The Romantic Pact

by Quinn, Meghan

  Really smart, Crew.

  * * *

  Comfortably seated in our bar-height chairs, I stare at the three bottles of wine in front of us. Are we supposed to drink all of that?

  If so, I’m thinking we might have a repeat of last night. There’s also accompanying bread and a butter spread, but I doubt that’s going to soak up all the alcohol.

  Standing beside our table, Ingrid holds a towel over her arm, acing the butler vibes as she speaks to us. “There are three types of wine to know about.”

  Shit, I hope there isn’t going to be a test after, because all I know is white and red. That’s it.

  “Some might tell you there’s more, but here at our winery we believe there are three types: the New, the Classic, and the Great.”

  “Oh, I thought you were going to throw down some different classifications of wine.” Hazel laughs.

  “Ah, everyone does. But let me show you what I mean.” She gestures to the first bottle. “To us, this would be listed under the New. This would be considered for everyday drinking. A Bacchus wine. Something you mindlessly pop open while making dinner, or that you share with your friends during a gossip night while the best of Shawn Mendes plays in the background. Simple, gets the job done, and good.”

  Hazel chuckles. “Got to love the sweet combination of a bottle of wine and Shawn Mendes.”

  “Oh ja, a great combination.” Ingrid points to the middle bottle. “This is the Classic. Also known as a dinner party wine. A Sylvaner. You would buy this for your birthday or if you are trying to impress your boss while attempting to earn a promotion.”

  “Ah, the give-me-a-raise wine,” I say, pulling a smile from Hazel. “Take notes, Twigs.”

  “And the third.” Ingrid lifts up the bottle carefully and holds it so gently that I actually believe she thinks it might break if handled too roughly. “This is the Great. This is a once-in-a-lifetime wine. A look-but-don’t-touch. A dream-about-but-never-open. This is saved for the most special of occasions, like wine tasting in an old wine cellar in the heart of German wine country.” She winks and sets the bottle down. “Shall I start you off with the New and work you up to the Great?”

  “I couldn’t think of doing it any other way,” I say, bringing my glass closer to Ingrid. Hazel does the same while Ingrid opens the bottle.

  “Now, here in this winery, we pour wine the old-fashioned way.”

  “How’s that?” Hazel asks. Her hands are folded on the table, but her eyes are intrigued.

  “It’s called ‘over the top.’” Ingrid pours the wine into the tall, round glass, filling it all the way to the brim. She sets the glass in front of Hazel and says, “Always to the brim.” She takes my glass and does the same, emptying out the bottle. When done, she rests the bottle between us and then takes a step back from the table. “Prost.” She takes off, leaving me with Hazel and a giant glass of wine.

  Hazel and I connect eyes and then we both chuckle as we look back at our wine glasses.

  “We’re totally fucked if we don’t like this wine,” I say. “What kind of assholes would we look like if we don’t drink it all?”

  “Like American assholes.”

  “Exactly.” I carefully lift up my glass, the white liquid teetering close to the edge. “Prost.”

  “Prost . . . whatever that means.”

  I tilt my head back and laugh. “Pretty sure it means ‘cheers’ in German.”

  “Ah, okay.” She lifts the glass, and I watch her take a small sip, letting her be the guinea pig. When she doesn’t flinch or grimace, I take a sip as well.

  A little dry, but not so dry that I feel as though my tongue is shriveling up. It has a smooth flavor that glides over my taste buds and straight down my throat.

  “Huh, not bad,” I say, surprised. “I could totally see this as an everyday wine.” I take another sip.

  “Oh, yeah. This is one of those wines that you don’t really savor. You just guzzle because you’re an adult and you can.”

  “Yes, exactly.” We both take another drink, our sips growing bigger and bigger. “Wow, I can see how people could get drunk quick at a wine tasting, especially with glasses full to the brim like this.”

  “Yeah,” Hazel sighs. “I’m going to be wasted by the end of this.”

