spared more awkwardness because he comes in through a back door then. He’s carrying a pizza box and my mouth literally waters at the scent of cheese and meat. He looks between Rachel and me with a small smile.
“Sorry I wasn’t here to introduce you,” he says to me, placing the box on the counter.
“It’s fine, we’re adults,” I say more sharply than I intend. Rachel slides a glance at Matthew before handing me my glass of wine. I thank her and she smiles at me, squeezes Matthew’s arm, and ducks out into the backyard. Through the window, I can see her walk across their lawn to a large shed out back.
“It’s her studio,” Matthew says, answering my question for me. “Rachel’s an artist.”
“Like you,” I say. “She told me these photos are yours.”
He nods. “Yup. That’s what I studied in art school. I teach it now at the local community college.”
“They’re good,” I say in a voice that’s more matter-of-fact than complimentary.
“Thanks.” He moves the pizza onto the table and sits down across from me. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Like the dead.” I reach for the box, feral with hunger. He gets up quickly and grabs a couple plates and napkins to bring back to the table. We sit and eat for a bit before he asks, “You’re not married yet, right?”
This question is startling. “No, I’m not.”
“Haveyoufound your fated?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. “Is that why Sunny told you about me?”
