Sasha turns to him like he’s just defused a bomb. To be fair, to her and my mother, anything that gets in the way of a schedule might very well be on par with an actual bomb. For a moment I feel like my own life’s chaos might not actually be that bad.I might not be able to keep my job, but I do think I could manage a minor crisis like a winery being closed.
“That would be so great,” Sasha says. Ren starts to get up, and I have to hand it to him. This is the perfect solution. Less time in the house together. Fewer opportunities for us to mess this up. Then she adds: “Joni can go with you. You two can grab a glass of wine while you’re there. You’rewelcome.”
Ren seems to power down, stuck in a position between standing and sitting. His eyes are on the table, and I think he must feel how I did when I couldn’t come up with a good work trip story: brain somehow working both double time and not at all. But then Sasha looks at him and he straightens quickly, lips pressing into a weak smile before he walks over to the front door and grabs his keys from the small pegboard hanging next to it.
“I can stay,” I say to Sasha, gesturing at her laptop. “Help with whatever you originally had on the schedule for Ren.”
“The next two hours are for organized fun,” she says without an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. It’s always been like this: Sasha carefully scheduling things to ensure we maximize our time together.
“Don’t I need to be here for that?” I ask her.
My mom shuts the door to the fridge and turns to me with a slight frown. I swear, my voice is the dog whistle to her highly attuned ears. “Honey,” she says in the same tone she uses when she’s trying to weasel something out of her patients. “Is something wrong?”
I’ve tried too hard to get out of going, I realize. Before, I would have already been halfway to Ren’s car, keys in hand. If I protest more, someone will suspect something is up. I smile at her, casually pop another grape into my mouth, prepare myself mentally for an afternoon with my former best friend, who’s currently spinning said keys around one finger before he catches them in his fist. But the grape launches straight to the back of my throat,and my mom has to slap my back three times as I cough and spit the whole unchewed thing into my palm.
When I can finally look up again, eyes teary, Ren is watching me from near the front door. “Careful there,” he says, trying to suppress a smile. “Wouldn’t want to miss the winery.”
chapter seven
Thanks to what Sasha thought was kindness, I end up in Ren’s passenger seat, one elbow out the window and a song on that I would probably know about if Ren and I were still on speaking terms. To make matters worse, I love the song. Ren didn’t get his job out of sheer luck.
The winery is packed when we pull up. We were silent on the ride, letting the music stand in for conversation, and as soon as Ren finds a spot at the far edge of the dirt lot, I lurch out of the car, striding in the direction of the round stone building, the afternoon sun glinting off its windows.
Ren’s long legs catch up with me easily in the parking lot. Once inside, we end up in a strange kind of race to the bar, which is fruitless because every available seat and all the spots in between are taken.
We hover at one end, laughter pealing around us, jazzy piano music floating down from mounted speakers. A few doors are open to the patio out back, and a breeze drifts in, picking up the ends of my hair.
“There’s a table out back,” calls a server as she glides by, tray tucked under an arm, and ducks behind the bar.
Ren leans toward her, carefully avoiding the space of a man who looks like he might be three sheets to the wind. “We’re just here to pick up an order,” he says over the din of the room.
“Name?” the server asks, eyes on the register.
“Miller.”
She taps something on the screen, frowning until her face brightens. “The wedding,” she says. “Tony can help you with that. Grab one of the tables out back and I’ll bring over something you can celebrate with.”
“Oh, we’re not—” I say, but she’s already sweeping away, walking confidently toward the other end of the bar.
Ren peers down at me, one eyebrow lifting in question. I shrug. Probably better to follow her instructions than try to flag her down again.
I trail him out to the crowded patio, where we sit at a bistro table, paint chipping and a few of the rungs on the back of the matching green chairs missing. When our knees knock together, Ren swings his legs to the side.
We sit in silence again, both of us turning to squint at the water. I can feel the hot metal singeing the backs of my legs and my shoulders reddening in the sun, but I stay ramrod straight, still edgy after the close call in the kitchen. When I glance out of the corner of my eye, Ren seems relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, sunglasses on. I return my attention to the seagulls drifting above the waves.
“For the happy couple!” A hand appears between us, placing two glasses on the table.
My stomach knots. Being mistaken for Ren’s fiancée is not on my make-it-through-the-week bingo card. I twist in my seat, gripping the back of it as I look up at the server from earlier, and try to explain again. “We’re not—”
If she hears me, she doesn’t give any indication. “A gift from the winery. This is our most popular orange.” She pours a finger’s worth into my glass.
She walks around the table to Ren’s side to do the same for him. I shoot him a look, hoping he can still read me enough to know I need his help to get us out of this.
His mouth curves down, lines etching in his forehead. “Thank you,” he says to her. “But we—”
The server ignores him too. “I figured you’d probably be having enough champagne this weekend, so this just has a bit of effervescence to it. Not too funky if you’re new to orange wine, but enough skin contact that—”
“We’re not getting married!” I blurt.