  “That a bad thing?”

  She eyes me over the glass. “No, it’s probably a good thing.”

  * * *

  “Prost,” Ingrid says, stepping away from the table after filling up new wine glasses with the Classic.

  She didn’t return until we were done with our glasses of the New, which means we need to drink up in order to get to the Great. This isn’t a tasting, this is a guzzling. False advertising.

  There should be a sign outside warning, excessive wine guzzling in the cellar, proceed at your own risk.

  Already starting to feel a little warm and relaxed inside, I lean back in my chair and slowly twist the bottom of my wine glass.

  “Are you ready for the Classic?”

  “I’m ready for it,” Hazel answers. “I need to know what kind of wine gets me a raise, that’s if I ever work a corporate job.”

  “Do you see yourself doing that?” I ask. “Leaving the farm and pursuing something else?”

  She slowly shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I could ever leave the farm, unless someone kicked me out. I have too much of my life attached to that acreage. I want to see it succeed, flourish.”

  “You’re pretty awesome, Hazel, you know that? I really admire your loyalty and dedication. I remember when I was a senior in high school, going into my freshman year of college, Pops was talking to me on the phone about you and how hard you worked around the farm. How he thought of you as one of his own. He really loved you, bragged about you all the time.”

  Her smile becomes teary. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “Yeah. He did.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Thank you.” She holds up her wine glass and I lift mine, as well. Delicately we clink our glasses, and we don’t have to say it out loud to know who we’re toasting to. This is for Pops. It’s all for Pops.

  * * *

  “That’s the fourth time I’ve gone to the bathroom,” Hazel says, sitting back down on her seat. “How are you keeping all this wine in?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’ve only peed once and, frankly, it’s concerning.” I lean forward and whisper, “The longer I hold it in, the drunker I get.”

  “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

  “I think it might be,” I say, staring at the Great. “There might be research out there that proves it.”

  Neither one of us has touched the Great; instead, we’ve been eating bread and going to the bathroom, our laughter growing heavier with every minute that passes.

  “Is it me, or does it feel as if the room is slowly, and I mean centimeter by centimeter, turning counterclockwise?” Hazel’s eyes track the walls.

  I take in the room, and yeah, I think it is. “You know what? I think we might be on some kind of German ride and don’t even know it.”

  “Right? I’m pretty sure the entryway to the tasting room was at least six feet to the left.”

  I look over my back and take in the entryway. “At least six feet, if not seven or eight.” I glance over her shoulder. “And that group of barrels over there, I think they’ve moved, too.”

  “The ones behind me?” Hazel shakes her head and holds up her hand. “Don’t even get me started on the barrels behind me. Those have been different every trip to the bathroom.” She leans forward and says, “What if this place is haunted and the ghosts are floating around, fucking with the drunks?”

  “Hell, that’s what I would do if I was a ghost.”

  “It smells like a ghost down here,” she whispers.

  “You’ve smelled a ghost before?” I ask, picking up another piece of this delicious bread, leaving out the butter this time.

  “I mean, haven’t you?”

  “Can’t really say if I have or
haven’t. I mean, probably, but who am I to know if it was a ghost?”

  “Fair. Fair.” She nods. “Well, this cellar smells like a ghost. Take it all in for future ghost-smelling references.”

  Setting my bread down, I brace my hands on the table and then take a giant whiff of the room, telling myself to commit the smell to memory. “Fruity and bready with a little hint of dinge—that’s what ghost smells like. Got it.”

  Hazel taps her temple. “Keep it locked in. Now you’ll know, whenever you run across this smell, you’ll understand there are ghosts around you, so if any freaky shit happens, like rooms turning and barrels moving, you’ll know . . . ghosts.” She whispers the last word.

  “God, I’m so glad I’m here with you. I’m learning so much.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” She holds up her glass as if it’s the holy grail. “To the ghosts.”

