by Liza Palmer
“But—”
Thornton steps closer. “I know how it feels not to trust yourself. But maybe we start by…” Thornton looks away, his brow furrowed. He looks back over and locks eyes with me. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I say, without thinking. My answer shocks me.
“And I trust you,” he says.
We are quiet. Inches from each other.
“So, I trust you and you trust me,” I say, my voice a rasp.
“Maybe that’s the best we can do right now.”
“I can do that.”
“You’re not a monster,” he says. I don’t believe him.
“You’re not a monster.” And I can see he doesn’t believe me, either.
16
Flight
The energy and excitement, which propelled us out of that Elks Lodge and made us decide not to stop at our houses to get clean clothes or toiletries and just take Thornton’s car right from the party, is wearing off as we pass Ventura.
We’re about an hour outside of Buellton.
Elise and Hani fell asleep pretty much right away. Elise’s tucked into Hani and the two of them are curled around each other so sweetly you don’t know where one begins and the other ends. Except that E.T. is poking his head out from his spot right between them.
Thornton and I are mostly quiet as we speed along the ocean in search of answers that only Meera Rao can give. When we do speak, it’s in quiet voices so we don’t wake up Elise and Hani.
We stop to get gas at a rickety gas station, load up on road food, and quietly get back in the car. I got a couple of bottles of water, some toothpaste, a bag of plain M&M’s, and a package of minidonuts for the morning. We settle into the front seats and get back on the 101. I take a long swig of my water and shift in my chair, turning my knees so that I’m facing Thornton more. I’ve always hated being the driver on long road trips and being left to my own devices as one by one people drop off to sleep. I offer my water to Thornton. He takes it, drinks a long slug out of it, and hands it back. I offer him an M&M and accidentally pour thousands into his hand.
“You’re a good navigator,” he says, popping an M&M into his mouth.
“That’s the highest compliment anyone has ever paid me,” I say, sitting back in my chair. I swipe open my phone and start reading off cheap hotels in Buellton that we can crash in overnight. Meera’s winery opens at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. It’s up the road in Los Olivos, but that’s too expensive and touristy. Buellton is a better bet. Thornton nods along.
“What if we find a room with two big queen-sized beds and a couch or a cot or something?” I say, scrolling through the dwindling options. “Save some money. It’s only one night.”
“That sounds good. Worse comes to worst I can sleep in the back of the car,” Thornton says, motioning to the way back of the Volvo. “I’ve done it before.” I book us into a little motel in Buellton, actually calling there to confirm since it’s so late. A grumpy man answers and says yes, he’ll roll a couple of cots in there and how long will it be before we get there, yeah, that’s fine, but checkout is still at eleven, he wants us to know. I agree to all terms and sign off.
“When did you do it before?” I ask. I drop my phone into the pocket of my cardigan. Thank god this basket case costume is essentially just glorified pajamas. I am all set for tonight.
“Do what before?” Thornton asks.
“Sleep in the back of your car.”
“Oh. I drove across the country after I graduated from Caltech. Did odd jobs along the way,” he says.
“Hm.” Thornton looks over at me. “I’m trying to act like that’s not super cool and all I can muster was a hm.” Thornton waits. “You’re way cooler than me is all.”
“Yeah, probably.” Then he laughs. Looks over at me. Laughs some more.
“That’s great. Thanks for that.”
“I mean, what are you gonna do?” Thornton holds out his hand and I pour more M&M’s into it. “No, I…” He pops the M&M’s into his mouth, but then holds his hand out again. “I don’t want M&M’s in my hand, I want your hand in my hand.”
“Oh,” I say, unable to keep from laughing. I tuck the bag of M&M’s into the side pocket of the passenger’s side door, shove my water bottle next to me in the seat, and put my hand in his. And we drive on in silence. “This is weird.”
“Only because I have melted chocolate on my hand,” he says, letting go of my hand and grabbing a napkin from the gas station bag. He giggles as he wipes the chocolate off his hand. Hearing Thornton giggle is … something even I recognize not many get to behold. It’s truly wonderful. He holds his hand out again and I take it.
Wordlessly, Thornton lifts up my hand, brings it up to his lips and gently kisses it. I watch as he lets our held hands drop to his leg and somehow it doesn’t feel as weird now.
In the silence that expands, I want to ask him what he thought of my friends. Does he still get sad sometimes? Does he think Mackenzie is as awful as I do? I want to ask him if he thinks Meera Rao is going to have the answers we need and if this story will give me back journalism. I want to ask him if he thinks that’s going to change what we have, whatever that is. I want to ask him if I’m a good writer.
But most of all I want to ask him why me? Why does he want my hand in his? I want to ask him if he thinks I can get used to being seen like this? Being loved like this. I want to ask him why I can be myself around him. Why I still belong to me around him.
Instead, I lift his hand to my lips and gently kiss it. Our held hands fall back on his leg. I lean over in my chair and rest my head on his shoulder.
“I’m not falling asleep, I promise,” I say, my voice gravelly.
“You’d better not,” he says. I can hear his voice muffled inside his body. I smile and watch as the cars speed past.
We pull into the sketchy hotel about an hour later. Thornton runs in, puts it on his card—telling us all to Venmo him later—and emerges with the key to the room.
We are all quiet as we walk across the parking lot to the bank of rooms. Thornton turns the key and pushes open the door. Two queen beds and two cots make the room look like one giant mattress.
“I’ll take one of the cots,” Thornton says, peeling his flight suit down to his waist and revealing the plain white T-shirt just underneath. Jesus Christ. He pulls off his shoes, sets them by the side of the cot, and crawls under the covers.
