Chapter 5 Vin
Chapter 5
VIN
W elcome to the Dandelion. It’s probably not as luxurious as you’re used to, but it’s private,” Chryssy says, opening the door to the yellow shed out past the inn’s garden.
I follow Chryssy’s lead and remove my shoes at the door. We step into a small living room with patterned rugs layered over the hardwood floor. Empty mugs sit on the side table next to a set of purple chairs covered in clothing and unfolded blankets.
“Aren’t dandelions weeds?” I ask, moving past a dining table covered with water-glass-stained notebook pages and a bunch of product packaging.
“Or so they’ve been labeled,” Chryssy says. “They’re misunderstood. People view them negatively because they’re pervasive and persistent. They’re hard to control.”
“Doesn’t sound great,” I say.
“Well, I like them because of those reasons. Even in the harshest of conditions, like concrete, they find a way out,” she says. “They’re actually herbs, though, and are great for detoxing and nourishing your liver.” Chryssy grabs a few empty mugs. “I’ll clean up a bit. Promise I’ll be a good inn-mate.” She frowns at how that sounded. “Shed-mate?”
“Inmate” is probably more accurate.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask. Shades are drawn over the windows on both sides of the shed while open shelving fills in the rest of the room. They’re overflowing with books stacked vertically and sideways, candles, and baskets. It’s so much of Chryssy all at once. Her personal space, her personal belongings.
Chryssy blinks a few times before nodding. “Honestly, I’d rather have you here with me than me stay with Auntie Daisy. She doesn’t just talk in her sleep. She has full-on conversations and expects responses. She was a therapist in a past life, and I don’t know what buried emotions I’ll reveal when I’m not fully conscious. I don’t need that kind of psychoanalyzing.” She points across the room. “I should mention we have a third roommate. Watch out for Goji.”
That’s when I see something furry poke its head up from a crocheted blanket across the living room. It peers at me with glossy, beady eyes, one ear sticking straight up while the other flops over the side of its head.
Chryssy brings Goji over, cradling him in her arms. He lies there, just being a rabbit.
“Do you want to hold him?” she asks, scratching his flopped-down ear.
“I’m good. What’s a Goji anyway?” I ask as the rabbit’s nose twitches.
“Goji berries. He looks like one.” She retrieves an unlabeled glass jar containing dried, oval-shaped, dark orange-red berries from the cabinet and gently presses it against the rabbit’s fur. “Pretty close, right?” She sets Goji on the counter and places a few berries in front of him. He devours them. “They’re called the ‘red diamond’ because they’re so good for you. It’s a very important ingredient in TCM,” she says, twisting the cap back on.
“Is that what Leo will be eating?”
Chryssy casts her eyes back to me, looking me up and down. “I use them a lot in dishes, so yes. Looks like you’ll be eating them, too.” She points behind her. “Bathroom’s down the hall. My bedroom’s off to the right, and yours will be across the way. There’s a front door and a side entry,” she says, using her hands like she’s a flight attendant marking the exits. I take note of each one. “If you want to take a bubble bath, the bathroom’s all yours. There’s a lovely lavender-mint bath bomb you can try.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to touch that,” I say.
“They’re heart-shaped,” she tempts.
“The scent reminds me of cleaning products.”
“You would.” Chryssy blinks at me, nodding. “You would.”
I shake my head. “I would… what, exactly?” I ask, the tension between us back in full force.
“Nothing,” she says. “Sorry, nerves. I haven’t lived with a guy in… ever. I didn’t expect this day to end with a roommate.”
I feel my guard come down. “Me neither. And for the record, I fucking love bath bombs. I just can’t stand lavender.”
“You’ll love this then,” she says, guiding me through the small hallway. We turn left into the most purple room I’ve ever seen. “Surprise! You get the lavender room!” She gestures for me to go first. “Auntie Violet designed all the rooms at the inn, including the ones out here. This was supposed to be for guests who required more privacy, but when I moved out here, I needed some space.”
Now I know what the inside of Barney’s bowels looks like.
My eyes land on visual relief: a green chair in the corner. “Oh, hey. There’s the mint.”
“You like the pillows?” she asks, noticing me looking at the pile of them on the chair. “The aunties and I needlepoint almost every night to wind down. Feel free to join anytime.”
