Sunshine & Whiskey

by R. L. Griffin

  “Well, I’m pretty sure we’ve found a temporary slash permanent home. I hope you ladies figure out what you want to do, if you’re staying, how long you’re staying, what you’re going to do while you’re here.” Cari emphasizes if we’re going to stay. It reminds me that Laura and I need to have a long conversation about her plans.

  I’m naked. I have mud in every orifice of my body, and I’ve never been happier. I booked three mud baths and massages for us and it was perfect timing. I have a place to live. I have an organization I want to help, and I feel my world is facing in the right direction. I lean my head on the pillow that’s on the back of the tub I’m currently submerged in. I fall into the most peaceful sleep I’ve had in months, even with mud in my who-ha.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Sip and Say What?

  We finally move into the cottages at the olive farm on the side of the mountain. I feel like I can breathe without an unease that comes with not being settled. Now, am I terrified about what comes next? Absolutely. However, with my girl agreeing to stay and help me figure everything out, I think I’m headed in the right direction. I’m currently typing Justin an email denying several other requests for interviews. We’re all thinking this interest will blow over soon, and I can just fade into oblivion. To be that girl who walked away from everything after she won the lottery. Yep, that’s what I did. I’m finally wrapping my brain around the fact I gave up my entire life and what I’d been working toward for the past six years. Just like that. Gave it all up the second I could. I’m not quite sure what that says about me.

  I’ve never been a quitter, but I had no problem walking away from my job in Atlanta.

  I’ve never been a wanderer, but I’ve been wandering around for the past three months.

  I’ve never been able to help people. Now I can. Now I will.

  I almost jump out of my skin when my front door bursts open, and Laura is standing there in her sports bra and spandex pants. Yes, I know what you’re going to say. I hate her too. I hate that she can wear that and look amazing. She’s been eating fucking Cheetos for the past three months, and I guess she’s been shitting them as well. There are no fat rolls. I, on the other hand, have new cellulite on my ass and I have a weird roll of...let’s go with skin, over the edge of my bra. Maybe if I drink more I won’t feel bad about the state of my body.

  “We’re leaving in like ten minutes,” Laura yells as she slams the door and walks to my couch. She’s holding a flyer and shoves it in my face. I take it while leaning away from her.

  “Sip and Stretch,” I read off the flyer. Confused, I look at her.

  “It’s yoga and then a wine tasting,” she answers my unasked question. “I love this fucking place. Let’s workout and then drink.”

  “Okay, that’s awesome, but yoga isn’t a workout.”

  “Yes, it is asshole.”

  “No, I mean...I guess, but it’s not the sort of workout that’s going to get this ass in shape, especially if it’s followed by drinking.”

  “Can we open a yoga winery, where all we’ll do is yoga and drink?” She falls into the couch next to me and slumps against the back.

  “No.”

  “Can we open a gym winery, where all we do is work out and drink?”

  “No.”

  “You suck.”

  “I’m good at that, I’m told.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re good at something.” She smiles until I heave a throw pillow at her face.

  “Where is this sip and stretch?”

  “We’ll be stretching at Earthbound winery, which is on the side of Diamond Mountain.”

  “Well, that sounds fucking zen. You should go.”

  “You know I can’t drive your car.”

  “We should get you a car.”

  “I’ll buy my own fucking car.”

  “Our company, the one we haven’t started yet is going to need you to have transportation.”

  “You are coming?” She stands up and then leans over to touch her toes. “Stretch.”

  “Ugh, I hate stretching.”

  “I’ll run with you after.”

  “Liar, you’ll be sipping after.”

  Her face gives her away. Yes, she’s not running after.

  “Fine. I’ll go, but we will start a real workout tomorrow.”

  “I feel like this is research for our new company,” she says while she’s touching her toes. She’s bouncing a bit and then stands up quickly. “Get ready so you can drive us to stretch and sip.”

  “We should sip first, that would help with the stretching part.”

  “You’re stupid,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads out the door, shutting it behind her.

  I turn off my computer and put my laptop on the couch. I push myself off the couch and toward my bedroom where I’m going to put on my too tight spandex and a too big t-shirt I bought in Vegas that says “Fuck it, Let’s Drink.” That sort of sums up the entire last three months of my life.

  There are two men in the entire group of stretchers. That’s what I’m calling this yoga class. I’m competent at downward facing dog, but the one legged tiger I can’t do. That’s not a real pose, I’m just telling you that I’m not good at the rest. I like results that I can see. I like sweat to show me I’m burning calories. I like for my shirt to be soaked and my limbs to hurt. I don’t trust stretching. Now, the yoga instructor’s body is sick. I would love to look like her. I’m guessing she’s naturally thin...I’m going to go with that.

  There is rampant flatulence during the stretching. This causes me to giggle. It’s hard not to laugh when grown ass women are farting like fraternity boys.

  “Shut up,” Laura whispers.

