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something other than Lucy to occupy my thoughts.
As I wait for the bored-looking girl behind the counter to make my ham and Swiss on white, I wander over to the bulletin board to see if there are any promising leads on somewhere to rent.
Like I said. Anything to occupy my thoughts.
And no. I haven’t talked to her since I walked out on her. Haven’t returned a single text.
And go ahead, tell me I’m an ass.
But you didn’t have to read page after page in her stupid journal about how I was a summer fling and that two weeks of stupid with me might be just the thing before she started her real life. You didn’t have to read about how she wishes she could instill some sort of drive in me, make me care about something—anything.
Joke’s on you, Lucy. I care. I care too fucking much about you.
Correction. Cared.
Ridding my brain of her feels impossible, especially given that she won’t stop texting and calling, asking what’s wrong.
What’s wrong is that I want to hear that she misses me like I miss her. I want to hear that she can’t sleep like I can’t sleep, and that every time her phone buzzes she hopes it’s me, like I hope it’s her.
I want to hear that she doesn’t care about the distant past, because what happened in the recent past trumps it.
I want to hear that she misses me so much she sometimes wakes up thinking the loneliness will kill her.
I want to hear that she wants to try again, and this time she won’t leave, and that…
I force myself to focus on my meandering, pathetic thoughts. My gaze falls on a Napa Academy flyer.
I look away from it with a snarl. I know wine. I got hired without a degree, and unlike Princess Lucy, I don’t need a fancy piece of paper to tell me that I’m qualified.
What’s your endgame?
Just remembering her chipper question sets my teeth on edge, and my gaze goes back to the purple flyer.
The girl calls out my sandwich order, but I don’t turn, my eyes are locked on the bulletin board.
What’s your endgame?
For the first time in a long time, I let myself think about it. What do I want?
I’ve spent so long feeling older than my age, trying to just make it one day to the next, that it hits me that I’m twenty-five. In my prime.
I can do anything.
I like working with grapes, yes. I like making wine, definitely. I’m damn good at it. I could also be better. With a little time, effort, and energy, I could be the best.
What’s your endgame?
My endgame’s always been the same.
Lucy Hawkins is my endgame.
I reach out to pull the flyer off the bulletin board, and then I remember that her being my everything does not make me hers.
Idiot.
My arm drops, and I turn back to the counter to get the sandwich.
The girl’s watching me as I approach, leaning forward onto the counter as I reach for the bag. “Looking for something?” she asks, nodding her head in the direction of the bulletin board.
