by Tif Marcelo
She snatches her hand back and shoves me on the shoulders, giving me that challenging playful look that turns me on. “Hey, buddy, don’t you dare pick on my show. I’m not afraid to throw down.”
The phone in my pocket rings, but before I answer it, I tug her hand back into my grasp. “Hello?”
“The two of you were just so adorbs watching the fireworks,” Levi teases.
And with the sound of my brother’s voice, it’s as if full dark has fallen on us like a curtain. The only lights left are the stars up above and the full moon.
“Shut the fuck up, jerk.” I cover the phone’s microphone and whisper, “Sorry,” to Bryn. Her eyebrows rise, then she shifts to the edge of the seat and points to Paraiso, as if leaving.
“You’re on conference. Laurel and Cody are on the line.”
The vibe of my brother’s voice sends apprehension through me, and I clutch Bryn’s hand. “Conference? Oh, hey, Laurel, Cody.”
Bryn sinks back into the chair.
Laurel speaks first. “I wanted to update all of you regarding the views and ratings, as well as talk about what we need to do to improve them.”
Incoming. If there was ever a time to force everyone onto the same page, it’s now. “Hold up.” I put the phone on speaker. “Laurel, Levi, and Cody, say hello to Bryn.”
A collective gasp resounds through the other lines. Through the light of the phone, I see Bryn mouth oh shit, and I smile despite myself.
“Wh—” Laurel starts to say.
It seems there are times when she’s caught speechless. I speak up. “I decided to tell her about our plan.”
“And are you okay with the plan, Bryn?” Laurel’s words are careful, deliberate.
“Yeah.” Bryn’s tone is placating. She flips the phone off with her pinkies, and I stifle a laugh. “Don’t you think we’re doing a good job? And oh, by the way, I’ll be sure to have my lawyer get in touch with you, to draw up the compensation agreement. Mitchell and I agreed to a fifty-five, forty-five deal.”
“You what?” Levi’s voice is a cannon’s boom.
Cody chimes in. “Holy shit, Mitch. Really?”
I wince—I didn’t think this far ahead. “We can talk about that later, guys. What’s the purpose of this call, Laurel?”
“Yeah, um.” What sounds like the shuffling of paper ensues from her side of the world. “The last two weeks have brought over a million views, with the majority of views in the last week, since you’ve been on the screen, Mitchell.”
“Holy fuck,” we all say, or versions thereof. Bryn’s covering her mouth as if to prevent herself from screaming, and the joy in her face is making all of the shit-fire I’m going to take worth it.
“It’s amazing, really. And the comments, don’t get me started there. Viewers have really grown to fall in love with Mitchell, and how quote ‘sexy and kind’ you are. And Bryn, you’re the heroine everyone’s wanted. Viewers think you’re fearless. It’s a phenomenal start, that’s for sure. But to sustain them, you both need to escalate the relationship.”
I shake my head. “Why?”
“We’ve raised the bar,” Bryn answers. Resignation crosses her face as she pushes the hair from her eyes. Fog has crawled into the clearing, foreboding and gloomy. “What we’re doing isn’t enough for them.”
“I mean, is it really horrible to be around each other?” Laurel asks.
“No,” I spit out. It’s not about being with Bryn, but being with Bryn more. Putting ourselves in potentially compromising situations where I can’t keep my hard-on to myself. If it’s already confusing now . . . “But what are you all expecting? It’s not going to be like Big Brother, is it? Because I won’t agree to that.”
“I can’t have that either,” Bryn says, mouth close to the phone speaker.
“No, but you can kiss on camera every once in a while. Or all the time. Look, you’ve got about five weeks left before the opening. Let the intensity grow, if not in a physical way, then in an emotional way. Maybe—and just hear me out on this—maybe our camera can follow you to pick out flowers at a local greenhouse. Don’t you need to pick up some supplies? Go to the Home Warehouse together. In fact? Why not do it tomorrow? I can arrange the logistics with the store from our end. Our viewers want to think you all are going to have a happily ever after, like the house, you know? A transformation on all fronts.”