  I try to be quiet. Then there’s another fart, this one behind me, and I start looking around like this cannot be happening. Laura’s face is crimson and her shoulders are hunched up into her neck. My laughs are now escaping my lips uncontrollably. I can’t keep still in my child’s pose because people are farting and I’m laughing and well, I’m twelve. I get up and walk away from the class of flatulence. There is a makeshift bar set up and a man in his early thirties with quite a twinkle in his eyes behind the seven bottles of wine.

  “Couldn’t hang?”

  “Well, I was getting blown out,” I answer and examine the bottles of wine.

  “White or red?” This is a question that is not that common in most places in the world, but in Napa, it’s a way of life. I’ve determined I like red better.

  “Pinot, please, unless there is whiskey back there.” I get on my tip toes and look behind the bar.

  “Nope, just wine on the stretch and sip menu.”

  “You know, I was thinking it’d be better to sip first and then stretch. But now I’m afraid people would shit their pants if you did that. Good call.”

  A chuckle bubbles up and he stops what he’s doing to look at me.

  I shrug.

  “I’m Raylan,” he says as he extends his hand. “You are the most interesting person I’ve met in a long time.”

  “You don’t know if I’m interesting,” I answer.

  “Oh, I can tell.”

  “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not sure interesting is one of them.”

  “Well fuck it and let’s drink,” he says.

  “You’re clever,” I say and take the glass of wine he puts in front of me. “That’s a nice pour.”

  “I always pour big for my friends.”

  “Well we’re certainly not friends,” I respond and then take a gulp of wine.

  “We will be.”

  “People are too friendly here, I’m not sure I like it. I’m pretty closed off. I don’t like people farting in my personal space.”

  “Well, I didn’t fart on you.” He laughs.

  I look back at the class as it’s wrapping up. “No you didn’t, but half of those fuckers did. Can I take a cup of wine to go?”

  “You’re not from here with your accent and your attitude.”


  “No, I’m not.”

  Laura bounds up to me with a disapproving scowl.

  “Do not even...people were farting.”

  “Megan,” she starts.

  “Ah, Megan. It’s nice to meet you.” Raylan smiles at me and then looks at Laura who’s wearing her Sunshine and Fucking Rainbows tank top over her sports bra. I shamed her into wearing it. I cannot be friends with people who think sports bras are shirts, it’s bad enough about the leggings. “Red or white?”

  “Chardonnay, please,” she answers him. “Could you at least pretend to try?”

  “I did try and people farted on me.” Several people turn and glare at me. “What?”

  “I love/hate you.”

  “I think I just love you,” Raylan adds.

  Laura looks at him and then at me. “You’re on a break.” Then she stomps off toward the other end of the bar and the farters.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Wunderlust

  I’m making a salad at the kitchen counter looking out over the slope of the mountain. Laura’s on the porch grilling chicken. My hips are gyrating to the music of N.E.R.D. that’s blaring through my speakers. I rap right along with Pharrell, and then start doing dance moves that shouldn’t be done in front of people. We’ve been living here for a couple of weeks and have really started to settle in. Oh, I totally forgot to tell you that neither me nor Laura has the blue waffle, so we’re good.

  The nights have started getting a little colder, and I’m enjoying the windows being open and allowing the clean breeze to travel through the house. It feels totally different from Atlanta–the haze, humidity, and heat was never my favorite thing about the South.

  “Not cute,” Laura yells from the porch.

  I laugh. “Come on, I have moves.” I shake my ass to the right a couple of times to emphasize my point.

  “No, you don’t.” Laura laughs, shaking her head.

  It’s the Friday night before we are running the Victory for Veterans 8K in Napa so we’re staying in.

  I bring the salad bowl over to the table that I perfectly situated in the window. It’s the only thing I’ve bought for the house. It’s a small rustic table that fits into the mountainside cabin. Laura plates the grilled chicken and shuts the door on her way in.

  Around the same time as the stretch and fart fiasco, we both agreed we needed to stop eating shit for awhile to get our (mine really) asses back on track. I currently have a muffin top, and I refuse to buy new clothes that will admit defeat. I will not be defeated.

  “This looks good, I love strawberries and blueberries in my salad. Oh and goat cheese.”

  “These crackers are awesome too, they’re pita crackers. I found them at Calmart the other day. They aren’t bad for you, until you eat the entire box like I did Wednesday.”

  “You went back and bought another box?”

  “No, I bought two boxes so I could eat the entire box myself the other night,” I answer.

  “So I talked to Max today, he told me where to meet him.” She changes the subject and her voice has a strange vibe to it.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened between you guys the other weekend? I’ve been trying to be patient and wait you out. So...”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re not going to tell me?” I’m confused. “I know about your bruised vagina, why wouldn’t you tell me about what happened the other night?”

  “It’s just, nothing happened. We talked until like 1:00 am, and then he walked me to the car.” She takes a bite of the grilled chicken. “That’s it,” she says with her mouth full.

  “And you’ve been texting ever since?”

  She nods. “And actually talking on the phone.”

  My mouth drops open. “Actually talking, that’s crazy.”

