Текст книги "Nowhere but Here"

Автор книги: Renee Carlino

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

But then again, I had allowed Stephen to make me feel like I was barely worth coming home to.

Page 5
Allegory

Slipping my clothes over my wet undergarments, I turned away from Jamie as he lifted himself out of the water from the side of the pool. He got dressed quickly, and when I turned back toward him, he was sweeping up his sopping boxers from the ground and wrapping them in a towel. No qualms about commando. I like it!

“I’ll walk you back.”

“Great, thank you, I’m dead-tired.” I was feeling completely bashful after his poetic and sweet confession.

We headed toward the inn.

“I need to stop at my truck for a sec. Do you mind?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

He opened the driver’s side door and then blocked my view. I heard a zipper open and then he was shuffling with something. It was taking more than a second.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Just one more minute, okay?”

Being the curious person that I am, I stood on my tippy-toes and leaned over to see what he was doing. He turned around abruptly, holding something behind his back.

“What is that?”

“Nothing, it’s not a big deal,” he said, nervously.

“Let me see.” It was at least ten full seconds before he finally held his hand out, revealing some sort of syringe.

My mouth dropped to the ground. “Are you . . . are those drugs?”

“No. Well, yes, but not what you’re thinking.”

“What is it then?” We were both hesitant.

“It’s insulin.”

A breath rushed from my mouth. “You’re diabetic?”

“Yes, type one.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be. I’ve been this way for a long time.”

“Were you embarrassed to tell me?” I asked gently.

“No, I just didn’t want to burden you with it, and I have to give myself this shot now. I didn’t know if you’d be squeamish.”

“Not at all.” I started getting misty-eyed. “That would never be a burden to me, but thank you for the consideration.” At the age of eight, I’d had to play nurse to my mother while she was dying, her body wracked with cancer. At twenty-five, I watched Rose, the only other person I’ve ever loved, get eaten alive by a plague-like bacteria she’d picked up in the hospital after her gallstone surgery. There were few things that could nauseate me.

He was still holding the syringe and looking into my eyes. “I’m gonna do this now, okay?” And then he smiled sweetly. I nodded. He took the needle cap off with his teeth, holding it in his mouth while he lifted his shirt on the left side. My eyes were drawn to his beltless jeans, hanging low on his waist. His stomach was thin and defined and angled in that way that encourages your eyes to continue looking downward. When I glanced up, I noticed his gaze was focused on the penlike syringe. He pressed something on the bottom and a tiny drop of insulin bubbled at the needle tip. The air was suddenly filled with a very potent, medicinal smell. And then, as if he had done it a million times, he pinched a chunk of his skin just above his hip and jabbed the needle into it. I caught a tiny wince flash across his face just as the needle hit the skin. He pushed the button on the bottom of the pen and then quickly pulled it out and replaced the cover using his mouth. He was still holding up his shirt.

“Shit,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I hit a blood vessel.”

“Oh my god, what does that mean?” I said, suddenly frantic.

He chuckled. “Nothing, sweet girl, it’s just a little blood.” He was looking around for something. I looked down and noticed he was bleeding from the injection site. It was thinly streaming toward the top of his jeans. Spotting our wet towels on the hood of the truck, I quickly grabbed one and bent to carefully wipe away the blood.

“Whoa, what are you doing, Kate?” There was a touch of amusement in his voice.

“Wiping the blood away.”

“I could have done that.”

“Oh,” I said. I stared at him for a few seconds, feeling mortified. I was trying to read his expression. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled, but I think he was a little shocked, too.

“No, what I meant was that I wouldn’t want to make anyone feel like they have to do something like that.”

“I know. I told you, I’m not squeamish. I just wanted to help.”

“Thank you.” He held the towel to his waist for a moment and then let his shirt fall. “I should get you up to your room. You must be exhausted.”

“Yes. It’s been a long, strange day.”

“Not all bad, I hope,” he said quietly as we shuffled up the stairs.

“What?”

“You said it’s been a long, strange day, but I hope it wasn’t all bad.”

“Definitely not all bad.” When we got to my door, I turned around before unlocking it. “Actually, I should thank you. You turned a pretty awful day around for me, even after I hit you with my car.”

He nodded. “Well thank you for sopping up my blood.”

“No prob.”

“My list is growing.”

I crooked an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? What list is that?”

“All of the reasons why this is gonna be so hard.” I tilted my head, encouraging him to elaborate. He smirked. “Now you’ve added compassionate and tender to the list.” He leaned in and pecked me on the cheek. “Night, Katy, see you in the morning.”

