I shake my head. Lola is a golden blonde goddess with green eyes. Not exactly the first thing that comes to mind when I think of a hot Mexican woman. But what the fuck do I know?
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says with a teasing smile.
“Oh, yeah?”
She nods. “Did you know that there was a huge German settlement in northern Mexico?”
I shake my head.
“Why do you think Mexican country music sounds so much like polka?” she asks.
I shake my head again but follow it up with an amused laugh. “You really are a music geek.”
She shrugs.
“So, you’re German?” I ask, excited we might have this in common. “Sprichst du Deutsch?” I ask.
She throws me a confused look. “Umm . . . no. Or at least, I have no idea. But I’m sure I have some sort of colonizer ancestry or other.”
“Huh.” This is all very interesting.
“Anyway, to my last point. Drinking age in Germany is also eighteen—”
“Sixteen,” I correct.
Lola smiles, flashing me a hint of the pink bubblegum tucked between her teeth and cheek, and forcing my dick to twitch. I’ve never been more glad the kitchen island is still between us. “See?” she says. “You wouldn’t even be providing alcohol to a minor based on the laws ofyourcountry of origin.”
She is rather insistent. I go to the fridge and grab two more beers, popping them both open and handing Lola one. She smiles triumphantly, and I smile into my beer bottle as I take a sip.
We keep talking music, favorite bands, musical influences I studied as I learned to play guitar, and the afternoon turns into evening.
“Whoa,” Lola says when she moves to stand and grabs onto the countertop. She’s only had a few beers, so she shouldn’t be losing her balance. She smiles, embarrassed. “Empty stomach,” she says.
“Lola,” I ask, trying not to get angry. “Did you skip lunch today to finish the job?”
She nods, and my fist clenches at my side, my other hand gripping my beer bottle tightly. I’m not sure why her not taking care of herself and skipping meals upsets me, but it does. I take a deep breath and force a smile. “How does pizza sound?” I ask her, and her entire face lights up.
* * *
Half cheese—aspizza should be—and half disgusting with pepperoni and pineapple.
Lola smiles goofily as she devours her first bite of pizza. Shewashungry. She stopped drinking beers after her second one, and her mood is slowly shifting to a tired one. Of course she’s tired after that long shift cleaning. If we were more familiar with each other, I’d reach over, take her shoes off, and massage the arches of her feet.Huh. I’ve never had that urge with anyone before.
I scan my living room—as clean as my room and Pixel’s part of the house. It matches the rest of my life—my everyday life. The place isn’t packed with people like it usually is—I texted them all that I’m not feeling well. Sandy’s hands aren’t all over my body. I’m sober.
And it’s perfect bliss. This is what I want my life to be. Comfortable and in good company. I smile. This is what Bren and Sofia have.
I want it too.
Then, I think, if I found what they have, Bren would have something in common with me, wouldn’t he? He keeps me at arm’s length because of our age difference, because he thinks I’m a reckless fuckup. But if he saw me settling down, taking someone seriously, taking work seriously, I’m sure he’d respect me then. My spot in the band would be safe, and I might even get to collaborate with him creatively more than I’ve had a chance to so far.
There’s so much I wish could be different. If I could have all that, the eccentric fans would also calm down a bit. I’m not afraid of one energetic fan, but when faced with a mob of them, that’s an entirely different story. Even one is a little scary if she’s broken into your home.
When Bren finally settled down with Sofia and they had their daughter, I noticed the significant change in the attention he received. Sure, they turned on Sofia those first few months, but then it slowed down. I actually think some of them turned their focus on me, making my fanbase a little more daunting.
A long string of cheese stretches from the third slice in Lola’s hand, connecting to her full lips. The stringy cheese snaps and plops down to her chin, stretching down to the collar of her shirt. She looks up at me to check if I’m watching her, and I shake my head. Her goofy smile melts me, and she shrugs. “I eat passionately,” she says, not at all embarrassed by the food she’s cleaning off her face.
I stare at her in this perfect domestic setting that I want to have so badly, and a lightbulb turns on over my head—and it is massive.