Crush

by Wood, Mae

“We’ve got a couple of hours until dinner, right?”

  My phone pinged with the tone I’d set for my boss. “Marlena,” I said. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Okay, if you have twenty, thirty minutes, I’ll be here.”

  “Kenz,” I said, stepping toward her, crossing the gap I’d dug between us. “You’re going to crush it tonight,” I whispered against her lips.

  “Yes, I am,” she said, canting her face up to mine, leaning in for a kiss that wasn’t going to come.

  “See you at dinner,” I said, and I left her hotel room.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Kenzie

  Ryan was right. I was made for this. I sat in the middle of the table for ten in the private dining room and talked about von Eck, the land, the wines we were serving tonight, and all the things I loved. I told stories about our history, about how the Great Depression and Prohibition had almost wiped us out, about how the legendary Judgment of Paris in 1976 put California wines on the map, about how we pioneered the tasting room-slash-restaurant.

  And I dreamed big for our future—for the new acreage, for the legacy of the Drachenfutter blend, for how our investment in ag tech was allowing us to have more control over the grapes, even allowing us to identify portions of a field where grapes had different sugar levels, allowing us to have more nuanced harvests and giving a winemaker more textures and tones to play with.

  I would have been giddy with delight, high on the future of us, if Ryan hadn’t been so distant. Self-consciousness began to creep in. Had I done something wrong? I looked around the table at the guests, at Marlena, and everyone seemed happy. Everyone but Ryan. He wasn’t engaged like he usually was. Maybe the sinus infection and travel and stress of the meeting were catching up with him. I pushed it to the back of my mind. This afternoon was his show. This was my dinner and I was hosting it like a champ.

  It wasn’t quite ten thirty when dinner ended over our decadent, micro-lot, late harvest chardonnay. I wasn’t on cloud nine—I was on cloud ninety-nine, absolutely buzzing with joy from the praise heaped upon our wines.

  “You did great, McKenzie,” said Marlena after the guests had left.

  “Thank you,” I said, more joy expanding my chest. “Let’s go out! It’s not even eight in California.”

  I looked at Ryan, hopeful that he’d jump on my idea and be all in, but he didn’t say anything. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out the darkened window. I watched his reflection in the glass. He wasn’t happy. Something was wrong.

  The silence grew awkward. Had I screwed something up? Was no one going to buy the bonds? I looked between Marlena and Ryan, searching for answers and getting none.

  “What?” I finally said.

  “I’d love to go out and celebrate, but I’ve got some work to do,” said Marlena, placing her handbag on her shoulder. “McKenzie, you’re a star. I’ll see you in LA.”

  We shook hands and she left.

  “Ryan,” I whispered as soon as the door to the private dining room closed. His eyes were still on the window. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m getting put on another deal.”

  “What? Why?”

  He turned toward me, his eyes heavy. He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “There’s a big resort hotel project starting, and I’m being staffed on it.”

  “You’re not working with us anymore?”

  “Yeah,” he said, a hand coming out of his pocket to sweep his dark hair back from his face.

  “I mean, that’s good, right?” I said the words, but I knew this wasn’t good. That him not working with me didn’t somehow make everything better. That it didn’t mean we didn’t have to hide anymore. It meant the opposite. It meant this was over.

  “It is what it is.”

  I wanted to stamp my foot at him. I hated when people said that. It was like they were giving up, like they didn’t even care enough to try to make things right. “And what is it?”

  “Kenz—” He growled my name, but not in the near purr I’d coaxed out of him before. This time there was anguish in the gravel, not desire.

  I stared at him in response, guessing where this was going. And it was going someplace I didn’t like. Someplace I didn’t ever want to be with him.

  “Not now, okay? Maybe in a few years? The timing’s all wrong—”

  I didn’t even let him finish ripping my beating heart out of my burning chest. I barked out a laugh. I’d tried this. We’d tried this. We’d tried staying away. And we’d failed. I don’t know why he thought it’d be different if he was the one to pump the breaks.