Oh, that list.

I was beginning to make a list of my own, and the promise of seeing him the next day made my heart bounce around inside my chest.

Stephen who? I thought to myself with a smile.

• • •

In the morning, just as promised, an itinerary was shoved under my door. At the top, under the emboldened word WEDNESDAY, there was a list of breakfast items and the extension number to place my order. In the margin, someone had written, I recommend the eggs Comtesse or the eggs Blackstone (minus the bacon, of course).

Wow, this is amazing, I thought. Personal recommendations—and they know I’m a vegetarian.

Under the breakfast choices was a detailed schedule.

10:00 a.m.: Private educational tour of winery with Guillermo. Meet in lobby.

In small handwriting above “Guillermo,” there was a little carrot arrow and the words and Jamie written rather messily. Well, I knew who the annotating culprit was now, and I couldn’t stop smiling as I continued through the schedule.

12:00 p.m.: Private wine and food pairing experience with Chef Mark. And again, a little handwritten note with the words and Jamie.

2:00 p.m.: Facility tour with Susan. Instead of and Jamie, it said, I have work to do, young lady .

There was a big space and then Jamie’s writing again.

But, if you’re willing, the staff at R. J. Lawson would like to take you on a sunset sail in the San Francisco Bay. Meet in lobby at 4 p.m.

Wow, really? They’re going all out . . . or maybe Jamie is going all out . . .

After eating the best eggs Comtesse I’ve ever had, I searched my suitcase for something to wear. I had brought plenty of very reporter-looking clothes, not sure of what the weather would be like, but none of it was appropriate for impressing hot, rugged winery men. Spicing up the same black blazer was going to be a challenge, and then I remembered that I had brought a maroon camisole, something I would normally wear underneath a blouse. I went for it—my sexy silk camisole, the tightest jeans I owned, some heels, and the black blazer, for the sake of good form.

I decided I would tell Jamie as soon as I saw him that I had broken up with my boyfriend, but Susan’s warning scared me, and I wondered if I really wanted a fling with a man who lived two thousand miles away. Yes, with this one, I most definitely do, I couldn’t help thinking.

It was time to update Jerry, even though I had made no progress on the story. I dialed his number and it didn’t even ring. “This is Jerry.”

“I have a problem.”

“Well, hello to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“Congratulations. You haven’t been serious about anything in a very long time.”

I often had these ridiculous back-and-forths with Jerry in which he would intentionally mock me or try to ruffle my feathers because he thought it inspired my writing. I was also ninety-nine percent sure that Jerry had undiagnosed ADD. Many days we ate lunch in the park together, sometimes Lincoln, sometimes Stanton. We’d eat our deli sandwiches and talk about life stuff. We would be having the most profound conversation about mortality or world hunger and Jerry would suddenly jerk his head around and say, “Oh man, look at that kite, it’s shaped like a giant squid!” I would never even attempt to take him to Millennium Park—forget about it. I know he’d just sit there and stare, mesmerized at those giant sculptures. His brain would go into overload and he would probably chant, “Big metal object, big metal object,” over and over. He did everything fast—he thought, ate, wrote, talked, even walked faster than the average person. His attention span didn’t last longer than a few seconds. His deadlines were sometimes unreasonable, and his brain rarely allowed for small talk in conversations, which made him a straight shooter.

“Jerry, stop.”

“Are you getting the dirt? That’s all I really want to know.”

“Yes, dirt is exactly what I’m getting. R.J. is kind of a dick.”

“What do you mean ‘kind of’?”

“Well, he is a dick. He kept hitting on me throughout the interview.”

“Did you fuck him?”

“No.”

“Good . . . Are you gonna fuck him?”

“No, Jesus Christ, Jerry, who do you think I am?”

“Well, it’s great that he’s a dick, just don’t fuck him.”

“Okay! And why is it great that he’s a dick?”

“Because you need an angle, Kate. You always need an angle.”

“But I love this place, and all of the people who work here are so nice, and the wine is phenomenal. Plus, I know he has veto power over the article.”

In his typical superfast speech, he said, “Listen, there are always loopholes. If you would have told me that he was the most philanthropic, God-loving gift to all women and humankind, I would have said great to that, too. You just need an angle, okay? Don’t stress so much, you’re not fucking writing The Jungle. Just play up the facts. Get the dirt on how the staff feels about him. Find out why the wines are winning awards, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”

“They’re winning awards because the wine is that fucking good.”

