I pile the assorted cans and glasses on the tray, then add a few brownies and a box of crackers. “For palate cleansing,” I say when I catch her watching me. “Might as well be professional about this.”
“Professional. Definitely.” She smiles, but there’s a tightness in it.
Speaking of tightness, I’m fighting not to admire the curve of her ass as she moves to the living room. I trail behind, holding the tray and reminding myself to take my cues from her. If she’s set on keeping things platonic, I’ll absolutely respect that.
“So,” Mari says as she takes a seat on the sofa. “Tell me how you chose all your furniture.”
I settle beside her, keeping a safe foot of distance between us. “Is this some sort of psychological test?”
Mari laughs and plucks a wineglass off the tray. “Paranoid much?” She shakes her head and takes a sip of wine. “Just curious. We gave all community members free rein to choose their furnishings, so I wondered how you went about it.”
“With Soph, mostly.” Glancing at the lone wineglass on the tray, I hesitate, then choose beer instead. I crack open a can without checking the label and splash some into a pint glass. “We had to move after Soph’s mom left, and most of our furniture came from thrift stores. I uh—didn’t do so great coming out of the divorce.”
She watches my face, her cool, shrink stare looking right through me. Does she know how much I struggled trying to keep it together after Gabby walked out? Does she see the toll it took financially, emotionally?
“I love the choices you made.”
I blink, forgetting for a moment we’re talking about furniture. “Thank you.” I take a sip of beer, which turns out to be raspberry Kolsch. Not my favorite, but maybe Mari will like it.
How much does she know about how I ended up here? Her siblings handled my hiring, but Mari would have processed the psychological stuff. I gave the bare bones of my backstory in interviews, but I never said what it felt like to be broke and alone with a daughter to raise. Never shared how desperate I was to right the ship, to give us a better life.
Which, I guess is why we’re here.
“Here, try the new porter.” I blurt the words like an idiot, then crack open the can and pour so fast it nearly overflows. “It’s a collaboration with a brewery in Hawaii. See what you think.”
Our fingers brush as I hand her the glass, and Mari takes a slow sip. “Coconut?”
“Yeah. I probably gave it away with the Hawaii thing, huh?”
“No, I actually taste it.” She takes another small sip and sets the glass down. “Not my favorite, but I admire the craftsmanship.”
I smile and make a mental note to stick with lighter beers. The dark stuff takes some getting used to.
“Tell me about your custody situation.” She plucks a handful of crackers from the box and crosses her legs. “Did Gabrielle fight to keep Soph with her?”
“Gabrielle.” A stiff laugh slips by without my consent. “Sorry, I’m not used to hearing her called that.”
Mari looks alarmed. “I’m sorry. You mentioned ‘Gabby,’ and it felt too informal to just—
“No, it’s fine. You’re right, that’s her full name. Well, it used to be.”
“Used to be?”
I shrug, annoyed with myself for still talking about my ex. “Gabrielle Julia Walsh, but she used to go by Gabby. Then she started getting more acting gigs and a manager who convinced her that Elle Julia had a better ring to it. Sounds more sophisticated, I guess. That’s what she’s going by on her new show.”
“She has a show?”
“It hasn’t aired yet.” I shrug, wishing I could change the subject. “Some reality show called Hustlers and Housewives.” I laugh, but it comes out stiff. “Not as cool as Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge, eh?”
“I see.” Mari looks like she’s jotting notes in her brain, and I wonder if that’s a shrink habit. I’ve never known anyone so observant. “So your ex is in show-biz?”
“I guess.” I clear my throat, not sure how much to share. “She started trying to break in when we were still together. Mostly smaller stuff—a toothpaste commercial, or a little role on a hospital drama where she got to run in and say, ‘Doctor, he’s coding!’”
I swallow hard, wondering if I can stop here. If she needs to hear the rest of this.
Or maybe I need to say it, because the words keep coming. “Eventually, she asked for a divorce. Said I’d been holding her back, and she needed to chase her dreams.”
“That must have been incredibly difficult.” Mari presses her lips together like she wants to say something else. Or doesn’t want to, I’m not sure. “And Soph?”
“Was heartbroken. Hollywood’s not a great place to raise kids, and Gabby wanted to settle in first. Find a place to live, go on auditions, figure out where the good schools were before we worked out a custody plan.”
But weeks turned into months. Months turned into years. “Eventually, the visits stopped,” I continue. “Then the calls trickled to a minimum. Soph’s birthday and Christmas, that sort of thing. Gabby hardly asked any questions at all when I sent the legal paperwork for our move to Oregon.”
“Wow.” Mari shakes her head. “I’m sorry you went through that. You and Soph both.”
“We’re doing okay.” I think about our arrival at Juniper Ridge, how good it felt to leave my old life behind. “The fresh start has been good for us. A change of scenery where Soph’s not finding Gabby’s old things in closets or getting upset when her mother doesn’t show up on birthdays.”
Mari holds eye contact for a long time. She re-crosses her legs, one knee brushing mine as she moves. It’s like a million little lightning bolts shooting up my thigh, and I have to breathe deep to keep from lunging for her.
She licks her lips and something melts inside me. “Can I ask you something?” Her eyes hold mine, and I catch myself nodding before I think to put my guard up. “Why don’t you like wine?”
I laugh, relieved that’s all she wants to know. “Just not a fan, I guess.”
“I see.” She takes a sip from her glass, watching me like she expects me to spill all my secrets. To open up and share everything.
For some strange reason, I do. “Gabby signed us up for this wine tasting class,” I explain. “I would have been okay with it. I mean, I like learning new things, and I already like plenty of cask-aged beers. It wouldn’t have been a stretch, but it was the way she went about it.”
“How do you mean?” She sips from her wineglass, seemingly cool and relaxed, but there’s an odd bit of tension in her shoulders.
“She didn’t ask first.” It sounds dumb when I put it that way, but there’s more to it. “She just informed me I needed to be more ‘refined,’ more ‘sophisticated,’ more like the people she’d met in Hollywood.” I realize I’m making air quotes with my fingers, which probably hammers home the fact that I was an asshole about it.
“Anyway, I went to the classes,” I continue. “I learned about terroir and grape harvest and stuff. But I couldn’t shake the feeling she was just trying to fix me. To turn me into someone else, you know?”