Chapter 3
three
Not enough hours later, when I shuffle into the kitchen, Benji is making a bowl of cereal.
“Morning,” he mumbles.
“Morning, sweetie. How was the band session last night?” I ask through a yawn.
He looks as tired as I feel. “Good. The new piano player Luca is amazing.”
Turning on the Nespresso, I yawn again and respond, “Right on. Where’s he live?”
“Florence.”
Social media never fails to astonish me with its effortless ability to bring people together from all over the world. “Italy? Do you even realize how unreal that is?”
He shrugs, because he’s fourteen and this is all he’s ever known. “How was the concert?”
The brewing coffee smells like life, and I need that infusion. “We got lucky. The band was acoustic, so tamer than what I usually listen to, but they were really good.”
“Not much about them online, but I watched a few YouTube videos. Not my type of music, but I wouldn’t complain about seeing them up close.”
I blow on the lava in my mug before taking a sip and agreeing, “Mmm-hmm. No complaints here, super cute up close.”
“Mama needs coffee, stat,” Lola croaks. She’s wearing her pink, fluffy robe, and her tangled hair has yet to be brushed but is piled on top of her head in a lopsided bun. “The hangover of the year hath descended upon thee.” She proclaims it like she’s performing in Shakespearean theater.
Since we take our coffee the same way, I hand her my mug and go make another.
“I saw Aunt Soph’s post. She was just telling me about your night,” Benji says.
“I clearly overindulged, but the band was so good. It was fun, right, Soph?”
“It was and they were great, but nothing compares to—”
Lola doesn’t let me finish the thought before she teases, “Treachery’s Riot, we know, you obsessed freak.”
“I’m not obsessed; they have fans who full-on physically stalk them, especially the lead singer, Raven. Like breaking into tour buses or bribing security guards to try to get backstage type of high-level stalking. I’m harmless, all my crazy stays locked up tight here.” I tap my temple.
“Oh, you mean like imagining Ken was Raven while you were fucking so you could cross the finish line?” Lola quietly whispers in my ear before bumping my hip with hers and walking away.
“That’s the last time I get drunk and confide in you, Lo,” I say with my back to her, as I stir in sugar and toss the spoon in the sink. “Besides, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
She snorts a laugh, and it sounds like agreement. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Spinning around, I lean against the counter and take a sip. “Can you blame me, though? I mean, have you seen the man?”
“No,” she deadpans. “And neither have you. The dude literally wears a mask.”
“Yeah, but you know the face matches the rest of the package. And the rest of the package is fucking hot.” I’m a highly rational person, and what I just said makes no sense; but that doesn’t stop me from believing it.
“Did you see Reddit is blowing up with theories that Treachery’s Riot called it quits?” Benji asks before setting his spoon aside and drinking the remaining milk from the bowl.
“No blasphemy before I finish my coffee,” I chastise, take another sip, and then add, “I think their breakup would hurt me more than my own.” I meant to say it as a joke, but it’s too early to think about how true it probably is.
Lola has parked herself in a barstool next to Benji, and they’re both looking at his cell on the counter between them.
She taps the screen a few times. “Aww.” She’s wearing that pouty frown she always pairs with overly sweet declarations.
“Miguel commented on last night’s post already.
She says Pedro Pascal, the Siamese, loves the close-up of the guitarist’s ass. ”
“Shut up.” It comes out as a laugh because I can’t help myself. “There is no photo of his ass.”
“My bad, I meant hands.”
When I look at Benji, he’s shaking his head, unamused. “Miguel is too nice to catfish anyone, Mom. He’s totally a fifty-something, Brazilian, cis man who likes dogs, not cats.”
“How do you know?” Lola asks.
Benji sighs like only teenagers can. “Because I looked at his profile years ago when he started following Aunt Soph, and I keep an eye on him. He’s consistent, and his interactions are genuine. He’s not a bot or a troll.”
Lola shakes her head in denial, both at the information and the fact that she didn’t think of doing it first. She’s far from social media savvy, a fact she’ll never accept. “A-plus for online safety, mini-parent, but you’ve completely ruined my fun.”
“He has gray hair, a black lab named Selma Hayek, and occasionally posts photos with his wife Juliana,” he confirms.
“I’ll never believe it,” Lola mutters before scrolling through the remaining comments, of which there are three.
I’m bent over the counter on the other side of the island, reading the comments upside down.
s?opaulomiguel I can practically hear the music through these photos. Truly wonderful.