“Well, why? What are they doing that’s different? That’s what you need to find out.” He suddenly paused and then continued. “By the way, I’m sorry to hear about Stephen.”

“Oh . . . how’d you know?” I asked, somewhat alarmed.

“Beth saw him having breakfast this morning.”

“So? What did he say to her?”

“Well, it wasn’t so much what he said . . .”

“What do you mean?” And just like that, it hit me. “He was with a woman? This morning? Already? Fucking dog!”

“Yeah, and you know how Beth is. I guess she went up to him and said something like, ‘While the cat’s away, huh?’ He blurted out that the two of you had broken up.”

“What a fucker!”

There were several seconds of silence, which was rare for a phone conversation with Jerry. I wondered if he was rubbing his chin and staring at the ceiling. Then I could hear a smile in his voice.

“Yeah, you could say that again.”

“Jerry!”

“No, I am really sorry, Kate. I just never really liked the guy.”

Jerry wasn’t alone in his feelings. Rose hadn’t liked Stephen, and Beth couldn’t stand him, though of course Beth couldn’t stand most men. Still, even the superintendent of our building loathed him and would instantly scowl whenever Stephen would simply approach him.

“I’ll call you later, Jer.”

“’Kay. Don’t think too much about Stephen. You deserve better. Focus on your job and get out there and knock ’em dead, kid.”

“Yeah, because I’m so good at that,” I said sarcastically.

“You stop it right now. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk.” His tone went serious and then turned right back around. “Oh, and don’t fuck the genius.”

“Bye, Jerry.”

I had fifteen minutes before I needed to be in the lobby, so I plugged in my laptop and fiddled around for at least ten minutes, trying to log in to the Wi-Fi with no luck. They left me a code on the desk but it wasn’t working, so I opened a Word document instead and began jotting down some notes.

R.J.: asshole, no sign of genius, brags about his money, has girlish hands.

How I was going to get an article out of that little bit of information baffled me. Then I wrote:

Winery: sustainable, beautiful grounds, rustic, old world charm, great wine.

And then, finally:

Jamie: vast knowledge and pride in the winery, diabetic, sweet, genuine, gorgeous, charming, warm hands, strong hands, likes me . . .

And then I had to go.

Page 6
On Three

Rushing from my room, I slammed the door and turned toward the stairway, running smack into Jamie’s hard chest. I looked up. He was grinning, and then in the softest voice he said, “Hello, angel. You’re gonna have to ditch those shoes. You know that, don’t you? Did you bring anything else?” I took a step back and scanned him from head to toe. He was wearing grungy jeans, work boots, and a plain white T-shirt beneath a long-sleeved flannel shirt, unbuttoned. I looked down at my shoes.

“Okay. Give me one second.” I turned and ran back to my room. Other than heels and flats, I only had a pair of gray and black old-school checkerboard Vans. They were my flying shoes because I could slip them on and off easily. Normally I wouldn’t have been embarrassed to wear them, but when I looked in the mirror I noticed I was very mismatched. Shedding the blazer in a huff, I pulled on my dorky, heather-gray University of Illinois hoodie.

When I met Jamie again in the hallway, he looked down at my feet, smirked, and said, “Perfect. You’re cute.” And then he looked up and said, “Go Chiefs.”

“Actually, it’s Chief Illiniwek, and people have a huge problem with that. Did you go to college?”

“You’re not convinced enough to say, ‘Where did you go to college?’ ”

I laughed nervously. Way to insult him. He jogged down the staircase, motioning with his arm. “Come on, we have to meet Guillermo.”

I followed him through the great room and out to the front of the building.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. Where did you go to college?”

He threw his arms out to his sides and gestured around us. “Everywhere. All over. Anywhere I could.”

“So you didn’t have a formal college education, per se?” I smiled kindly, trying to figure out what he was implying.

“I had that, too.” One side of his mouth turned up. “But I’ve learned a lot more from the people in my life.” He gestured toward a man walking in our direction and raised his voice. “Like Guillermo, for example. This guy has grown up on the vineyards, making wine and perfecting his craft.”

Guillermo, a small man of maybe fifty, gave Jamie a guylike half-handshake, half-hug. “J, get your ass out there, it’s still crush season.”

Jamie laughed and then turned to face me. “Enjoy the tour, I’ll catch up with you later.” Still holding my gaze, he said to Guillermo, “This is Katy. Bring her back in one piece, okay man?” Guillermo chuckled.

