Crush

by Mae Wood

  “Nah,” I said. I slapped my palms together and watched the crumbs rain down into the sink.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  I didn’t even pretend to misunderstand her question. “Not really.”

  “So, you just broke up?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sure, you don’t. You tell me everything about boys.”

  I turned to face her. “Dren, if you haven’t noticed, I haven’t told you shit about Ryan.”

  She looked at me, slowly up and down, taking in my dirty jeans and sturdy boots, my bird’s nest of a bun and sunburned shoulders.

  “Are you at least sleeping?”

  I wasn’t much and her question pushed me over the edge. “You want to know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your fucking chest?” I drilled my eyes on her, challenging her to push me again. She didn’t say a thing. She just kept looking at me like I was a space alien, so I kept talking. “It sucks. And before you ask—yes, I love him.”

  “Whaa—” Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Yeah,” I said, holding out my palms to her. “Yeah, I know. Boys are fun. Boys are disposable. But he’s not a boy.” A quick inhale and a long breath out, air streaming from between my pursed lips and I let her have it all. “I love him.”

  “And?”

  “Well,” I said, with a laugh. “That’s about it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I love him. There’s no way else to explain it. And I probably sound like some TV show big sister, but call me when you feel like this and we can talk about it then.”

  “But you broke up?” she said, and I could tell she was completely lost. Welcome to the club, I thought. I was just as confused. I should be angry at him—and I was angry—but mainly I was sad. I was sad for me and I was sad for him and I was sad for all of this goodness that we should have had that wouldn’t ever happen.

  “Yeah. Yeah, we did.” I didn’t know how to put in words how complicated this all was. How I hurt and I ached and how I still wanted. How I cried like someone had died, and then I cried because I was feeling stupid for crying over him. How I’d then try to think of him as a summer fling, as a funny story about my twenties that I’d tell one day when I was old. But that was a lie, too. He wasn’t a crush. He was it for me.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ryan

  September twenty-first. I hadn’t taken it off my calendar. I wasn’t on the deal. In fact, I avoided thinking about it as much as I could even if Kenzie was never far from my mind. But on its closing day, I broke and asked Marlena if the von Eck deal had come out right.

  “Home run all around,” she said. “I can see why, by the way.”

  “Why what?” I asked. I didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart with my boss, but I couldn’t let that comment sit there.

  “McKenzie—”

  I held up a hand to her, seeking silence. “Marlena, it’s fine—”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “There’s a dinner for the investors, like we planned. Up at the tasting room. It’s in two Saturdays.”

  It wasn’t an invitation as much as an olive branch.

  For the rest of the afternoon I thought about Kenzie and her grapes and how maybe one day in a few years our paths would cross. When she wouldn’t be a client or a client’s daughter, but someone I’d worked well with in the past. Then we’d be in a place where forever made sense. But that wasn’t today. Even if I wanted to make it work—and I wanted so badly to make it work—she was tied to the land and I was tied to my job. What does a finance guy do in Napa? What does a farmer do in the city? If I could see a path forward for us, if I could see a way to take whatever we had and make it permanent, I would be booking it down that road to her. But I didn’t see one. And after the way I’d ended it, she was too smart to give me another shot. I’d fucked it up, and I had to live with that mistake. Still, I couldn’t shake the thoughts of her and what would never be.

  I told Greg about the deal closing that night—us drinking beers while we streamed a preseason NHL game on my TV. He was back on my couch, where he’d been sleeping for a few weeks. We worked and got as much ice time as we could, even playing pick-up games out in San Jose when we didn’t have a game with the No Names. After our night drinking with Sugarbear, I didn’t ask Greg about Tamara and he didn’t mention Kenzie. Hockey and beer all the time.

  “I’m thinking about going up to Napa this weekend,” he said. “One of my work friends is having a party thing. You should come with me.”

  “I don’t want to go to Napa. Too many tourists in September.”

  “Come on, man. You going to avoid all wine country for the rest of your life?”

