“I’m glad you came,” she says, standing closer than the room requires.
“I’m glad the couch missed me.”
“The couch isn’t the only one,” she says, and the room goes very quiet. Her eyes drop to my mouth and stay there a beat too long. I should say something. I don’t. She takes a half step in, then another, close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off her, her gaze flicking down to my lips like she’s arguing with herself and losing.
She closes the last of the distance and kisses me—soft at first, and then not—and it tastes like the local beer. My heart is pounding in my ears.
It doesn’t last long. It doesn’t need to. We come apart and stand there in the low light.
“Oh um—” she starts, face red.
“Its the beer,” I say.
“Oh yes, the beer. Obviously. We had, what, two?”
“It was two and a half. It was a big pitcher.”
“Yeah,” She laughs, looking away. “Um, let me get you some water.”
She runs off and gives me the blanket and a glass of water, and I lie on a couch that’s too short for me and stare at a ceiling I’m already fond of.
In the morning I’m gone before she wakes—the whole band had to meet at seven for a practise session. I fold the blanket into the triangle she folds her napkins into, and I text her from the van.
Me:Thanks for letting me stay, I had a wonderful time and company. And for the record. The beer was fine. Two and a half beers do not do that.
Lena:…I know.
Lena:For the record, the pitcher had nothing to do with it. But we can blame it if that’s easier for you.
Me:Too late for easy.
CHAPTER 5
THE DOUBLE LIFE
Rhonda's has different sides to her.
There's the work Rhonda—sharp, operational, the one she uses when she's solving problems and doesn't have time for softness. There's the band Rhonda—tired underneath the competence, the sound of someone holding four people together through sheer will and caffeine. And then there's the voice I only hear late at night, when she's alone and it's dark and the world isn't watching.
Karen arranges the side dishes with the fussiness of someone for whom table presentation registers as a moral virtue. The dining room smells of rosemary and the lavender candle she burns at every meal, and I'm sitting in my designated seat—between the good china cabinet and the window—texting Rhonda under the table.
My phone lights up on my lap. She answered my earlier message about work.
I’m at the studio. Sandy showed up on time today, such a miracle.
"Lena, phone away at the table, please." Karen says.
I pocket the phone and pick up my fork and stab into the roast potatoes.
"How's the job?" My father passes the roast beef. He does this every Sunday. The same question.
"Same as always. Just numbers and spreadsheets."
"You should be grateful. Firms don't hire just anyone."
I wantto roll my eyes but I don’t. I look at the other side of the table, where Jani was supposed to be sitting.
Jani is not here.