When Jamie left, I said, “It’s nice to meet you, Guillermo.” He shook my hand. “And by the way, what is crush season?”

“It means we’re still picking the grapes, mija. Let’s go see how we make this stuff.” We walked side by side into the vast sea of vines. “The first thing you need to know is that it’s about the fruit, the grapes. These are not the grapes you’re used to.”

He stopped at a cluster of dull-looking grapes hanging from a vine.

“See, dear, these are Pinot Noir grapes. They have less color.”

“They look bad.”

He shook his head. “These are excellent grapes. It has taken us ten years to perfect the Pinot Noir grape on this property, something they have been doing in France for years.” He pulled one from the bunch and handed it to me. I popped it into my mouth.

“Wow, that’s not what I expected at all.”

“Juicy, right? Juicier than the grapes you eat?”

“Yes, and very, very sweet, but it tastes nothing like Pinot Noir.”

He chuckled. “Well, you see, much of that flavor is coming from the skin. The skin is a bit bitterer and much thicker than, say, a Thompson seedless grape, and that’s why these grapes are not as enjoyable to eat. But they do make a magnificent wine, don’t they?”

“I have to ask, if you’ve been here so long, why is it only now, since Lawson has taken over, that the wines have done so well?”

“He sent me to France.” Pausing, he arched his eyebrows. “He paid for the whole thing. Let me spend a month there. I learned a lot, but mostly things I already knew and just needed to be reminded of. Lawson gave me the resources and space. Pinot Noir grapes have a low yield. When I got back, we focused on that specific wine here on the estate and set aside more acres to grow this grape.”

“Why was Lawson so set on Pinot Noir?”

He popped his shoulders up into a shrug. “Hopeless romantic, I guess.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, truthfully, he said he wanted to make Pinot Noir because it’s a sexy wine.” He laughed loudly, like he thought that was ludicrous.

I instantly remembered a quote from a Vanity Fair article describing Pinot as the most romantic of wines, with so voluptuous a perfume, so sweet an edge, and so powerful a punch that, like falling in love, they make the blood run hot and the soul wax embarrassingly poetic.

“I guess that kind of makes sense because he’s a”—chauvinistic pig, I thought—“Because he’s trying to sell wine.”

“Who knows. Let’s move on, mija.”

As we walked down a row of vines toward the big warehouse-looking structure, I decided to take the time to get to know Guillermo.

“Do you have family?”

“I do. We live down the road. My wife, Patricia, works here at the front desk in the lodge. I have two daughters. They’re both in college—one at Berkeley and the other at the University of Arizona.”

“Wow, and you can afford that on your pay here?” He turned toward me, looking affronted. “I didn’t mean any offense, I’m sorry. You must work tirelessly here for R.J. Does he provide you with proper breaks and benefits?”

He hesitated and spoke in a quieter, more apprehensive voice. “Yes, I do . . . he does. He’s putting both of my daughters through school. He’s like a son to me, but he has taken care of me, too.” I was shocked. R.J. was either a complete contradiction, acting like a douche while doing good things for the people around him, or he really did have it out for the media and his little tantrum was just to throw me off of his true personality.

We walked past a giant, red, tractorlike machine that was moving slowly down the row toward us. It was built to almost straddle the rows of vines. Guillermo gently grabbed my arm and pulled me into another row.

“Let’s give the man some space.”

Still looking back, I said, “What is that thing?”

“It’s a mechanical harvester. We handpick a lot of our grapes, but we use a couple of those, too, to stay on schedule. Jamie made them more fuel-efficient.”

“How do they work?”

“They vibrate the vine. It’s sort of a delicate process for such a big, intimidating machine, but the vibration causes the cluster to drop from its stem and into a bin.”

I spotted Jamie a couple of rows over. He had abandoned the flannel, and the reddish tattoos running down his left arm contrasted sharply against his white T-shirt. Even from that distance, I could see a gleam of sweat on his face and arms. He had added a plain black baseball cap and black sunglasses. Bad boy, good boy. Ahh!

I stuck my hand up and waved, getting his attention. In that moment another worker handed him something so his hands were full, but he tilted his head back and kissed the air in my direction. I smiled giddily and then looked over to find Guillermo grinning.

“Focus, mija.”

I played it down by shrugging, like I had no idea what he was referring to.

“Is it okay for Jamie to work like that with his diabetes?”

“Oh yeah, of course. Exercise is good. It helps to naturally lower his blood sugar. That’s why Jamie is so fit.”