BenjiBenjiBenji @ThickerThanWaterTheBand Check this out! #ThickerThanWater
TrudyandJohnSampson Interesting, but perhaps these would look better in color?
goodguysfinishfirst_sometimes You have an unbelievable eye. Love these.
Lola laughs. “I see Aunt Trudy’s being a twat again.”
I smile because if she wasn’t being a twat, we’d have to start worrying something was wrong. “Always doggedly and relentlessly complimentary, that one.”
“Who’s good guys finish first sometimes?” Benji asks, looking up at me.
I shrug. I don’t know.
Lola taps on the screen name to bring up his profile.
“And the student becomes the teacher,” Benji whispers under his breath.
Lola turns her head to pin him with the full force of her smirk. “Be quiet, sensei, I’m Instagramming.”
We all read his profile:
Good Guy
Endlessly in search of the next adventure, great and otherwise.
He has thirty-five followers and follows ninety-nine, me now included.
Lola scrolls slowly through his photos: a small cabin surrounded by snow-laden pine trees, an out-of-focus city street aglow with taillights and the signage of surrounding buildings, a sunset reflecting on the water of a lake, and a scruffy dog curled up sleeping in a patch of sunlight on a threadbare rug.
No captions on any of them. No hashtags. Like me.
I smile.
Lola frowns. A real one this time. “That’s it?”
Benji takes over and attempts to scroll further, as if his technologically challenged mother has done something wrong. “That’s it,” he verifies. “First post was made two years ago, and the last one was made three months ago.”
“They’re great photos, though,” I add because I feel like I need to defend him.
Benji agrees.
Lola’s still frowning. “Where are the selfies? Why am I surrounded by the selfie-adverse?”
“Because a face is such a small piece of someone’s story?” I venture.
She takes a long pull from her cooled coffee, then props her elbow on the counter, and rests her chin in her palm, drumming her fingers on her cheek thoughtfully. “But can we really trust someone who never posts their face?” It sounds like a serious question, which is rare for Lola.
I outstretch my arms, presenting myself in lieu of answering the question.
“The jury’s still out.” Her face is serious, but her voice isn’t.
I drop my arms to my sides and tilt my head to the side in mock hurt.
She cracks a smile and whines, “But don’t you wonder what he looks like? Where he’s from?”
Benji and I look at each other and then we both do this noncommittal, wobbly nod, shoulder-shrugging thing.
Lola shakes her head. “It’s so weird when you two do that. Nineteen hours of hellish labor—”
Benji interrupts to keep the story factual. “Fourteen hours.”
Lola corrects but doesn’t miss a beat. “Fourteen hours of hellish labor to birth you—”
“—but you act just like her.” We all finish the sentence in unison because she quotes this so frequently we have it memorized.
“My condolences, sweet child of mine,” I say solemnly.
Benji doesn’t answer, but Lola starts humming Guns N’ Roses, before she snaps out, “Fuck, stop distracting me with Axl Rose lyrics.” She’s always been obsessed with anything from the eighties. “You seriously don’t want to know more about this guy?”
We stare at her. And then I acquiesce. “Maybe? A little?”
She shakes jazz hands at me, which is strangely endearing because it means she’s really excited, even mid-hangover. “I don’t know why that sounded questioning, but I’ll take it. Yes!” She slips into a deep southern drawl and stretches the three-letter word out for a full three seconds.
I nod, while Benji deposits his phone in the pocket of his pajama pants, puts his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, and disappears down the hall to his room.
It’s quiet for a minute before I realize Lola is watching me make another cup of coffee.
Intently. The way she does when she’s concerned.
Sometimes having a sister who’s an empath is a pain in the ass.
“You okay, Soph?” I know we’re not talking about social media anymore.
We’re talking about Chance. About the aftermath.
Because Lola’s always been my confidant, I share. “He posted a photo last night. With her.”
Lola’s eyes widen. “With her her?” As if she needs to verify which her.
I nod. “Her name’s Ashton. She’s into yoga and crap at bowling. And she’s an Aries.”
Lola’s hand waves dismissively. “Pfft. Ken’s a Capricorn; they’re doomed to fail.”
“I appreciate the vote of catastrophe.” And continue, “She’s fucking adorable, Lo.”
“Well, you’re fucking gorgeous,” she bats back, like the protective sister she is.
“I’m thirty-four.”
She blinks at me a few times, as if she doesn’t understand why that’s important.
“She’s twenty-one.” I hate the way it sounds coming out of my mouth. And because I already sound like a pathetic shrew, I confess, “I feel old. Fucking old.”