Bryn’s eyebrows are scrunched into worry. Little do Laurel and my brothers know it’s not because we can’t do this, because we have. But we’re worried whether we can do so without fucking things up.
“They’ll do it,” a voice belts out.
“Levi.” Cody’s voice is admonishing.
“Mitchell. Bryn. Everything you’re doing is producing a return. Imagine a bigger return. Imagine a following that will get not only customers into the retreat, but business into the vineyard, too. We can’t ask for better odds, especially now that we know it’s working. The answer is pretty easy and clear.”
“Easy and clear for you because it’s not your privacy we’re playing with,” Bryn says.
Levi chokes out a laugh. Cody whistles in the background. Yeah, brother, she won’t be pushed around. “True, true. I give you that. But you’ve also got the opportunity of a lifetime. This is guaranteed money. Will you really say no to it?”
Bryn looks at me with eyes that mirror my thoughts. My brother’s damn convincing. But what we risk is our self-respect. Our honesty. The thing we talked about our last night together—integrity for ourselves and for our businesses. In my former life, trust was everything. Transparency was nonnegotiable. Just as I trust a fellow soldier to take a bullet for me, he can trust my word. And ramping up this romance online, to purposely put images in viewers’ heads that there’s more to us than a budding relationship—which we are, for all intents and purposes—is fucking wrong.
But she nods at the same time I do, because we come to the same conclusion. In our cases, if we refuse, we are saying no to survival.
And without being able to survive, then what’s the point of all of this?
21
BRYN
It’s desperate times when the Mini Cooper is the car of choice to bring to Home Warehouse, when one can’t leave without a can of paint, random piece of lumber, or a brand-new refrigerator. But Mitchell’s truck is on the fritz—again—and with the camera crew needing to record us, I’m the lucky girl who gets to make the hour-long drive.
But little do I know that Mitchell David Dunford, vine whisperer and war hero, is also a backseat driver.
He has yet to shut up:
“Maybe next time, you should look before you change lanes.”
“I know we’re in California, but it doesn’t mean you have to roll through every stop sign.”
“Blinker, blinker, blinker, put on your blinker.”
“The hand position on the steering wheel is no longer ten and two, but four and eight.”
And he says I talk too much during TV shows. Twenty minutes into the trip, I’m ready to fake break up with him.
“It’s thirty miles an hour on this road for another mile or so,” he says above the radio, which I turned up to a ridiculous volume to block out his chatter.
“Uh-huh. Is that what the three-oh means on that sign?” I fire back, increasing my speed. We’ve crossed the line into unfunny and not cute. My eyes flash to the rearview mirror, and I realize that while the camera is off, we still have an audience. I soften my tone. “I’m a great driver. I’ve never even gotten a ticket.”
“Not one?”
“Nope. I learned to drive in the city with all the hills and traffic. These country roads are no big deal. I promise.” Then in a last-minute decision, I put my hand on this thigh.
His lips turn up, and he lays a hand on mine. Ah, that settled him down at least. Admittedly, I haven’t exactly been my mos
t relaxed self since my birthday either. From Mitchell’s and my indiscretion, to our discussion of it, and now with this requirement of upping our romance game, everything is worrying me.
Like this work date we’re on now—it’s all contrived. It’s coverage of Mitchell and me in the wild disguised as a much-needed trip to Home Warehouse for knobs and ceiling fans and area rugs.
No big deal, right? But it feels wrong, because this is a chore I’m perfectly capable of doing on my own. It’s against my instincts to bring an extra person with me for something I can accomplish by myself. But it’s an opportunity where people can see us in person, so . . .
“You’re . . . you might want to slow down.”
I ignore Mitchell’s redundant warnings. My brain sifts through what could happen once we arrive at the store. Will people want our autographs? Will today be the day he kisses me in front of everyone?