  I hold up mine as well and clink. “To the motherfucking ghosts.”

  We take a sip and . . . holy fuck. We lock eyes with each other—as best we can while spinning slowly—and that one look, that’s all we have to silently say. Yup . . . this is the Great.

  This is once-in-a-lifetime wine.

  And I get to enjoy it with Pops’s Hazel.

  My Hazel.

  My girl.

  * * *

  “Whoa, watch your step,” I say, laughing as Hazel tumbles into a wall.

  Hands planted against the old stone wall, she says, “Where the fuck did that road come from?”

  I help her to stand. “We’ve been walking on it this whole time.”

  “Are you sure? Honestly, I thought we were riding on a bus a few seconds ago.”

  “No, you galloped on a short wall. I took a picture.” I hold out my imaginary phone, pretending my palm is the screen. “See, you’re galloping.”

  “Look at that posture.” She sends her finger to the sky. “Give me a horse award.”

  “I don’t think that’s what they’re called.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She taps the spot above her heart. “Pin that blue ribbon right on me.”

  “If I had one, I would.” I reach into my back pocket and pretend to pull one out. “Oh, wait, look, I have one in my back pocket for just such an occasion.”

  “You clever, clever bastard,” Hazel says, swaying back and forth. “Go ahead, pin her on me.”

  Reaching out, I pretend to pin a ribbon on her, and then I pat her chest, to make sure it’s secure. “There, our prize-winning galloper, decorated in glory.”

  “I don’t think it’s secure. You need to tap it some more.”

  “Oh, shit, really?” I reach out and tap her chest a few more times. “There, is it on there?”

  She looks down and then back up at me. “One more time.”

  I pat a little harder, her soft breast taking the brunt of my patting. “There. Good?”

  “Satisfactory.” She salutes me and then starts to walk away.

  “Hazel, you need to hold my hand.”

  “Why?” Her nose scrunches.

  “Because we’re about to walk over the old main bridge of Würzburg. It’s tradition to hold hands.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  I sway. “One of the stenchy ghosts whispered it to me before we left.” I hold my hand out to her but she doesn’t take it. “Hazel, don’t make me come after you and force you to hold my hand.”

  “That hand is dangerous.”

  I lift it up to my eyes and give it a good look. “How so? It doesn’t have any medieval spikes coming out of it.”

  “It’s a tempting hand. Gets me into trouble.” She walks toward the bridge, and I catch up to her, standing in front of her, the wine in my belly sloshing dangerously. I steady myself before I speak, because, hell, I’m drunk.

  Hands on her shoulders, I force her to look me in the eyes. “Hey, is this because of the dry humping? You haven’t wanted to hold my hand all day. We always hold hands.”

  “I know, and I don’t want you thinking I’m some desperate girl.”

  “What?” My brow creases. “I would never think that.”

  “But I was the one who tried kissing you and you ran away, and then I humped you while you were drunk. It’s not looking good on my end.”

  “Uhh . . . do you not remember what happened this morning?” I ask. A few people walk by us, bundled up, with concerned looks on their faces. I smile at them and say, “Just talking about our morning escapades. Guten tag.”

  Talking quietly, Hazel says, “It was a lapse of judgment on both of our parts.”

  “Is that what you really think?”

  “Don’t you?” she asks, her eyes watery from the wine, her lips a tinge of red, looking more kissable than ever before.

  I shrug. “I thought it was pretty cool.”

  “Pretty cool?” She laughs. “Oh my God. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m a guy. I think getting off with a gorgeous girl is pretty damn cool, no matter how it happens.”

  “But I’m Hazel.”

  I nod. “Yes, you are. And I would hump you right here if I could get away with it.”

  Rolling her eyes, she pushes her gloved hand against my face and knocks me away.

  Laughing, I snag her hand and hold it tight. “Stop being ridiculous and just hold my damn hand as we walk across this bridge. We have that letter to read from Pops. You know, the one that said ‘Old Main Bridge’?”