  “You going home anytime soon?”

  “I am home,” he said, slapping the couch. “Sofa, sweet sofa. Oh hey, I ordered you a new one.”

  “What?”

  “A new sofa bed. You’re welcome.”

  “You and Tamara have got to get it together.”

  “You’ve got to get over yourself. Want another beer?”

  “I want you out of here,” I muttered. “Yeah, I’ll take another beer.”

  “Come on, man. Day trip. There’s even a shuttle for it. Me, you, beautiful weather.”

  “Is Tamara going?” I asked, wondering why Greg was pressing me to go.

  “I dunno.” His response was so quick that I knew the answer was yes.

  “Fine,” I said. “Let’s go.” Maybe watching Greg fuck up with Tamara would remind me why being single was better.

  Sure enough, when we showed up at the meet-up point for the party shuttle on Saturday morning, there was Tamara, hanging out with other people from her and Greg’s work. I waved hello to her and went to the coffee and donut cart the party planner people had set up. I liked Tamara much more when I was awake enough for her million-mile-a-minute pace. She made me look like a slacker.

  I kept to myself on the drive up, sticking to the fringes of the conversation.

  “When do we start drinking?” I asked under my breath as the bus crossed the Bay Bridge.

  “Keep it classy, man.”

  “Do my best.”

  This was one hell of a party, I thought as the host welcomed us to one of the most sought-after cult wineries in California. The place didn’t have a public tasting room and it wasn’t open to tours. Its website was bare-bones, like late nineties do-it-yourself bare-bones, and it didn’t have an address or even a phone number.

  “How the hell did they swing this?” I asked as the unmarked gates swung open and the bus crept up the dusty drive.

  “I have no clue. Glad you came?” Greg asked with a smile.

  “No doubt. This is awesome.”

  Oakville wineries were selective, but Cloud Haven was downright secretive. I’d tried to find it before on trips, but no one seemed to be willing to tell me. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but simple, functional buildings wasn’t it. Not when their bottles went for mid-four figures at auction, like von Eck’s Drachenfutter on steroids. At that thought, I felt like a traitor.

  “Dude, just don’t.”

  “What?” I snapped at him.

  “This. It’s a party. Just don’t. And it’s been what? A month?”

  Almost five weeks, I thought, but I didn’t say that. “How do you do it? How do you do this over and over again?”

  He looked at the ceiling of the party bus. “Because we never really break up. And I’ve decided she’s not scary,” he said with a shrug. “I won’t be back at your place tonight. I’m fixing this shit. Fixing it for good. So, get yourself together and let’s have an awesome day.”

  We sat in the sun, under some umbrellas, on wooden picnic tables that had seen better days. The whole operation felt honest in its simplicity. Nothing here was for show. I wondered if Kenzie had been here. I was sure she’d probably had this wine before, and I wondered what she thought about it
. Whether she thought it lived up to the hype or whether she thought von Eck did everything better.

  I shook out my head and turned my face skyward, closing my eyes against the sun, taking a moment to come back to the here and now, rather than be several miles down the road with a woman I’d forever regret saying no to.

  The host was the sister of the winemaker, Charlie, who was way younger than I’d expected. If I’d seen him anywhere else, with his plaid shirt and glasses and scruff, I would have thought he was a grad student who worked at a coffee shop to make ends meet, not a winemaker. Much less the winemaker at Cloud Haven.

  In a good-natured but stern way, Charlie made it perfectly clear that we’d only be tasting two bottles from the estate, which were from his personal allotment, that there were no bottles for purchase, that no one was getting on the list to purchase the next release, and that they were trusting us not to divulge the location. He sounded authoritative, but I could tell this set up—a party bus of people from one of the top tech companies—had him concerned.

  “Look,” he said, seriously. “I’m essentially popping the hood and showing you all of my code here. I’ve got your names. And if you like coming up to Napa—and your CEO likes coming up to Napa—then you’ll do the right thing.”