That won’t be happening, but I nod anyway.
Lilac walls with painted sprigs of lavender shoot up from the baseboard. Dried lavender is angled above the door and bed and housed in vases on the nightstands. The mattress is missing sheets, which I assume are also purple.
Chryssy pulls open a drawer in the bureau against the far wall. “We love a theme here, clearly,” she says as she removes—surprise—purple sheets.
She flaps them out and starts making the bed.
“I can do that,” I say, reaching for the other side.
Chryssy stops me. “You’re a guest here.”
“Seriously, don’t think of me as one,” I insist. “I also have a preference for how my bed gets made anyway.”
She looks at the sheet in her hands, like she’s reluctant to let it go. “I’ll leave these here then,” she finally says, setting her corner down on the mattress. “Let me get you the pillowcases.”
As she rummages through drawers, I open the doors of an armoire, curious to see how much space I have to work with for the foreseeable future. It’s empty except for an antique lacquered mahogany writing box on the top shelf.
I lift the lid to the box, peering inside. There’s a leather satchel, a couple of notebooks, and a stack of paper tied off with string. I open one of the notebooks to a random page.
“‘Lion’s mane,’” I read out loud, my voice hollow against the empty shelves. “‘Lily bulb.’”
“What?” Chryssy asks, peeking from behind the door. She gasps. “Vin! Don’t open that!”
I look up. “What?”
“That box! We don’t touch it, and we definitely don’t open it,” she says, flinging the pillowcases onto the bed and running out of the room. She comes back seconds later with oven mitts on. She delicately takes the notebook from me. “I don’t know how this got in here.”
“Oh, shit. Sorry, I’ve never seen anything like this in person. I didn’t mean to snoop,” I say. “Looks like a cookbook or something.”
She looks confused. “A cookbook? Well, we have enough of those in the kitchen. It’s fine. We’re going to be fine.”
I frown. “Why wouldn’t we be? Seems like a pretty harmless box. It’s actually a pretty nice antique. You could probably get some good money for that.”
“Last I heard, this was supposed to be destroyed, like, twenty years ago. This thing just doesn’t go away,” she mumbles. “I’ll take care of it.”
Chryssy slides the notebook back into the writing box, closing the lid with a heavy thud. I follow her out into the living room as she carefully carries the box with her mitts.
“Mind getting the door?” she asks.
I quickly pull it open and watch as Chryssy slips outside and places the box on the ground beside the shed. When she’s back, she slides the mitts off and releases a short exhale.
“I’ve been living in here with that for who knows how long,” she mumbles to herself, clearly frazzled. She recovers quickly and gestures toward the living room. Technically, the entire room is one giant entryway and kitchen, the furniture dividing up the space. “Please sit. Feel free to treat this shed as you would your own home.” She clears a pile of clothing from one of the chairs.
I move a patchwork quilt before claiming the other chair. “Thanks, but this is way more of a home than my own.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Well, for instance, I don’t own a couch,” I admit.
“You don’t have a couch? What do you sit on?” she asks as she starts loading cups into the dishwasher. Goji watches her from the counter.
“I have a table and chair where I eat. I practice on that chair, too,” I explain, grabbing a cup from the coffee table and bringing it to her. “Can I help you with that?”
Chryssy waves me off. “I got it. Please sit and relax,” she insists. “Where do guests sit when they visit you?”
“I don’t have guests over,” I say, launching into my justifications. “I haven’t found the right couch yet, and I’m hardly ever home. Why spend money on something if it isn’t exactly what I want?”
“How minimalist of you.”
I sit back down on the chair, the bouncy cushion throwing me off balance. A muffled voice in the room startles me, and I look around to identify the source.
“Is your butt talking?” Chryssy asks, holding a fork midair.
I listen closer and realize the sound is coming from behind me. I remember what I was listening to on the way to the inn and quickly tug my phone from my pocket, fumbling with the buttons on the side to lower the volume. The voice slowly fades.
Chryssy’s lips part. “That wasn’t… was it?”