Will I freak my shit when he kisses me because I’ll love it so much?
I’m so screwed. Here I am on the cusp of trying to build a business and all I can think of is our first public kiss.
Mitchell spins in his seat. “Great.”
“What?” A siren blares above the car’s satellite radio and the voices in my head. I look at my side mirror, and damn, it’s the flashing lights of a cop car. “Ugh. Why didn’t you tell me this was a speed trap?”
From behind me, Joel snickers.
Through the rearview mirror, I sneer. “I thought you three were supposed to be invisible.” Slowly, I maneuver the car to the shoulder and slow. A police officer in blue approaches my window. I say a prayer to my guardian angel, a habit my mother taught me, and I take down my hair and twist it over one shoulder. Subtly.
“That isn’t going to work, you know.” Mitchell shakes his head.
“It always works.”
“Ooookay.”
The police officer leans down onto the window. His Oakley sunglasses shield his eyes and act like mirrors, reflecting back my face. He peeks into the backseat, then nods at Mitchell.
What was that about?
I bat my eyelashes anyway. “Hello, Officer. Did we do something wrong?”
“I clocked you doing forty-five in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone.”
“Was I really going that fast?”
“Yes, she was.” Mitchell slings an arm around my seat. “I tried to tell her, Officer.”
Oh no he didn’t! I clear my throat in lieu of wringing Mitchell’s neck. “Please don’t listen to him. My boyfriend has this bad habit of spitting out idiotic things, like horrible bad jokes and outright lies.”
“Ma’am, my speedometer’s quite accurate and always tells the truth. License and registration please.”
I’m not sure what’s worse. Getting a ticket or Mitchell’s cocky glare telling me I told you so. I resist firing back a sarcastic response while the cop walks back to his vehicle with my information to run my plates. But instead of the police officer getting on his computer, he gets on his cell phone.
Really? This day is getting worse by the minute. Mitchell has his phone to his ear, too, and he’s grinning wickedly. He grunts his answers as if he’s answering in code.
“Mm . . . Roger. Out.” Mitchell hangs up finally.
“Who’s Roger?”
More snickering from the backseat. I spin and flash Joel another death stare.
Mitchell barks out a laugh. “It means ‘I concur.’ Or, ‘I understand.’ Army speak.”
“Huh.” The cogs in my brain start turning: Mitchell’s knowledge the cop would be here. That cops and soldiers use acronyms like another language. That they got off the phone at the same time. And that the population of Golden and the surrounding communities within fifty miles is still less than our neighborhood in San Francisco.
“Ugh. You know him?” I slap Mitchell on the shoulder, which does nothing but widen the grin on his face.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Bryn. I’m Cody.” The cop surprises me, back at my window. But instead of shaking my hand, he hands me my ID and registration and a clipboard. He points to highlighted sections of the form. “Please sign here, stating you’re receiving a citation for speeding. The payment information is on the form, unless you decide to contest. This is the number to call for your court date.”
My gaze goes from Mitchell to Cody and back. “Cody Dunford.”
“That’s me. Yes, ma’am.” He tips the large brim of his hat toward me.
“Surely, surely you could look past it, just this once. I learned my lesson, and a warning is enough. Cross my heart.” I literally cross my heart for good measure. This is my supposed boyfriend’s brother, and we spoke on the phone just last night. Where’s the love? The perks? “Please?”
He takes off his Oakleys and that’s when I see the family resemblance: full brows, clear hazel eyes, a defined square jaw. “Ma’am, I’m an officer of the law, and whether or not I’m being watched or taped”—his eyes fly to Joel, Joey, and Hank smooshed together in the backseat behind me, and I realize no matter what I do, I will be getting a ticket—“I don’t let a fifteen-mile-an-hour violation go. This area is full of pedestrians, cyclists, and tourists.”
“I tried to tell her.” Mitchell shook his head.
Jerk.
After signing the form, I hand the clipboard back to Cody.