  “Oh, yeah. Think you can read it? You’re drunk.”

  “So are you.”

  “Maybe we can read it together.”

  “Nah, I got this. I’m the official narrator of this trip.”

  “What?” She turns toward me. “I never voted.”

  “Didn’t need a vote, it just happened. Plus, my voice is closer to Pops’s.”

  “Because you’re his grandson?” she asks, a little irritated.

  “Well, that and because I’m a man. I mean, no offense, Haze, but you have a girl voice.”

  “I can have a man voice.” She clears her throat, and in a deep tone she says, “See, I can speak man.”

  “You sound like a caveman.”

  “Which means it’s a step up from you,” she counters, and, damn, if I wasn’t so drunk, I think I could come back with something, but she has me.

  And she knows it. She snatches the letter from me and opens it up as we lean against a thick stone pedestal that holds a statue of some person, likely important, given the historic area.

  Clearing her throat, she holds up the letter but doesn’t say anything. I wait.

  A few more seconds.

  A few more.

  “Uh, are you okay?”

  Groaning, she slaps the letter to my chest. “My eyes are all out of whack from the wine. You read.”

  Chuckling and holding back the “I told you so,” I read the letter. “‘Hey kiddos. Hope the wine was good. Did you have the Great? Life changing, huh?’”

  “Yup, life changing, all right. Now I can’t read.”

  I nudge her shoulder and she chuckles. “‘I’ll make this note short and quick. I brought you to this bridge because many years ago, and I mean many, I brought Gloria here. We walked along the stone bridge, marveling at the statues and the beauty of the two sides of the town connecting. It felt so majestic, but it was what Gloria said that day on the bridge that changed my life forever. She said, ‘Take a look at this bridge, how weathered and worn it is, and yet, it’s one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever seen. It may have its battle scars, but it’s sturdy, a strong foundation, and that’s something love should be built on.’ She was right. There were scars in our relationship, some battle wounds, but underneath the cosmetic features of our friendship was a sturdy foundation that love could be built on. Love you. Pops.’”

  I stare down at the letter, my mind whirling, trying to comprehend.

  Is he hinting at me and Hazel?

  I mean, why else would he bring us here? And write about that? He knew damn
well that we’ve had our moments—my lack of communication being a big one—but we still have a solid foundation.

  Pocketing the letter, I glance at Hazel whose eyes are turned down, and she’s nibbling on her lip.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  She looks up at me and asks, “Was he talking about us?”

  “I think so,” I answer.

  She nods and then reaches out and takes my hand. Our palms locked together, we make our way over the rest of the bridge in silence as it starts to lightly snow. Once we reach the end, we walk back, and we keep walking until we reach our hotel. Through the entire walk, we don’t say a thing. We don’t giggle. We don’t laugh. It’s almost as if with the snap of his finger, with that one letter, Pops sobered us up.

  A foundation to build love on.

  Love.

  Fucking hell.

  Chapter Nine

  HAZEL

  The worst part about day drinking is that you sober up by nighttime and you have to nurse a hangover before you go to bed, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

  Ever since we got back to the hotel, we’ve been quiet.

  I don’t know what to say.

  Crew clearly doesn’t know what to say.

  Things have become incredibly awkward.

  The dry humping—which I know you know already, but there’s that, then the awkward conversations about holding hands.

  Pops’s letter . . .

  Love.

  Foundations.

  Battle scars.

  What?

  Jesus. I feel as though I can’t think straight, and it doesn’t help that Crew has decided to sequester himself on the couch and read a book on his e-reader while I sit here on the bed all by myself, legs tucked into my chest and my head spinning with uncertainty.

  Knock. Knock.

  Crew perks up. “That must be the food.”

  “Thank God,” I mutter. “I’ll get it.” I open the door and make small talk with the delivery person and then roll the cart over to where Crew is sitting. “Mind if I sit next to you?”