“Yeah. Jamie is fit . . .”

Guillermo raised one eyebrow. “I bet you want to see the grape crusher?”

I laughed. “You’re damn right I do.”

We walked into the quiet warehouse through a large, rolled-up metal door. Apparently the grapes that had been picked that day had not made it to the crusher yet because the warehouse was eerily quiet. Guillermo pointed to a stainless-steel square funnel with a large black machine attached to the bottom of it.

“That’s it. One of the best. It’s the most gentle of all large-scale grape crushers. We tested out a few others but weren’t happy until we found this one.”

Studying it, I walked around and took some mental notes, and then I thought about that episode of I Love Lucy when Lucy and the Italian woman stomp around the huge barrel, crushing the grapes with their bare feet.

“I was really hoping to have a Lucille Ball moment while I was here.” I was half-joking, but I smiled to myself at the idea.

A voice coming from behind startled me. “I think we can arrange that.” I turned to see Jamie, sweaty and gorgeous, leaning against the large doorway. Chelsea was sitting right at his heel, staring me down. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair and then replaced his hat again. As I watched him move, it was like time stood still. His motions slowed down, as if someone had turned a dial or pressed a button on the remote.

“What do you mean, you can arrange that?”

“Give me ten minutes.” And then he was gone. Guillermo looked down, shaking his head, trying to contain his laughter.

“I think that’s it for me, mija. I have to get back to work. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, I have a million questions,” I said quickly.

“I think Jamie can help answer most of them, he really knows his way around here.”

I nodded. “Okay, it was so nice to meet you. Thank you.” I reached my hand out, and he shook it. “You’re welcome, mija.” He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek in a familial way that made my heart warm.

Jamie came in, rolling a barrel on its side. As he passed Guillermo, they nodded at each other. Chelsea plopped down in the corner on the cold concrete.

“Katy, are you ready for this? He turned the barrel upright and removed the lid. I leaned over and inhaled a mixture of aromas. It was sweet and sour, earthy and oaky—a pungent but natural smell. I could see the glimmer of grapes at the bottom as the light hit them.

He was watching me. “Well, shoes off.” He grinned, grabbed a bucket, and turned it upside down so I could sit.

I removed my shoes and socks a bit reluctantly. “Am I going to ruin these grapes?”

He knelt in front of me and began rolling up my jeans from the bottom. Then he held one foot out and examined it. I was terribly self-conscious in that moment. Jesus lord, is he checking for fungus?

“I will personally drink every drop of wine made from these cute little feet.” He wiped my feet off with a damp rag and then spread it on the floor for me to stand on. “You might want to take off your sweatshirt. You’re probably going to get hot—it’s hard work, grape-stomping.”

Remembering that I was only wearing the camisole underneath, sans bra, I panicked. “Um . . .”

He flashed me the most self-satisfied smirk. “I’ve seen you in your underwear already.”

“I have a tank top on,” I huffed, and then removed my sweatshirt. The camisole fell an inch above the top of my jeans, exposing my midriff. It was fucking silk and I was braless. Can you say zero class?

Still grinning, he squinted his eyes as he scanned my attire. “I don’t know if I would call that a tank top, Katy, but I like it. Let’s get you into this barrel. Okay, put your hands on the top. On the count of three, you’re gonna jump and I’ll lift you in.” He stood behind me, very closely, and put his hands on my hips. “One,” he said in his normal voice. He smelled of cardamom and musk from working but his breath smelled fruity. “Two.” He tightened his grip. This was taking way too long. My spine was tingling and my legs were losing all feeling. He leaned in, pressing himself against me. Oh my. His mouth hovered right over my ear. “Three.” Chills shot through my entire body, my knees buckled, and I started to collapse. Holding me up, he chuckled. “You’re supposed to jump, silly.”

Fighting a smile, I turned around and faced him in mock anger. “Well, stop whispering in my ear like that.”

“You liked it.”

“You’re making me shy, and I am not a shy person.” I took a deep breath through my nose to steady myself.

“I promise, my goal is not to make you shy.”

Turning back around, I jutted my ass out, forcing him back a few inches. He stepped back but still held a firm grip on my hips. “I will count,” I said firmly.

“Okay, baby.”

Goose bumps. Again. Just from the word “baby.”

“One-two-three,” I yelled in fast succession and then jumped. It was like floating; there was suddenly no gravity, and time slowed again. I closed my eyes and thought I would open them to find myself free-falling through a wild galaxy full of marshmallows and Sweet Tarts and chubby little cherubs playing tiny, heart-shaped lutes.

