Marisa’s gaze latches with mine, and her lips begin to curve up but never fully form a smile. Instead, her teeth pull at her lower lip and she withdraws her eyes away from me. Her lips are incredibly distracting. “I had tacos.”
She hadmytacos. ThatIbought her. But she leaves that part out.
I start polishing a glass that doesn’t need to be polished, feeling the urge to keep my hands occupied.
While Jenn has her head buried in the menu, my mom zeros in on Marisa. “So, Marisa, do you know how long you’re planning to visit? Your dad mentioned you’re on the hunt for a new job.”
My interest is piqued, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer. It’s not as if I care. It would just be good to know so I can begin counting down the days until I have some of my privacy restored.
Marisa lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “I’m not sure, if I’m being honest. The job market in my field is over saturated, and I didn’t part ways with my previous employer on the best terms. Hopefully soon, though, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
My mom refills Marisa’s glass, giving her a very generous pour, more than what is standard for a tasting. “Well, the cottages aren’t going anywhere, so don’t worry about overstaying your welcome, and I’m sure your dad is happy to have you for a long visit.”
Marisa nods, her lips pulling into a tight line. It’s a cross between a smile and a grimace. There’s a story there, one etched in the shadows of her eyes and the tension in her posture. I’m eager to know more, but I don’t dare ask. It’s none of my business, and the less I know, the better.
A rowdy group in the corner accidentally breaks a glass, bringing my awareness back to the now-crowded tasting room.
In the time since I’ve been here, the crowd has nearly tripled in size.
One of the tasting room attendants rushes over to clear up the mess. Multiple conversations mingle together into one loud hum. Forks drag across plates, glasses clink, shouts and laughter blend into a clamor that presses in on me. My heart races, and my breath comes in shallow, rapid bursts. I’m overstimulated and overwhelmed.
In an attempt to regain some control, I try to focus on one voice, one sound, but it’s too late and I can’t grasp it. The room spins slightly, and my grip on the glass I was polishing loosens, sending it crashing against the countertop. Glass shards spread across the marble. The sound is jarring, amplifying the tight knot in my chest.
My mom, unfazed, simply grabs the small dust pan and brush kept under the counter and cleans up the mess, never pausing her conversation with Jenn. Meanwhile, Marisa’s eyes meet mine and she gives me a small, sympathetic smile. It leaves me feeling stripped down and exposed, like she can see everything I’m feeling in one look.
My vision narrows, the noise in the room growing more deafening with each passing second. I need to get out of here. Now.
I rub the back of my neck. “I have a meeting I need to get to.” The lie falls easily.
My mom eyes me, aware that I’m teetering on the edge of a panic attack, and simply nods. “Okay, I’ll see you later.”
Remembering the tasting room is full of scrutinizing eyes, and that there’s always someone paying attention, waiting for me to fail, I muster all the energy possible to pull on the mask. “It was nice seeing you, Jenn. And you, Marisa.”
With my sweaty palms clenched in fists to prevent the tremor in my hands from being noticeable, I smile and nod to the faces I’m sure I would recognize if they weren’t all a blur and calmly walk out. My breath holds until I’m far enough away for the murmur of voices to fade.
Once the exterior door shuts, closing me off from the tasting room, my lungs deflate. Cool air from the northern breeze hits my face, and my heart rate begins to slow.
I can’t remember the last time my anxiety was that bad. Usually, I’m able to manage myself better than that. It’s been years since it took over so strongly. Had I not been so distracted by Marisa, I would’ve noticed the growing crowd and made a swift exit before it got to that point. Further proof that keeping my distance from her is best.
“She has to go,” I tell my dad the next day at dinner.
He chuckles, looking amused. “Who?”
He knows exactly who I’m talking about. “Marisa. Robert’s daughter. You didn’t even bother to tell me you and Robert made that arrangement. I don’t appreciate you going over my head.”
His smile fades, replaced with a pointed look. “I’m still on the board, son. My mistake for doing a favor for a good friend. Would you have said no? Or are you just pissed off about it now because she’s a pretty young woman?”
“I didn’t— This has nothing to do— Her looks are irrelevant.”
His eyes look up at me over the glasses resting on his nose, and his mouth lifts with ayeah rightsmile.
Rather than continue to argue with the man who can’t be ruffled, I storm off to the living room.
Marisa is a distraction I don’t need. I can’t have someone like that living so close to me. I chose the cottages specifically because they were vacant. I could’ve moved in with my parents or one of my siblings, but I didn’t because I like my space. I like solitude. The last thing I need is a woman too beautiful for her own good prancing around. I’m already stressed out enough as it is.
“What’s with the face?” Shane asks as he flops down on the couch.
I rub my temples. “Nothing. Dad being dad.”