After the party, curiosity got the best of me, so I did some casual research. Chryssy cooks all the food at the Wildflower Inn and puts out a podcast called Wild Flours with Chrysanthemum . Each episode is released every Wednesday and features a flower used in Traditional Chinese Medicine paired with food. Violet honey and scones. Honeysuckle jelly and biscuits. I appreciate looking at flowers, and I appreciate eating food. It’s as simple as that.
“Yeah.” I shrug nonchalantly. “So?”
What Chryssy doesn’t need to know is that casual googling led to tuning into every episode of Wild Flours . I never did get another laugh out of her at the party, but in every podcast episode, I get to hear it again. Somehow, I made it through almost every episode. I’m down to the most recent one—safflower and ginger madeleines—which is what Chryssy unfortunately heard.
Chryssy rinses one of Goji’s food bowls. “I do love that pairing in baked goods,” she says. “Safflower is great for improving blood circulation and reducing inflammation. But you know that already.” A surprised laugh tumbles out of her. This one’s higher in tone but still as musical as I remember.
“Shit,” I mumble. “I… yeah. I may have listened to an episode or two.”
She scans me up and down. “Are you the one trolling me with comments about pollen, bugs, and allergens?”
“No, I’m the one complaining about your choice of intro and outro music,” I joke.
She laughs again. “I can’t afford licensed music, so for now it’s royalty-free chimes. Anyway, thanks for listening. Always nice to meet a fan.”
“Don’t think I said I was a fan,” I say playfully, glancing over at her.
She smirks and snaps her fingers. “That would explain the drop-off in listening stats.”
“Guilty,” I lie. There was no drop-off on my end.
My eyes connect with Chryssy’s as she closes the dishwasher, the gentle breeze from the movement blowing her hair back. The ends graze her shoulders, drawing my attention to a scattering of small moles dotting them. I don’t mean to, but suddenly my eyes are tracing the lines of her arms down to her hands as she dries them on a towel.
I tear my eyes away, focusing instead on a red chrysanthemum sketch hanging against the wall.
“That’s actually string,” Chryssy says, clocking my observation. “The entire piece is made of one long piece woven around small nails. An artist made it for me after I gave her tea for her heartbreak. Don’t worry, everything worked out.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I mutter. The longer I look at it, the more distinct each strand becomes. “It’s incredible.” I glance over at Chryssy, whose features are soft as she loses herself for a moment in the red web. She’s even prettier than I remember from the party. I have an excellent memory, but it did not do her justice.
Chryssy smiles at the art piece and looks over at me. “It’s getting late,” she says. “I was going to needlepoint and listen to an audiobook. If you want to rest out here for a bit, feel free.”
I shift on the seat more carefully this time. “I need to catch up on emails.”
Chryssy doesn’t laugh at this. Instead, she watches me with curious eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you’re analyzing me. Reading me.”
She tilts her head. “Maybe I am.”
“Can you not?”
“Read you or look at you like this?”
“Both?” I ask. “Or maybe don’t let me know you’re assessing me.”
Chryssy starts tidying the coffee table, which is covered in stacks of paper and books on flowers and herbs. “When’s the last time you had a break?” she probes.
I lean forward in the chair, taking it upon myself to fold the quilt. “How does one really define a break?”
“You don’t need to clean,” Chryssy says when she spots me straightening a pile of books on the floor. “You’re a… visitor here.”
“That’s just another word for ‘guest,’ which I’m not.”
“Vin. When?” Chryssy presses.
I sigh. “When I was ten, I traveled to Italy with my family.”
Chryssy makes a face. “When you were ten years old?”
“It was for my grandpa’s funeral.”
“You’re telling me you haven’t had a break in twenty-two years?” Chryssy asks, her eyes wide. “And that the last time you traveled for something other than work was for a funeral? I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
“You work like our hearts do,” Chryssy says. “Nonstop.”
“We’re both also good at keeping beats,” I reply. “Wait, why do you know how old I am?”
Chryssy pulls colorful threads and a canvas from a basket embroidered with “Needlepointing Is a State of Mind.” “You listened to my podcast. I watched your interviews. And I googled you. I wanted to be ready in case you contacted us about helping Leo,” she quickly justifies, turning away from me.
I smirk. “Sure, okay.” I spot a bundle of purple thread on the floor and offer it to Chryssy. “I better get used to this color, huh?”
