CHAPTER TWELVE
This time, I’m the one knocking on Laine’s door before our not-date. I may be wearing jeans with ripped knees and a faded raglan tee, but I put no less thought into my outfit for today. Why is it so difficult to strike that perfect balance oflook-how-casually-hot-I-amandI-didn’t-try-at-all-to-achieve-this? Whoever figures that out should run for president.
Laine answers the door, and I guess she’s got political potential because somehow, she’s done just that. Freshly showered and dressed in a pair of form-fitting joggers in charcoal gray and a crisp white thermal that hugs the contours of her shoulders, she looks effortlessly hot and smells amazing, the clean light scent of her soap tickling my nose from here.
“Hey.” The corners of her mouth quirk in a half-smile as her eyes travel across my face, lingering on my neck before meeting my gaze again.
“Hey.” I smile back, that feeling of date/not-date glitching through me all over again. “You ready?”
“You don’t have to go to this, you know,” Laine says as she locks up behind her.
I frown a little, stung. “Do you … not want me to go?”
“No, I mean, you can go if you want to, but you don’thave togo.” Laine grimaces. “I’m making this weird, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.” I arch an eyebrow. “Am I going or what?”
Laine blows out a breath. “You’re going. To a kids’ soccer game.”
I shrug. “What else am I doing on a Saturday morning at nine a.m.? Besides, these games get pretty crazy.”
“Crazy? How?”
I snort. “Just you wait.”
If Laine didn’t understand before, she’s starting to now as we roll through the jam-packed parking lot of the county rec center. It’s a full-blown tailgate, with tents, zero gravity chairs, and packed coolers as far as the eye can see. We nab one of the last spots, and Laine whistles. “Damn.”
I grin at her. “Right? Come on.” I lead her over to a big tent at the edge of the field.
“Zoe Bee! Andho-lee shit, is that”—Booch, everyone’s favorite country boy, presses a hand to his aproned chest, eyes theatrically wide—“theCharlaine Woods, #27, best forward the Gilmer County Bobcats ever did see?”
“Booch!” Laine accepts his vigorous thumping hug with genuine delight. “Myman!” Booch is the best kind of redneck—the hilarious, loving,we’re-all-here-on-Earth-to-have-fun-so-let’s-go-do-donuts-in-the-parking-lotkind. He gets here at six a.m. on Soccer Saturdays for the primo spot. Both his kids Edward and Bella play at different points throughout the day, so Booch comes prepared. His smoker’s already going, making my mouth water for his famous ribs at nine in the damn morning.
Booch’s eyes jack even wider. “You helping Chance coach our team? Now we’re cookin’ with gas, baby!” He points at Laine with his spatula. “My Bella’s on your team, and she’s a star in the making, Charlaine, you mark my words. She just needs some”—Booch tilts his head from side to side—“redirection from time to time, that’s all.”
“Naw, I’m just here to spectate, but good for Bella. What’s her number?”
At this, Booch throws his head back and laughs. “They don’t have numbers yet, girl, half of ’em can’t count! But she’s the one that looks like me with a curly wig on. Can’t miss her.”
We bid our farewells to Booch, but not before he stuffs our hands with homemade cinnamon rolls and cups of coffee, bless him.
Laine’s eyebrows are raised high as we find an empty spot in the bleachers and settle in. “It wasnotlike this when I was growing up.”
“Well, when football’s over, the sports fans of Blue Ridge gotta latch onto something. You’re in for a treat.”
We both are, I think as Laine tears off a big chunk of her roll, getting icing all over her face and laughing. She looks out on the field with unmistakable fondness. “Thanks for getting me out here today, boss. I didn’t realize that’s what Chance was angling at when he brought it up.” Laine’s smile flickers. “I used to be able to read him like a book.”
“What … happened?” I wince a little as the question slides out. I hadn’t meant to ask, but it’s been bothering me ever since the family dinner. It was the first time I’d seen Chance and Laine interact since, geez, high school maybe? Them being at such odds felt like a fundamental law of my universe got Lisa Franked.
Laine’s shoulders stiffen. “It started when I went to UC Davis to get my viticulture degree instead of UGA with him. Chance had already decided where we’d live off campus, what courses we’d take together, which ones we’d divide and conquer on. But I wanted to see what else was out there. Not because I don’t love Georgia, but because I knew I’d love other places, too. I tried to get him to apply to the same schools, but he refused, saying UGA’s horticulture program was good enough for both of us.” Laine licks a strip of icing off her thumb. “He called my bluff, thinking I’d cave and stay. And, well. I didn’t.”
I’d seen some of this play out in real time that last year of friendship with Rachel, of course. The twins preparing their college applications, a tense few weeks after Chance and Charlaine returned from a visit to UGA. But by then, Rachel was avoiding Charlaine every chance she got, so I did, too, and missed a lot of this context.
“Mom and Dad ultimately got on board, though. I’d get my fancy viticulture and enology degree, then come home to help Dad and Chance run the winemaking operations after graduation. That was the plan.”
“But you didn’t follow the plan.”
“I did not,” Laine agrees. “The summer before my senior year, I got the internship at Le Jardin. It was such a big deal—Ihadto take it. That summer blew my mind. Showed me all the things I’d miss if I came home. A chance to learn from the top experts in America, living in a queer wonderland? Zoe, do you evenknowhow many lesbians live in Napa Valley?” Laine shakes her head. “Who’d want to come home and make their daddy’s wine after that?”
