Oh, God. What am I doing? Why am I putting myself through this?
I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew I’d get angry. I knew it would bring up all sorts of memories. But somehow, I thought I would be strong enough.
I drop my head between my knees.
Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. In and out. It takes a few minutes, but I’m finally able to stop hyperventilating. I rest my cheek against my knee and wait for my heart to slow back to normal.
“Ms. Thomas?”
Crap. Mr. Haymore. I have no idea how long I’ve been down here, but it’s been a lot longer than it should have been. I stand up quickly, brushing my hands across the back of my skirt to get rid of any dust or dirt from the floor. I pray that I don’t look as shaky as I still feel.
“I’m over here,” I say. I glance around, then head toward the row of American wines just across the way. “The Ardenback wasn’t in the index, so I had to go looking on my own.”
And there it is—I grab the bottle quickly and hurry back to the base of the stairs.
“Carolson’s waiting,” Mr. Haymore hisses at me, as if I weren’t aware of that fact already. “We do not keep him waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to return empty-handed.”
He still looks pretty ticked as he grabs the bottle out of my hands, but he doesn’t say another word. Pretty sure I’m going to be getting a lecture later, but I can’t worry about that now. It takes enough effort just to follow him back up the stairs without my legs collapsing beneath me.
I linger to the side while Mr. Haymore pours a glass of wine for each of our guests. Guests… owners… intruders… It’s all the same in my head. These people are living the life my family should be living. I can’t forgive them for that.
And I can’t forgive myself for hating them so much. For wanting this life back so badly while people suffer all over the world.
I reach behind me and touch the wood paneling of the wall. It was like someone ripped the rug out from under me when my father died. When we lost all of this. But shouldn’t the worst of it be over? Shouldn’t I be building my life up again? Why does it still feel like someone’s removing the floor piece by piece beneath my feet?
I need an anchor. Something to hold on to. I can’t just have a panic attack every time something brings back a memory of my father. It isn’t healthy. I’m going to get fired. Or worse—everyone here will find out who I am.
Just leave, the little voice in my head tells me. Just drive away and never come back here. But that’s the coward’s way. I don’t want to be a coward anymore. I don’t want to run anymore.
I look back up at the Carolsons. Mr. Haymore’s talking again, probably going on about the vineyards or something. Carolson nods politely along, and I can’t decide whether he’s bored out of his mind or silently making calculations in his head. How much more will this place make him when the grapes are growing? With as much money as Carolson’s put into this place, I’m sure he wants to maximize his profits as quickly as possible. Reduce generations of my family’s memories to a bottom line.
I can feel my throat starting to constrict again, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
It’s just a house, I tell myself. A big, ridiculous house that you never needed in the first place.
But when you’re as self-centered as I am, it’s easy to forget things like that. It’s a lot easier to let the anger, the pain build in your belly.
And that’s exactly what I do.
* * *
The tour lasts all afternoon and well into the evening, and by the end of it I feel like I have a boulder in the pit of my stomach—a heavy, solid, unmovable ball of emotion that presses against the insides of my belly. I skip dinner. I have no appetite.
Back in my room, I spend a few minutes standing at the window watching the last light of day disappear behind the trees, and then I grab my laptop and settle down on my bed.
I have a new email from Ian.
I almost don’t want to open it. But I’ve already committed to doing the right thing as far as Ian is concerned, and I’m not going to stop now. I take a deep breath and open the email.
You’re too hard on yourself, Lou. You always were. How are you? Where are you these days?
My eyes skim over the words once, twice. I’m not sure how I expected him to reply—if he even replied at all—but while I suspected he might not accept my apology easily, I guess I thought he’d make a big argument of it. He’s skipped right past that and into casual conversation. Like he doesn’t want a debate. Like he wants to go back to how things were.
We can’t do that. I won’t let it happen.
But after everything that’s happened today, I have to admit that I ache for a little casual, pleasant conversation. For a friend.
I choose my words carefully. I want to respond, but I also don’t want to give him the wrong idea.
I’m fine. Back in Barberville for a while. I hope you’re well, too.
Simple. Meaningless. With no open-ended questions. No obligation for him to respond.
I send it off and get up off my bed, figuring I should probably slip into my pajamas. I’m tired enough from last night that I’m hoping I’ll drift off easily tonight, and sitting around thinking about the wisdom or not of emailing Ian probably isn’t the way to wind down.
But I’m only halfway changed when I hear the chime that indicates a new message in my inbox. I pull my tank top over my head and turn back to my laptop.
Ian has replied to me. I slide back down on the bed and open the email. He’s written a single sentence.
I’m fine, but I’m not sure I believe you are.
I bite down on my nail, my stomach sinking. So much for pleasant, meaningless conversation. Was I that obvious in my original email? But no—Ian spent the better part of a year letting me cry into his shoulder. Letting me whisper my pain to him in the dark. He knows me better than anyone else in the world these days.
I stand up and walk to the window, then immediately turn around and go back to the bed. I probably shouldn’t answer. The smartest thing to do would be to close my laptop, turn in for the night, and attempt to make up for lost sleep.
But I know Ian, too. If he’s worried about me, he might not let this go. I don’t want him to worry. I want him to stop thinking about me altogether and get on with his life.
I sigh and drag the laptop toward me again, typing up a quick reply.
I’m working on it. I’ll figure things out.