  I heard the threat and I thought for a moment about burning it all down. Posting pictures on the internet, dropping a geo pin on Google with its exact location, because that threat about not coming back up to Napa didn’t work on me. In fact, it’d probably be better if I was persona non grata. There’d be a reason to stay away.

  After a chorus of nods and “You got it” and “No worries,” the tasting began. If I’d been looking for a transcendental experience with wine, this wasn’t it. The sky didn’t open and angels didn’t sing. While folks around me became poets while they searched for words to describe the heaven they were drinking, there was actual poetry that tumbled through my mind. Leave a kiss but in the cup, and I’ll not look for wine.

  I tugged my phone out of my pocket and a quick search led me to it. Song: to Celia.

  Drink to me only with thine eyes,

  And I will pledge with mine;

  Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

  And I’ll not look for wine.

  The thirst that from the soul doth rise

  Doth ask a drink divine;

  But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

  I would not change for thine.

  Yeah, that about summed it up. Four hundred-ish years later and I’m that sucker Ben Jonson wrote about. I was thirsty for her, above everything else in this world, even stupidly expensive wine. I downed my pour, barely tasting it. I looked over at Greg and spun my index finger in the air, indicating I was going to walk around. Tamara was leaning into him, and his arm was wrapped around her waist as they chatted and laughed with their work friends. My wingman duties were done. I hoped Greg stopped fucking it up with her so that I could sulk in peace.

  I walked down a row, the river low in the distance and the steep hills bracketing the sky. I grazed my fingertips over a bunch of ripening grapes, cool and firm to the touch. Reaching the end of the row, I turned around.

  Back near the buildings, a blond lady getting out of a truck caught my eye. It was either Kenzie’s mom or her aunt. Either way, I was never coming back to Napa. Greg owed me big-time for this surprise punch to the gut. I was too close to pretend I hadn’t seen her, so I took a breath and kept walking toward her.

  “Ryan!” she said, and we shook hands in greeting. “Theresa.”

  “Sorry to not say hello immediately. I couldn’t figure out if it was you or Shelly.”

  “Story of my life. What are you doing here?”

  “The party.” I gestured to the cluster of picnic tables.

  “It’s nice of them to let Charlie do that for his sister. She’s had a time of it.”

  “Yeah,” I said like I knew what she meant, before turning the conversation. “You didn’t buy this land, did you?”

  “Ha! I wish. This land is amazing. It’s a gem of a little pocket. The way the air swirls from the mountains keeps the humidity down, and the northern exposure … It shouldn’t work so well, but it does. Amazingly well. Anyway, they’re replanting some after the harvest and I’m being a nosy, but, hopefully, helpful neighbor.” At my silence, she continued. “We’re competitive, but not competitors, if that makes sense. Serious wine people have deep enough pockets to buy from us both. Plus,” she said with a wink, “because almost no one can buy this, we’re happy to actually sell them wine.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “See you next weekend at the shindig?”

  I paused for a minute, stuck between no and yes. Despite all my regrets about what I’d done, how I’d cut her out of my life, I wanted to see Kenzie again. Even though I knew seeing her wouldn’t quench my thirst. That was a feeling I was going to have to learn to live with.

  When I didn’t answer, Theresa continued. “Was it real, Ryan?”

  I swallowed hard, bit my lip, and bobbed my head in a short nod. “Realest thing in the world. I love her.”

  Her face gentled with a kind smile. “Then you have to come to the dinner.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Kenzie

  The morning air was crisp, but the sun was warm on my skin. The day felt electric. Like something was about to happen. Like some greatness was just over the edge of the horizon. I should have been tired, because I’d been walking for two days, sunup to sundown, selecting individual grapes and testing the sugar levels, then pouring over the data on my computer at night. We were on the precipice, ready to jump headlong into the harvest and the crush the moment it was right.

  But when was it right? My aunt was deferring to me, and Nate was asking me more questions than he was answering them. I knew they’d backstop me, not letting the grapes ruin by harvesting too soon or too late, but they wanted me to use my judgment, wanted to see what call I’d make. After a lifetime here and four years of school, I knew the time was any moment and I thought it might be today.