Chryssy takes the thread from me. A shock runs up my arm as her hand brushes against mine. We really need to stop handing each other things.
“What about when you’re not on tour? Or when you’re done with an album?” Chryssy asks. “What do you do then?”
“When we’re not on tour, we’re making albums. When we’re not making albums, we’re on tour,” I reason. “Add a few more projects into the mix, and that’s my life.”
“If you won’t give yourself permission to rest, I’ll give it to you,” she declares. “This time off isn’t just for rebalancing Leo. We may also need to rebalance you.”
“Me? I’m fine. There’s no being off for me.” Even if I wanted to rest, there’s no room for it in this life we’ve created for ourselves. At least not right now. “My life is normally chaos,” I continue. “A good chaos. It’s what I’ve worked toward.”
“Chaos sounds tiring,” Chryssy says, her voice filled not with judgment but with kindness. Genuine curiosity.
“I’ve made my metaphorical bed,” I say, earning a sympathetic grin from Chryssy. “I accept that. I make it and live in it every single day.”
“You live in your metaphorically made bed to not get rest,” Chryssy reasons. Her nose scrunches, little creases fanning out above her cheeks.
“Exactly,” I confirm, hearing the irony. “I can’t fit rest in right now. I’m already behind on everything.”
“From being here half a day?”
“Leo and I work together, so a lot of what we do requires both of us, and we’ve lost two weeks at this point. Because, you know.” I point toward the left side of my chest.
“Matters of the heart can be so derailing,” she says on a sigh.
I lift my phone. “And now I get to derail other people’s plans, too. I have to call my publicist and tour manager. Let them know we need to push rehearsals.”
“I’m sure they’ll understand. Leo’s going through something big,” Chryssy says, turning the thread bundle between her fingers.
“Well… they didn’t know about Leo and Aubrey,” I tell her. “No one did. Leo’s ex wanted their relationship to be just for them and not the public. If the media found out about her, they’d invade her privacy, scrutinize her life. If they think they can get a story or a photo or the inside scoop, they’ll wait her out. She might’ve blown up Leo’s heart, but he wouldn’t want that for her. Which is why I’m going to have to make up a reason for why there’s going to be a delay.”
“You can tell them you’re working on something new,” she suggests. “You needed time away to figure out your next heartbreak album?”
“At a heartbreak healing retreat?” I ask.
Chryssy considers this. “It’s ironic, but the marketing angle could work. You’re going straight to the source. Very Method,” she says.
“You could tell them you’re here with me, the woman from the photos. Weren’t they the ones who wanted another heartbreak out of you?”
I nod. “They might go for that,” I say. “I couldn’t stand the thought of being away from you, so I’m spending some time here.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” Chryssy says with a smile. “And you dragged Leo with you so you could still work.”
“Now that they’d definitely believe.”
This morning, I got on a plane, a car, and a ferry to convince Chryssy to go on a date with me. Now we’re rooming—and scheming—together.
Somehow, it worked out for both of us.
Chryssy gets exposure for her product, and I cover for Leo’s whereabouts, placate our record label while staying in control of the situation, and get a breakup out of it.
The best part? I won’t hurt her because she’s in on it.
“Keep it vague. They don’t have to know that we’re just going on two dates,” she says.
“Right,” I agree. Maybe it’s time for my team’s imaginations to run wild for a bit. “My manager might be a little confused why I went rogue and am now promoting tea, but hey, love makes you do spontaneous things, right?”
“Love? So fast?” Chryssy asks.
I tilt my head in consideration. “True. They won’t believe me if I bring up the L word.”
Chryssy half smiles. “I’d like to try something if that’s okay. It’s nothing weird. I just want to look at your tongue.”
I huff out a disbelieving sound. Of all the things she could’ve said, I didn’t expect that. “I didn’t fall for this at the party. I’m not falling for it now.”
“For tongue diagnosis!” Chryssy says in response to my reaction. “Just a quick peek.”
I stand and back away. “You mean you want to confirm how imbalanced you think I am? No thanks,” I say. “You’re not getting anywhere near my tongue. And you know enough of my secrets from your online sleuthing.”
Chryssy doesn’t push it. “There’s still time. I’m going to get a look at that tongue one way or another.”
I start dialing Jim’s number. “Not if I can help it.”