  “Kenzie.” His voice was soft this time as he stepped toward me, his arms out, offering me comfort.

  I wanted to be wrapped up in his warmth, to be in his arms where the rest of the world fell away, but I knew any comfort I found there wouldn’t last. That it would be cold, and that it wouldn’t stop my heart from breaking.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ryan

  I thought I’d hated myself throughout dinner. I didn’t cave on the wines that came my way. Funny thing about all the times in my life I’d thought about a shot of liquid courage? The scariest things in life you need to be sober for. I needed to be sober so I could do this. I wouldn’t have the strength to do it otherwise.

  I watched her like this was a movie, like some sort of talk-y art-house flick. A Gatsby remake where she was Daisy and I wasn’t Gatsby or Tom or even Nick. I was just some poor slob watching a movie.

  Kenzie was incandescent. She laughed, and at the sound, I nearly threw my napkin on the table in surrender. I wasn’t alone in my reaction to her. Everyone was drinking her in, and I knew exactly what was on Andy Chastain’s mind. He was a few years older than me, worked at an institutional investor, and he’d bought into a few of our offerings over the years. He was fine. I didn’t hate him—I liked him, even—but when, under his breath, he asked about any special perks available with a tilt of his head toward Kenzie, I wanted to rip his face off. When he said she seemed friendly with me and that he wanted to know if she’d be his friend too, I couldn’t see straight.

  Not yours, I thought.

  Not anyone’s.

  Not mine.

  Now, weaving my way around the Upper West Side, ostensibly walking back to the hotel, there was no doubt—I hated myself. There were things I regretted in life. But the list was short and many of those were things I didn’t have a say in, things that were out of my control. That I didn’t start hockey at age five. That I had to work rather than bum around Europe that summer in college. And before this moment there was one stunner at the top of the list—that I hadn’t come home for what turned out to be my grandmother’s last Thanksgiving. Even that was an omission. It was an oversight.

  This? This wasn’t an oversight. This was me actively choosing to hurt her—actively choosing to hurt myself. And for what? For money? Hell no. Not for all the money in the world, but I couldn’t let everything I’d built crater. There had to be a way forward, a way to get everything I wanted. But I couldn’t see a path right now.

  I sighed, my tired feet stopping on Amsterdam as I peered into the window of a whiskey bar, wondering if I should just go in and get sloppy now or find a liquor store, buy a bottle, and curl up in my hotel room … My hotel room that looked like hers where I’d slept last night, tangled up in her. Yeah, I’d sleep on the streets before I walked back into that hotel sober, so bar then liquor store became my plan.

  Not being with her was more distracting than being with her, so I pushed hard to focus on anything. And hockey was the best for focusing. Plus, when I was on the ice, I couldn’t check my phone to see if she’d texted me. Because in the week and a half since I’d walked away from her, she hadn’t texted me. And I hadn’t texted her.

  “Thanks,” growled Samson in appreciation after I’d stopped a shot he should have intercepted.

  I’d already taken a puck to my mask, which only juiced me up more. And as stupid as it sounded, I felt good at bein
g officially moved to the roster to replace Mr. Meow. Even with my travel schedule, they said half a regular goaltender was better than having to scrounge all the time. Plus, Greg told me the other guy they were considering didn’t read the Sugarbear-Elsa situation and nearly got punched in the face by Elsa. Whatever the reasons, I was glad the No Names were happy to have me around. And happy to help me drink.

  It was after midnight at the hockey bar near the rink. Plastic pitcher after pitcher of cheap beer. We’d been drinking for hours and I had to be at the office in less than six for a call with folks on the East Coast, so I knew I wasn’t going to sleep tonight.

  We’d crushed the other team. Four-one. And that one goal I’d let slip by me, I couldn’t let the play go. I kept rerunning it through my mind. I’d seen it coming, so that wasn’t the problem. It was execution. I hadn’t been centered. I’d drifted to the left and the other side took advantage of my carelessness.