  She flips me off. She gave me the whole spiel about how no one talks anymore, it’s all texts.

  “He likes you.” I pop an entire cracker in my mouth.

  She nods. “You have a large mouth.”

  “I haven’t had any complaints,” I respond even though my mouth is still sort of full. “You like him?”

  She nods.

  “Well, you’re a good dinner companion tonight.” Sarcasm drips from my words. I dig into my salad and look out at the view again. It never gets old. The silence lasts a few minutes before she speaks.

  “Megan, I don’t know. I want to be friends with him because he’s genuinely a good person, but think about what he’s been through. I don’t know how to deal with that.”

  “Well, you adapt weirdo.” I really don’t get where this hesitation is coming from.

  “Guys injured in war have PTSD, depression, and all sorts of things. I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with all that.”

  “You’re really getting ahead of yourself Lo,” I comment and point my cracker at her.

  “But, that’s the thing. I think if I don’t stop this here I could totally fall in love with him, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to do that.”

  “That’s a sad fucking statement.”

  “Stop judging me,” she counters. “I haven’t judged you.”

  “Fine,” I say, putting my hands up in surrender and sit back in my chair. “I just think y’all would make a good couple, and you should put your shit out there. You already know he’s not perfect, so he won’t disappoint you on that front. What else you got?”

  She looks down at her food and cuts her chicken without responding.

  “So, let’s talk about something else. I know you are in flux in what you want to do?”

  “I’ve been trying to look in San Francisco and New York for jobs. I think I want to go home. I have people there. I have more contacts there to help get a job. I have a couple of bites. I’d love to stay in this extended vacation mode, but I don’t have a bajillion dollars…” She puts another forkful of chicken in her mouth.

  “Yeah, you just have a kick ass bestie who has.” I ponder how to say what I’m about to say.

  “I have an interview in New York next week,” she confesses.

  “You do? When were you going to tell me?”

  “Well, I just confirmed yesterday.”

  “I didn’t realize you were already looking.” This probably isn’t entirely accurate but I didn’t know she was setting up interviews.

  “Look Megan, I have had so much fun on this vacation from our lives, but I have to get back to mine. I need to get back to New York and figure out what I’m going to do for work.”

  “Work for me,” I blurt.

  She cocks her head to the side in a question.

  “Okay, I’ve been thinking. We’ve filed the paperwork for a California LLC to start Wunderlust Consulting.”

  Yeah, that’s what we decided to call our little company. It’s a play on wanderlust and is totally fitting given our recent trip across the country.

  “I’ll split it with you fifty/fifty. We’ll work up a contract and everything. I need you here. I need you to help manage my money, and I don’t trust anyone else to do that. You’re good at your job and you can do so much more. I know you love New York. Working for me would be awesome because I don’t care about you traveling whenever you want, you could work remotely, but I want you to stay here...with me.”

  This is what men must feel like when they propose to a woman and there is a pause instead of an instant yes. My insides are dying.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be working for you if we’re going to be fifty/fifty. I need to invest some money so we would be equals.”

  “We can use your time and how much you would typically charge, and I’ll put all that money into the company for you.”

  “What exactly would we be doing?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking, and I want to do a couple of things. I haven’t figured it all out yet, but you helping manage my funds and the accountants and attorneys in Atlanta would be the first thing. Then we’ll need to decide what we want to do. We can do anything. I like the idea you had about inv
esting in smaller companies. The companies that need investors because they probably couldn’t get a loan through a bank. We could have our own tank.”

  “Vag Tank?”

  “Exactly.” I laugh at her.

  “Okay, let’s see where this goes. It may not work, but I’m willing to give you a month.”

  “A month,” I say, not quite sure what that means. “Then we need to hit the fucking ground running. We need office space. Where do you want to look?”

  “You just asked me about this like two minutes ago, I’ll dig into it. Let’s wait until after the race tomorrow, and then we’ll get to it.”

  “Okay.” It’s not an all out yes, but not a no either.

  “Megan, you know I love you. You don’t have to employ me. I can find a job.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Run Like a Warrior

  I think we’ve already established I’m a pretty stoic person, right? Well, go to one of these races and tell me you aren’t moved, and I will give you a fucking award.

  As soon as we get to registration, my throat gets tight. There are examples of real warriors everywhere I turn. They’re in wheelchairs, with prosthetic limbs and some look physically intact. Those are the hardest to understand because someone may look okay on the outside, but there are so many things that can scar you inside. Invisible scars are harder to deal with, this is a fact.

  “Laura, Megan,” Max calls from the registration table. He waves us over. “I love your spandex. I can now picture you naked Laura,” he observes. “Not that I had a problem before.”

  “Max,” she chastises him playfully.

  “What? I speak the truth. Now when you text me late at night I’m going to picture you nude, but with your hair down.”

  “I feel like I shouldn’t be a part of this conversation,” I interrupt.

  “Me too,” a guy’s voice sounds from behind Max. His voice enters my ears, bounces off my insides and travels straight to somewhere deep in my gut. Then Magic man appears from the side of Max.