Back to reality, I bent my knees to clear the top of the barrel. Jamie lifted me effortlessly, as if I were a child. I stretched my legs, my feet touching the grapes. I squished my toes into them and giggled for at least twenty seconds while he watched me.

“Start crushing, lady.” Jamie held the barrel steady while I stomped around, laughing. The grapes were tougher than I thought they would be, but still squishy enough that they tickled me a bit. I paused, took a deep breath, and wiped a bead of sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

“Why are you so happy?” I said to a smiling Jamie.

“You really seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I am.” I stomped around a bit more and then paused again. “You’re right, this is a workout.” I glanced down and noticed my silk camisole sticking to my body. Jamie followed my gaze and then looked back up at my eyes. I saw the movement in his neck from swallowing and then I watched his chest rise and fall on a deep breath. I felt my nipples harden against the material.

“Can you help me get out?”

“Sure.” He stood behind me again. “Jump and pull up your knees to your chest.”

When I jumped he grabbed my hips, lifting me high above the barrel, then set me down on the towel. He put the bucket behind me and I sat down.

Kneeling in front of me, he carefully cleaned every bit of grape from the bottoms and tops of my feet and between my toes. When he hit a ticklish spot, I jerked. “Ah, Kate Corbin, the always serious investigative reporter, first on all the breaking news, is ticklish!” He grinned impishly.

“No, no, no!” I shouted as he began a brutal assault on my feet, pulling me toward him off the bucket. I fell to the floor and began rolling around, tossing and turning like a freakin’ animal. “Stop, please!” I began mock-crying. At this point I was lying on the concrete warehouse floor, flat on my back. He stopped immediately and leaned over me, a knee on either side of my hips, his hands planted on each side of my head. He was on top of me, essentially, and he was searching my eyes. There were tears in my eyes, but not sad tears.

“Are you seriously crying?”

“More like laugh-crying. I hate being tickled.” He jumped up to his feet and held his hands out for me.

“You scared me, Katy. I thought I had hurt you.”

“No, it’s just a little embarrassing to be tickled by an almost-stranger.”

“We’re friends, remember? We decided last night.”

“Oh right, friends,” I said hesitantly.

His eyes were trained on my mouth. “Friends,” he said again.

I nodded quickly and then looked away in embarrassment. I could feel red splotches appearing all over my face. My thoughts had gone way beyond friendship with Jamie, and I had only just met him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance at his watch. He was wearing a plain black Luminox, the kind Navy SEALs wear.

“Are you a diver?”

He looked at his wrist again. “No, I got to hang out with the SEALs once and they were all wearing these watches. I thought it was cool, so I got myself one.” He smiled a really boyish and innocent grin.

“Why were you hanging out with the SEALs?”

“It was one of those school field trip things a long time ago,” he said quickly. “It’s eleven thirty, I need to go get cleaned up before we meet Chef Mark. I’ll meet you in the restaurant at noon?” I nodded. “Can you get back okay?”

“Yes, I’ll see you over there.”

Walking through the vineyard, I fantasized about what might’ve happened in those next few moments on that warehouse floor with Jamie as he hovered over my body. I would reach up and take his hat off, watching his hair fall to the sides of his cheeks. I would run my fingers through it, and then he would lean down to kiss me.

Just when his lips were about to touch mine, I was jolted from my daydream by the buzzing of my phone. It was a text.

Stephen: I had the super open ur apartment so I could return some of ur stuff.

What the hell? I thought.

Kate: STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE

The cursor rested just after the word “alone” before I hit SEND. Staring at it, I thought about my life in Chicago, and it made my stomach ache. I thought about Stephen with another woman. I thought about Rose and my mother and Just Bob, all alone, all their lives. I wondered what hurt more: the kind of loneliness you feel when no one is around, or the kind of loneliness you feel when the person who is supposed to love you doesn’t care at all, not even enough to fight with you, let alone fight for you. Have you ever felt lonely in a crowded room? Have you ever felt alone when you are not? It hurts far more, and I didn’t ask for that pain. I realized in that moment that Jamie made me feel that I could be, at the very least, at the bare minimum, worth coming home to.

I hit SEND Almost immediately, he responded.

Stephen: AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE A WRITER? IS THE F-BOMB THE BEST YOU CAN DO?

Kate: GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

Would Stephen fight for me?

Stephen: HAVE A NICE LIFE.

Guess not.