  Elsa said her goodbyes and I watched Sugarbear watch her leave. She’d turned down his offer for him to wait with her for a car. He stood and made his way to the bar, elbow propped on it, like he was ordering something, but his head twisted to watch her on the street until a silver car pulled up and she left.

  When he returned to the table, I plunked a fresh glass in front of him. “Drink up,” I said.

  “Misery loves company,” said Greg, tapping his glass against Sugarbear’s and mine. “I’m on your couch again tonight, man.”

  “You’ve got to stop that, you know? It’s getting old. She’s going to leave you.”

  Greg huffed. “Nah, she won’t.”

  “What exactly do you do to get kicked out so much?” asked Sugarbear.

  I’d never asked. I figured he was probably screwing around on her, but that was his deal, that was her deal, that wasn’t my deal.

  “It’s not so much that. I just leave. She gets clingy.”

  “Clingy would be good with me,” said Sugarbear.

  “Yeah. Nothing wrong with that,” I agreed.

  “She wants to know where I am all the time and what I’m doing,” said Greg.

  “So, she’s interested in you? Not seeing the problem,” said Sugarbear.

  “Hold up, you’re not sleeping with other women?” I said.

  Greg looked at me like I’d suddenly grown horns. “What? No. Why would I do that?”

  “You two are so weird,” I said. I turned to Sugarbear. “And you and Elsa are weird too. She likes you.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “She does. I’m at the end of the ice all night, watching you guys. If she’s going to pass it, two times out of three, it’s to you. She knows where you are on the ice.”

  “She’s got great on-ice awareness. Did you know she was on the national team?”

  “And, no offense, but you’re missing the point. She passes it to you. You’re not national team material. None of us are.” I gestured around the table with my beer in hand. “You want to pass a puck to someone who’s going to do something with it? It’s not to the three of us, that’s for damn sure. You need to man up.”

  “Yeah,” said Greg. “And she almost decked that goalie last week. He made fun of Sugabe-ah’s Baww-stin talk. Called him ‘slow.’”

  “For the millionth time, I’m not from Boston. I’m a Mainer,” he replied. “We don’t talk much.” He chugged half his beer and swirled the rest in his glass, staring at the dregs of foam that clung to the inside. “Elsa’s fucking scary.”

  “Elsa is not scary,” I said with a laugh.

  “And that Kenzie girl you brought around? She didn’t seem scary,” Sugarbear said, eyeing me. “And whatever Scooter’s got going on with his girl? She wants to know where you are? Oh, poor baby. Sounds awful.”

  “I’m not scared of women,” I said.

  “Yeah, right you’re not,” said Greg with a chuckle. “Kenzie scares the shit out of you.”

  “Fine. They’re all scary. Women are fucking scary. So, we’re just going to drink beer and play hockey.”

  “Good with me,” said Sugarbear with a shrug.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Kenzie

  I’d flown home from New York in a daze, my eyes and throat scratchy from crying. “Excuse my allergies,” I said to everyone who looked at me twice. “I’m not contagious.”

  Part of me realized it was probably cosmic—that this was payback for all the guys I’d dated and ditched without a second thought. I never knew it felt like this. That I could hurt like this.

  “At least you won’t have to see him again,” said Drennan after I told her everything the next day. She meant well, I could tell by her kind eyes, but it only made me feel worse. I wanted to see him. I wanted him. Even if he didn’t want me back.

  “Okay, I’m going out to do some work. I’ve got to be down in LA in a few days to do this all again.” I drove my old Jeep around the estate, remembering when Ryan and I were in it, dazed from the magic, drunk on each other. I needed to work.

  I joined our team working on the canopy for two weeks of hard work, slowly making my way down a row, focusing on the way the sun was hitting the grapes, watching their colors change and deepen, snipping back leaves that shaded the green fruit so sugars would develop. Our grapes were babied, tenderly loved, and that love showed in the wine. I wanted someone to love me. And if I couldn’t have someone to love me, I wanted someone to baby me, but I couldn’t tell my mom or aunt about Ryan.

