Page 80 of The Sweetness of Life

How did we get here?

How did I get here?

He hears the questions with each breath I take and sees the hurt as it trembles on my lips. With my eyes again burning, I spin around and put my back to him. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I look out the window and wish I were anywhere but here with him. This assignment was supposed to be fun, and I had hoped it would be a two-week getaway on a vineyard where I got to cook and drink great wine. Instead, I broke my number one rule: never get involved with someone in my industry. I should have stayed clear of him, and none of this would be happening.

Outside the window, the crow flies by. I turn to find it sitting on the back table yet again, staring at me with its tiny black mocking eyes. The bird told me; I should have listened.

“I hate critics,” he spits out with an edge to his tone that slices my heart. Whereas I had hoped he was going to apologize, I was wrong—he’s only made me feel worse. My lips dip into a frown as he hits me with another direct insult.

“So, you’ve said,” I say dryly, not wanting to allow him insight to any more of my thoughts. He doesn’t need to know that sadness cloaks over me and pools at me feet.

As a critic, I’ve become immune to people’s assessment of my work, but I let him in, and all it took was two weeks for him to tear me down—not even two weeks.

“This all started because of one.”

I know he’s talking about the review from last fall, and I whirl around, bringing us face to face. “Not this one!” I point to myself, voice raised “Someone else!”

Brushing past him, I head back toward the bedroom. I can’t stand here and talk to him. I need to get ready to leave. I need him to leave, the sooner the better.

Pulling open the first drawer, I yank all of my clothes out of it and toss them into the suitcase that’s open on the floor.

Zach, who didn’t take the hint to leave, leans on the doorframe and watches me.

“Shelby, I told you about the review and the four wilted grapes. You have no idea the negative impact it had on our winery, and we didn’t do anything wrong. It’s critics and bloggers—people like you—who, for whatever reason, feel entitled to put their words out into the world as if they’re gold. You don’t suffer the repercussions of those words. We do, the owners.”

“People like me!” My jaw drops, and I feel slapped. “That’s really rich coming from you. I mean, do you even hear yourself? You’re such a hypocrite! You spent the last two weeks manipulating me with your words so I would write a good review for your winery, and now you want to slander my profession? It’s funny how when the reviews are all shiny and perfect like mine was this morning, you love them and what they do for your business. You encourage others to write more of them and flash them as often as possible. But, when one you don’t like comes your way, you pass judgment, hold a grudge, and holler for a penalty.”

His eyes narrow, and his back straightens as he comes to his full height. His shirt stretches across his chest, over his shoulders. He looks pissed, but I don’t care. He’s a big boy and should be able to handle being shown his own hypocrisy.

“Oh, we’re trading football analogies now, are we?” The tips of his ears redden. “Well, at least in football when a coach thinks something is called incorrectly, he’s allowed to dispute it! The play is reviewed and then the final call is made. I should have been allowed a review that night. He should have given me a second chance to correct the mistake, and these last few months never should have happened.” He turns around, walks out of the doorway, and then walks straight back in. “And for the record,” he says, towering over me, “I heard you in Atlanta. I was standing behind you and Lexi, excited to meet you, actually, even though I knew that review was coming. I heard you laughing about a bad review you had just posted. As I stood there getting slammed with disappointment, I couldn’t help but wonder if the guy who wrote our review stood around and laughed about us, too.”

Somewhere in the middle of his tirade, I stopped packing and started listening to him acutely. He overheard my conversation with Lexi in Atlanta? Is that what this is all about? That’s the real reason he never liked me?

Oh my God!

“I don’t feel entitled when it comes to my reviews. They are my thoughts on my own blog. They are not published anywhere else. I told you in Asheville what writing those reviews meant to me. And, what you heard in Atlanta at the event was a completely different situation than yours. I gave them a chance to correct the error! I was served burnt food, and when I asked to have it recooked, the chef came out and served me raw food. He purposely went out of his way to be an asshole to a customer because I sent his food back. He caused a scene in the restaurant, was unapologetic about it, and then made me pay for inedible food. How would you have written that up?”

“I wouldn’t have written anything at all.” He speaks so matter-of-factly it makes me want to scream.

“That is not the point!” We stare at each other. “So, basically you’re saying if the other team shows unnecessary roughness while you have the ball, it should be overlooked and you don’t get the fifteen yards and first down?”

He pauses and licks his lips before lowering his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. I wait as he takes a few deep breaths and then drops his hand.

“Look, you don’t have to agree with me—it doesn’t matter anymore. The reviews I write aren’t like the one you received with the four wilted grapes. That isn’t what Starving for Southern is about, at least not for me. The people I write about, they followed their dreams and opened a restaurant. How can I criticize that? Just because the food wasn’t for me, that doesn’t mean it isn’t perfect for someone else. I’ve always tried to stay true to two things: writing the facts and keeping my opinions subjective.”

“Still, a critic is a critic.” He huffs.

“No, it isn’t! No two critics are the same, just like no two reviews are the same. Zach, a review is one person’s opinion, and like anything in life, they vary. Take a look at your walls and the binder behind your bar—so many wonderful things said, but you’re so focused on the one negative as if none of the others matter. What a shame to all those people who wrote something nice.”

He pauses and his nostrils flare as his body goes completely stiff. “I saw you hug him.”

“What? Who?”

“That night. In Atlanta. He was at the event,” he all but snarls at me.

“So? What does that have to do with anything?”

“People surround themselves with like-minded people, and if you’re like him, I have zero interest in knowing you. Also, the level of friendliness you shared with someone I perceive as an enemy is another red flag and where I draw the line.”