  Today felt like the day, but I wanted a few final measures before pulling the trigger, including a measure from a section I’d been avoiding, but I knew I couldn’t avoid it for the rest of my life. It was time to be an adult.

  I marched straight from my Jeep to the place where—why did I still not have words for it?—whatever it was with Ryan had happened. Closing my eyes against the memories, I plucked two cab sav grapes. The color was right—dusky blue like a ripe blueberry. They came off easy—another good sign. Both felt firm in my fingers, a bounce when squeezed, full and ripe. I placed the first into my refractometer and crushed it, noting the brown seeds. I nodded when I read the Brix. The sugars were right—the data I’d seen on my computer this morning hadn’t been wrong—science was in my corner.

  And now the real test, not a test that I’d learned at school, but one I’d learned from a lifetime of being part of this place. I popped the second grape into my mouth and closed my eyes to focus on the flavors and feel. The fruit was sweet and soft and juicy—a pop of flavor against my tongue. The seeds firm yet chewy. I looked around with new eyes at the rows around me. They were ready. I hoped I wasn’t too late.

  I found Nate by the cellar doors.

  “Finally,” he exhaled at my double thumbs-up. “I was giving you until tomorrow at noon, then I was taking my grapes.”

  “Not your grapes anymore.” I smiled at him, pointing to my chest, my heart. “My grapes. My harvest.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll get the crew. Let your aunt know, will you? She was so antsy this morning that she couldn’t stand it. She went to Cloud Haven. See you in the field?”

  “Hell yes. My grapes, Nate. Mine.”

  I called Theresa’s cell and I got a similar reaction of relief.

  “You should have told me it was ready,” I complained.

  “You have to learn to make these calls yourself, Kenz. Oh, hey, guess who I saw today?”

  “Who?�
�� I asked, wondering what childhood acquaintance of mine was back in town for the harvest.

  “Ryan Royer.”

  A land mine that I hadn’t been expecting.

  “Oh,” I said in a daze while telling my foolish heart to slow down and be calm.

  “Yeah, saw him at Cloud Haven.”

  “What? How’d he get there?” I asked, my confusion overriding my determination to be chill.

  “Charlie was hosting some of his sister’s friends for a tasting.”

  I focused on the unimportant thing because I didn’t know how to focus on the Ryan thing. “Wow, that’s amazing of the Winklers. They keep Cloud Haven so private.”

  “They’re good people. And … I asked him if he was coming to the dinner next weekend. He said he was.”

  I froze, unable to breathe. The explosion in my heart was nothing compared to the new clench of my stomach. “Yeah?” I said pulling myself together. I turned to survey the land that spread before me, to the work that called to me and the memories that couldn’t be denied. “Thanks for letting me know. Gotta go.”

  I ended the call and sat down on the ground, my back against the rough stone of the building as my head swirled.

  I didn’t know how I felt about him coming to von Eck. He’d broken up with me and I hadn’t heard from him in over a month. I knew I should probably be pissed, and I was pissed that I wasn’t one hundred percent pissed. But part of me, some immeasurable, undeniable percentage, was relieved that I’d get to see him again. That was the part of me that believed, deep down, in an unshakeable way, that we were inevitable. And he was coming back to me just in time for the crush.

  The anger, I welcomed. The hope, I felt ashamed for. And the anxiety that underlay it all—my thoughts coalesced into energy. I had to move. I had to get this out of me. I had to do something. And that something was work.

  I joined the crew in the field, helping harvest fruit and heft buckets to the bins and truck at the end of the rows. The golden hours passed in a blur of decisive snips at the vine. The crew was relentless. Everyone wanted the grapes cleared. They were ready, and in farming, you couldn’t count on tomorrow—torrential rain, earthquake, blistering heat, a quick cold snap. Anything was possible. Today was what you had, and you had to make every moment matter.