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And by normal, I mean fighting over the radio. In the end, he gives in, letting me listen to the remainder of a Reba McEntire ballad.
I smirk. My reward for putting out, I’m pretty sure.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, changing lanes to pass the slow bus in front of us. “Do you even like country? Or do you just like torturing me?”
“Little bit of both. Now your turn to tell me something,” I say, deciding to take advantage of the fact that his shoulders seem a little less tense than usual, his face less guarded.
“Pass.”
I ignore this, and ask anyway. “So. Napa.”
His eyes narrow just slightly. A little wary. “What about it?”
“What’s your endgame?”
His knuckles tighten briefly on the steering wheel, the only sign that the invasive question bugs him. “What do you mean, endgame? I want a fresh start and a paycheck. The new job gives me both.”
“Sure,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “But what about long term? A year from now, five years from now? Ten?”
I’m all but holding my breath, hating how much his answer matters.
He’s silent for nearly a minute and doesn’t glance over when he finally responds. “I don’t really do long term. If life’s taught me anything it’s that it can be short and brutal and you can’t plan on shit.”
Reece’s answer makes my heart hurt, even though I understand it. His voice is monotone and ice cold, his jaw solid steel in his resolve, but it makes sense. Here’s a guy who lost his mother way too young, had his sister bail on him, and has spent the past few years caring for a father who barely registered his existence, only to lose him too.
Still, the optimist in me wants him to see that it doesn’t have to be that way. That just because his past is full of pain doesn’t mean his future has to be.
“They have some great winemaking classes in the area,” I say, turning and glancing out the window, hoping the suggestion seems off the cuff.
“I already know how to make wine.”
“I know, but California is different,” I say as gently as I can. “There’s a ton of competition if you want to move from being an assistant stuck tending the vineyards to the guy in charge.”
This time he does glance over, and though he’s wearing his usual aviators, I can feel the anger in his gaze. “?‘Stuck tending the vineyards’? When have I ever given you the impression that I felt stuck?”
Uh-oh. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, you did, Lucy,” he interrupts. “You think your side of the business is better. It’s not. It may require fancier clothes, but all you do is sell the wine. I know how to fucking make it.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t power play me, Reece. We’re both experts in our field.”
“But you more so, right? Because you have a fancy degree that says so? Never mind that I was actually doing work while you were just reading about it.”
“Hey!” I say, stung by the way he’s belittling years of hard work and dedication. “Without people like me, nobody would even know about
what people like you do all day.”
“Well I’ll be sure to send you a fancy thank-you gift. Oh wait, I can’t afford it, what with me not having a ten-year plan or being brutally ambitious.”
“Brutally ambitious?” I sputter. “Is that what you think I am?”
“I don’t know what you are,” he mutters, turning on his blinker and getting off the freeway. “We need gas.”
I have no idea if we actually need gas or if he just needs to cool off, but since I need a breather myself, I don’t protest as he pulls into a gas station.
Reece climbs out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and I blow out a long breath, shoving my hair away from my face.
Not how I thought that conversation was going to go. I was just trying to figure out where his head was at. He’s so damn closed off all the time.