“Thank you,” he says to me, then nods at Mitchell. “Mitch. Nice to see you on my side of town.”
“I’d love to see you on mine, too.”
My gaze ping-pongs back and forth between the two. Their attitude toward each other is one of fragile sarcasm.
“I’m kind of bogged down with all these shifts,” Cody responds.
“Okay, bro. Just saying. My door’s always open.”
Cody taps the top of Cooper. “Got it. Have a safe trip now.” And he leaves our side without a final glance at us.
I wait for him to pass us before I pull out. Back on the road, I’m still in a daze. I’m over a hundred dollars poorer. Yet another question comes to the surface. “Why doesn’t Cody come to Dunford?”
Mitchell mutters just loud enough for me to hear, lower than the conversation our passengers are now having behind us. “Levi was the first to take care of Dunford when my dad died five years ago. Overnight, my party-boy eldest brother had to change his tune. He was really there for Cody and me, in everything. For advice, for someone to lean on, you know? The vineyard still saw success through those couple of years under Levi. But then he met Ruby and moved away. And I was gone already, stationed elsewhere. Which left Cody at home, and he was running Dunford by the time he was twenty-three. He went to college part-time, though he never finished. But the pressure ended up being too much, and he made a couple of bad deals he couldn’t live up to and feels personally responsible for. As soon as he could, though, he left and went after his real calling, to be a cop. But there was about a year between when he left and when I came home, a year where the vineyard got minimal care, and I know he feels shitty about it.”
“That’s sad. Not the cop part, but the feeling responsible part.”
“We’ve tried telling him it wasn’t his fault. We were all responsible. Levi took it the worst, since he has the most knowledge in the business of the vineyard. I know part of him regrets leaving for DC.”
“But you guys get along, right? On the phone call, you seem like you have a fine enough relationship.”
I see him glance down at his lap. “We do . . . for the most part. Let’s just say when it comes to Dunford, my dad left the will so open to interpretation that sometimes we don’t know who’s in charge. We’ve settled it between us so that the eldest one in town makes the decisions, but sometimes we acquiesce to who knows more about the specific issue in play. And that crosses all the lines. It gets messy, even if we don’t mean for it to be.”
The conversation dwindles in
to silence, though questions nag at me. Questions of ownership, and who makes final decisions—things that make or break businesses. But I’ve also gotten acquainted with Mitchell’s vibe, and right now is not the time to bring it up. He’s become pensive and doesn’t make a single comment the rest of our drive to Home Warehouse, until we roll into the city of Long Valley. Honestly, I sort of miss the criticism. “It’s over this hill . . . the parking lot to the right,” he finally announces.
Five hundred yards later, the four of us spill out of the Mini Cooper in a heap of laughter, like clowns from a clown car.
“Ready?” Mitchell hands me a water bottle as he comes around the car. We’ve got a huge list to get through, and there’s never anything quick about this place.
“I think so.”
We clip on our microphones and turn them on. As I secure the top button of my shirt, Mitchell shows me his palm. It’s empty, so I give him a questioning look. “Your hand?” he asks.
I groan. I hate those couples—the kind that can’t go anywhere without holding hands. It’s a home improvement store, for heaven’s sake. But I know this is both a functional trip and a marketing ploy, so as I see the crew lug their equipment into the store to set up home base, I concede dramatically. “All right.”
And yet, with him, and holding his hand, it’s more than all right.
It feels right.
22
MITCHELL
Bryn and I march into our battleground with hands tightly clutched, a team refusing to be torn apart. At the threshold of the automatic sliding glass door, armed with our list and a double-wide shopping cart, we glance at each other one final time before we step into the vast black hole of the home improvement store.
Not that Home Warehouse is a vortex of evil. It’s the opposite. Customers are lulled by the elevator music and ironically warm lighting from the rafters above. Add appeasing, orange-aproned employees ready to climb ladders and mix paint, and what more can anyone ask for?
