“When you admit that you’re crazy about me, and when you believe I’m crazy for you, too.”
Laine’s words lodge into my chest, fitting neatly into a hole that’s been there for as long as I can remember. But then they expand, filling every crevice and dusty corner until my heart aches.
“Can you admit that yet?” she asks quietly.
I haven’t told Laine I’ve never been in a real relationship before. It makes me feel defective, like I’m missing parts, and that’s why I keep getting returned to the store. How would I know what love is, and whether this growing tide of feelings Laine draws from me is the same thing? I’ve been infatuated with her for most of my life, only for her to show up now and show me therealLaine, all grown up, flawed and insecure, different from what I thought, but also, profoundly the same. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“Then there’s more courting to do,” Laine says simply, wrapping me in her arms.
When my alarm starts wilding out at five a.m., I wake up with a grin. It’s my favorite day of the year—Bluebell’s Community Harvest Day. As a kid, it was like a surprise Christmas where there were no gifts, and you worked all day in the hot sun with your friends and family.
Ahh,bliss.
I’ve always loved the frenetic energy of harvest, which usually spans over four nonconsecutive days driven solely by when the grapes reachtheir peak. Right now, in mid-August, only the white crops are ready for picking. Our red crops will go fully nuclear in September, and we’ll spend the day laughing and shearing grapes all over again. There’s a short window at harvest—you’ve got to pick the grapes at exactly the right time. One day past optimum, and the sugar levels could go out of control. Too early, and the grapes’ tannins will punch you in the face. In the vineyard business, you learn early—when the grapes are ready, you’ve gotta be ready, too.
So when Laine knocked on my office door yesterday with the results of the day’s Brix readings, I sent the beacon out to every friend, family member, and former student I know. Of course, only twenty or so can help us pick grapes all day, but we need every pair of hands we can get. We’re entering the heaviest period of a vineyard’s work, the crush from August through November where grapes are picked, sorted, cleaned, and de-stemmed before the highly precise fermentation process begins. When Laine herself will transform from farmer into alchemist, coaxing our grapes into their higher calling. Though she’s incredibly busy, she refuses to pause our courtship, insisting that the vineyard can’t control our lives. It’s been refreshing, if disconcerting, seeing someone establish healthy boundaries with vineyard work and forcing me to do the same.
I march across the dewy grass between rows of plump Seyval Blanc, chartreuse green and lush with their coats of frosty bloom, justbeggingto be picked. Laine’s already setting up for the day. Her table’s stocked with sunscreen, water, block assignments, shears, a huge stack of buckets, and enough gloves for a small gardening army. She also has coolers filled with Electric Daisy because Community Harvest involves a lot of day drinking. Also accidents, because drunk people handling shears is always a fun time, but Laine’s ready for that, too, with four first aid kits lined up and waiting for ouchies.
God, is there anything hotter than preparation?
“Good morning!” I say brightly, the sight of her behind the table with a worn, red bandanna around her neck my personal utopia.
She glances at me, her smile lighting up my heart like the sunrise as she sets insect repellant on the table. “Morning, boss.”
Mmm.I sigh, wishing I could push her down between the vines, but the screech of tires rips my attention away, announcing Booch’s big black truck as it comes roaring into our gravel lot. “Zoe Bee!” Booch hops down from the cab. “Are. You. Ready. To. SNIP?!!” Booch is a Community Harvest regular and a total beast with shears. He beats his chest like Tarzan for a hot minute, then gives me a bear hug as our parking lot steadily fills with cars, trucks, and even a motorcycle or two.
Trish pulls up next with the Redneck Wine Tour van loaded with friends and family. We have about thirty people here, ready to usher a season’s worth of hard work from nature’s arms into our buckets and have a damn good time doing so.
“Welcome to the 2025 Bluebell Vineyards Community Harvest Day!” I yell through cupped hands to a wave of hoots and hollers. “In case you’re new here, these are the rules: 1) shear grape clusters at the top; 2) don’t cut off any fingers; 3) like grapes go with like, no mixin’ ’em up; and 4) whoever fills the most crates by the end of the day wins!”
“What’s the prize?” someone yells from the back.
“Maeve, please show the contestants what’s behind door number one!”
“This here goat,” Maeve announces, parading Baahlzebub out on a fancy red leash. Try as we might, we still haven’t gotten anyone to adopt him, so this is our last-ditch effort togivehim away. I’ve allowed his foster situation to continue here under one strict condition—Laine’s solely responsible for his care, and he can graze in our fallow field that’s fenced in properly or be locked up in the barn like he’s gold in Fort Knox, no other freedoms permitted. His horns are too sharp and his morals too loose for anything else.
“He will eat anything,” Maeve says by way of sales pitch.
There’s wary grumbling from the onlookers as Maeve’s already tried to punt him off on most everyone here, but Booch looks pumped. “Yeah! A goat!” He claps his hands, then whoops.
Might have to rig it so he wins.
“Anything to add, Coach?”
“That I do.” Laine’s arms are crossed over her chest, a surly tilt to her chin. “Donotsmush my grapes, and we won’t have a problem.” She points at our volunteers one by one, warning in her eyes, then breaks into a grin. “Happy Harvest Day, y’all! There’s also a bottle each of Bluebell’s full line to the industrious winner!”
Cheers go up once more, and with the scream of Laine’s whistle, our troops go wild. I join her behind the table, helping to distribute assignments and supplies to the volunteers.
“Okay, what can I do for you now?”
“Hmm.” Laine rubs her chin, pretending to think. “My lips are feeling a little dry. Parched. Untended, you could say.”
“Oh, are they?” I smile, sidling up to her, letting her hook her fingers in the belt loops of my shorts to reel me in the rest of the way. “I could help with that.”
She closes her eyes and puckers up, and it’s about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. But it doesn’t stop me from grabbing a water bottle and tilting it over her lips.
Her eyes blink open in surprise as the splash of cool water dribbles down her chin. “You—”
