“Yeah. You have.”
Laine drags a long breath in. “Would you believe me if I said it wasn’t about Bluebell at all?”
“I would, because this place is magical, and any problems you have with it come from you.” I intend the words to be playful, but Laine’s frown only grows.
“You’re right.” She looks sheepishly up at the moon now, like she’s asking it for forgiveness instead of me. “I told myself coming home was onlytemporary, but even still, it feels like surrender. Been working through some resentment about how it all went down, and—I don’t know. It was easier to put all those bad feelings on C’est la Grigio than take ownership of my fuckups, you know? Because I did fuck up. Everything in that review is true. Iamdifficult to work with. The wine I madedidtaste like a barnyard.” She looks down at our vineyards with such regret, it catches in my heart. “But I swear I’m a better vintner now, and I can do better. Iwilldo better, for you.”
And I’m—impressed. I’mfloored. Here Laine is, spilling out her feelings, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve spent so long living in a house of deferred sadness, Dad and I both moving around our grief gingerly, cautiously, as though one loud footstep might wake it up, and it’d devour us for good. Ignoring our feelings has become a way of life. When I feel sad, angry, or hurt, I turn those feelings into work. But now, under Mom’s favorite tree, Laine’s shoulder gently pressed against my own, staying silent about my own crimes seems … well, criminal. A violation of everything about this moment that’s made it so meaningful. I don’t want to leave Laine out here in truth-land alone.
“I do know,” I say softly. “What it’s like, I mean. To lay a big bag of bad feelings at the wrong doorstep and light it on fire.”
Laine frowns. “Is that—a burning dog shit metaphor?”
“Well, it fits, doesn’t it?” I shake my head irritably. “Listen, I’m sorry for making things difficult for you here. I’m viciously protective of Bluebell as you’ve noticed, but the tension between us stems from more than that.” I swallow, the words suddenly difficult to find, but I want to pay Laine’s courage and honesty back to her and prove that I’m ready to make things better, too.
“It’s just, I’m used to being set aside, okay? I’ve hooked up with every queer woman in Blue Ridge only to watch each one of them move on and find somebody else. But I’m not used to facing that feeling of beingdiscarded every day, here, at my favorite place on earth. You criticizing Bluebell Vineyards after what happened between us snowballed into one big uncomfortable rejection for me.”
“You feel … rejected?” Laine asks.
“Well, yeah.” My cheeks are on fire, and my mouth has suddenly gone bone dry. “Part of me has been punishing you for your negative opinions about the vineyard and our wines, but—about me, also. You hit me on two fronts.” I turn to her now, ready to face her. The mild shock in her expression makes me feel a little better. At least my petty bullshit hasn’t been totally transparent. “I’m sorry for being so unprofessional, Laine. I know we said we’d put what happened behind us, and this time, I really will.”
In the cold, dark night, our bodies creating our own force field of warmth, I wait for Laine’s reaction. I desperately want her to tell me it’s okay, that she likes it here and that our wines are actually good. And if I’m honest, that she’s struggled with keeping things professional between us, too. Those scorching moments, when her desire to dominate collides with my own, they couldn’t have all been in my head.
Could they?
I see her full lips part, hear the intake of air, but the space between that breath and the words that follow stretches on. When my eyes flick upward, her expression’s unreadable.
“Was all that true? What Rachel said about … how you felt back then?”
For an instant, I consider owning it. Telling her just how much she meant to me as a young queer, the massive space she’s occupied in my psyche since I was a wee tween. Would she understand then how hard it’s been having her here, hating me? Would it change anything?
“Nah.” I shrug. “It was just a little crush.”
We have departed truth-land, and it shows.God.That wouldn’t convince a wall.
“Uh-huh,” Laine says.
“I didn’t even know I was gay.”
Sure, Zoe. Let’s double down on the bullshit.
“No, no. Makes sense,” Laine deadpans. “Wanting to kiss other girls is surprisingly unclear.”
“How would I know?” My voice rises. “What if I was just a Charlaine-o-sexual?”
Laine frowns. “I thought you were Italian, not Irish.”
I throw my head back and laugh, Laine’s ember eyes twinkling above her own pleased smile.
“You were my best friend’s older sister.” I shrug again, as if that’s what this moment needs—more ambivalent body language. “You were like a celebrity to us.” My body is on fire in this cold, starless night, burning from the inside out, and I point my gaze at the vineyard blocks instead, willing my heart to stop hammering in my chest. “Now you know why it blew my mind when I discovered that Lina, the dead-sexy butch in the blindfold, was actuallyCharlaine Woods, #27 of the Gilmer County Bobcats. Star student and queen of Blue Ridge who could do no wrong.”
I wait for her smug smile, for thatdamn right, next time you better remember who you’re dealing withattitude to flare. Her lips twitch upward before melting into a frown. “That’s not who I am anymore.”
And dammit if that’s not worse than the arrogance I’d expected.
I swallow hard. “Well, celebrity or not, you didn’t even remember who I was that night at Harlow’s.”
Laine blows out a long breath. “Yes, I did.”
