Page 14 of Watch Me

How can Salomé be here, in my kitchen, with her thick hair tied back into a tight, tidy bun, wearing worn cotton workout clothes that look closer to rags yet still somehow cling appealingly to her? How can she be here with Tate? My son?

I can’t compute what I’m seeing, and my brain starts doing cartwheels, avoiding everything but the obvious truth.

She’s a friend, I think.

She’s a personal trainer, and he’s decided to shape up.

It’s a mistake.

She’s lost.

She has a twin sister and this isn’t her.

In the amount of time it takes for us both to blink again, a hundred reasons have gone through my mind, trying to make sense of why she’s here. Because the one reason she might be, the one that makes the most sense, simply cannot be.

“Dad, this is Zoë,” Tate says, blissfully unaware of what is passing between us, how very much has happened in my internal world since walking into the room. Still, a part of my mind reacts.

Zoë—ah, see? It is a twin.

It takes an extra unit of processing power for me to logically deduce that Zoë is her real name.

I’ve known her so intimately, but I don’t even know that about her.

Well, I obviously don’t know anything about her.

“Nice to meet you,” I manage.

My throat is dry and tight. The words catch and don’t come out right.

There’s got to be another reason. Another reason she would be here, at my house, with my son, at six o’clock in the morning.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she says stiffly, reflecting back all the panic and confusion I’m feeling.

The moment must drag on, get awkward, because eventually Tate stands up. The squeak of his stool across the marble floor snaps me to attention, and Salomé—er, Zoë—and I break eye contact.

He places the peanut butter jar on the island, leaving the spoon inside. “Time to go, babe,” he says.

Babe.

She reaches over the island for the peanut butter, takes the spoon out and rinses it, and screws on the lid.

“You need a shirt,” she tells him, putting the spoon in the dishwasher and the peanut butter in the fridge. She doesn’t look at either of us, and a heavy sense of dread settles over me.

“Nah,” says Tate. He walks around the island, places a hand on her waist, right where my hand has also been, and kisses her cheek. It knocks the wind out of me. “Let’s go.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says as they walk past me into the foyer.

Her eyes lift only briefly, and I manage to smile with something approximating friendliness.

I’m sure she recognizes me. I’m sure that I’m not imagining her shock and surprise, and I’m sure that she doesn’t want Tate to know that we’ve met before, either.

Once the front door closes behind them, I sit down at the kitchen island and cover my face with my hands.

She’s my son’s girlfriend.

I’m gutted. Horrified. His hand on her waist, his lips on her cheek… What would he think if he knew the ways that I had also touched her?

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