  “You okay, Kenzie?” My mom looked at me with concerned eyes as I pounded coffee the next morning in the kitchenette near our offices.

  “Just tired.” I claimed that my endless hours of work were exhausting, and I crashed hard at night, too tired for even a glass of wine or TV. With a nod she let me commune with the caffeine.

  She must have said something to my aunt, because not two hours later she pulled up in her Jeep where I was working and Bubba hopped out behind her.

  “You ready for LA?” asked Theresa.

  “Absolutely,” I said, keeping my eyes on the vines and fruit.

  “I can go with you.”

  “Why—”

  “Let me go with you,” she said.

  “I can do this,” I said, offended that somehow I wasn’t capable in her eyes.

  “Kenzie, you’re a mess right now—”

  “I can do this.” I raked my hands through the leaves and checked the ties to the trellis.

  “I’m not saying you can’t. Marlena said you did great in New York.”

  “And—”

  “I’ve had my heart broken before.”

  I stared at her, shocked that she knew what was going on. Before I could speak, to deny that was the reason I was a complete mess, she continued.

  “Before your uncle. It’s hard to believe it was really me, but yeah.”

  “Yeah,” I said, admitting to everything and nothing at the same time. I tucked away my shears and bent down to scratch Bubba behind his ears.

  “I don’t blame you, Kenzie. But sometimes guys in this industry, they think they can flirt their way into a better deal.”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “You don’t need to tell me. It’s fine. I just want you to know that you’re in a position where some people, mainly men, will try to wine and dine you to try to take advantage of you or us.”

  “I know. There were some guys at school who when they found out who I was—” I kept looking at Bubba. It was easier to have this heart-to-heart that way.

  “And it’s one thing up here, where everyone is connected to the industry, but with some guys—and finance guys are awful at this—you have to watch yourself. Know what I’m talking about? Our corks and glass rep is the worst.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I nodded in agreement, remembering when he’d asked me to dinner last summer, not wanting to take my “no” for an answer.

  “Hot tip? Don’t let the next one leave his computer bag in the conference room overnight. Dead giveaway.”

  I blanched and loo
ked up at her. She knew. This whole time she knew. Does my mom know? Does everyone know?

  “But now you’re going to shake this off and we’re going to rock in LA. Will he be there?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s working on another deal.”

  “Easier, then. If you want me to go, I’ll go. Not because you can’t do it. You can do this. But because things are easier to do together.”

  By the time I got off the plane in LA, I felt better. I didn’t feel raw and ragged. My hair was polished, blown out, and professional. I’d ditched the New York suit for my favorite bright pink dress.

  Aunt Theresa tagged along, telling my mom she wanted to see some friends, but that the meeting was still mine to run. Well, as much as me nodding and smiling and answering questions when Marlena and Jordan directed them my way counted as “my meeting.” During the dinner, Aunt Theresa and I ran a tag-team, playing off each other and hosting a fabulous meal.

  After the guests departed, Theresa topped up our glasses of the sweet, late harvest chardonnay and raised hers in my direction. “You did good.”

  I found my footing in that moment. “Wouldn’t be here without you and mom,” I said, lifting my glass to her, my tattered heart taking comfort in finding its place.

  As the harvest began around the valley, tourists poured in, clogging the roads and keeping every bit of our estate hopping. I threw myself into work, trying to drown out the memories and dreams of him—of us. I worked myself from sunup to sundown, helping get our earlier fruit in, finalizing planting plans with Nate and Aunt Theresa for our new acreage, and negotiating for upgrades to our irrigation systems.

  Drennan found me in my parents’ kitchen, standing over the sink, eating a slice of cold pizza. “You look like death,” she said.

  I swallowed the rest of my dinner without tasting it. “Thanks. What are you doing here?”