“Night, guys,” he says, flipping over onto his side. We all wish him a good night and I try not to stare at how the plain white T-shirt is just see-through enough so I can see the outline of his back muscles as they shift and flex while he tries to get comfortable in a bed two inches shorter than he is.
“I’m so tired I can sleep anywhere,” Hani says, doing her nightly prayers and then falling down on the other cot closest to her. Hani continues talking into her pillow. “Night, guys. This was the best night ever. What a special everything.”
“I appreciate that they didn’t say they would take the cots because we’re older,” Elise says, with a yawn. I nod. I take off my sling bag, flick off my Converse, and crawl into the queen bed by the sliding glass door.
Elise crawls into the other queen-sized bed and asks if we’re ready for the main light to be turned off. We grunt that we are. She turns off the main light and wishes us a good night.
At first I think I’ll have trouble falling asleep, but before I know it, the morning light is breaking through the sliding glass door. I blink open my eyes and see that Hani is sitting up in her cot, red hood drawn tightly around her face.
“There’s a breakfast place called Mother Hubbard’s that I want to go to,” she whispers. I push the hair off my face. She looks back over at me. “It’s not in a cupboard, though.” Hani laughs as she swipes through her phone. “That would have been wonderful.” She tightens her hoodie around her face. And then, almost to herself, she whispers, “Man. Eating pancakes in a cupboard.”
“So, you and Elise?” Ha
ni’s face bursts with the joyous flush of love. It’s unmistakable, but then she claps her hand over her mouth and crumples in on herself.
“It’s—” Hani finally squeaks out, “I didn’t know you could be this happy.” I nod and feel the clawing emotion prickling my skin. I swallow and tamp down as much as I can. I will not lose my shit in a cheap hotel room in Buellton dressed up as a basket case. Hani goes back to her phone with a sigh.
Over the next hour, everyone gets up and gets ready. Thornton sits up in his cot, sleepy-eyed, his clothes wrinkled. Elise tries—to no avail—to find a way to make her Ghostbuster costume not look like … a Ghostbuster costume. Hani hurries us along, having decided that we, as a people, deserve pancakes.
We are packed up and out the door by 9:30 A.M., having pancakes in our costumes from last night by ten, and driving up to Los Olivos by eleven in search of Meera Rao’s winery.
“There,” Hani says, pointing to the wooden sign that reads “Wayfarer,” the name of the winery. Thornton pulls the car down the long dusty driveway and we park next to the handful of other cars already in the lot. He shuts off the car. We are quiet.
“I think we see what kind of lady she is first and then come up with a plan,” I say. Everyone nods along.
“So, we order a flight. Settle in. And Joan chats her up,” Elise says.
“Yeah, I think we’ll get a pretty good read on her right away,” I say.
“This all of the sudden feels really real,” Thornton says.
“Right? I was just going to say that,” Hani says.
“This was all so academic, and now there’s a person in there, and—”
“I’m good at this,” I say, looking Thornton in the eye.
“I know,” he says. Hani and Elise share a look. We all get out of the car and walk up to the main tasting room.
Wayfarer is exactly the kind of winery anyone would hope to own one day. Olive trees dot the property; a golden retriever underneath a white bench greets you as you step up onto the wrap-around porch. Muted whites and grays and sages. The whole place smells like a wonderful, luxurious herbal bath. We open the shiny black door and step inside the tasting room.
The seating is plush yet minimal. Stylish vignettes of comfy chairs cluster and circle around wooden tables at their center. There are a few groups of people here already. They’re standing at the long reclaimed wood bar, being poured wine by a lovely man in his late twenties. Dark brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a light blue oxford shirt. He brings out a nice white for the group next to us and walks them through how it was made and the different notes. They nod along.
We scan the rest of the room. We all see her at the same time. She’s emerging from the back holding a bottle and calling out to her husband that she found it, and that it was right where he left it. He nods and the group oohs and aahs as she presents them with the bottle of wine. She is tiny. Curly black hair, bright eyes, and wearing those linen clothes that look good on no one, except her. She sets the bottle down, sees us, and tells her husband she’ll be right back. Thornton, Hani, and Elise peel off toward the other helper behind the bar. They order a flight.
“Your friends seem to have abandoned you for wine,” she says. Her voice is strong and I can tell right away that this woman is not going to put up with any of my bullshit. “What are you looking for?” She starts walking toward a shelf full of salts, rubs, and olive oils. “You’re clearly not a wine drinker.”
“How can you tell?”
“Come on, honey.”
“That black salt looks neat,” I say, pointing. Meera looks from me to the black salt. She picks it up off the shelf and hands it to me. “Is it just like regular salt?”
“Well, first off … it’s black.” I can see Thornton, Hani, and Elise stealing glances.
“I’m actually here about something else,” I say.
“You don’t say.” Meera takes the black salt away from me and replaces it on the shelf.
“Chris Lawrence and Asher Lyndon.”
Meera rolls her eyes. “What about them?”
“I think they’re running a company based on something that doesn’t work and that you may know something about that.”
“Are you talking about CAM?”
“Yes,” I say, holding my breath, in disbelief that she just came right out and said it.
“All that was in the past, I’ve got this lovely winery far away from tech bros and hey, honey, get me some coffee, and this is my Russian supermodel girlfriend who’s now going to be the CEO of our start-up, you’re cool with that, right?”
“So you moved up here to get away from them?”
“I moved up here because this is where the wine grows. I walked away from CAM because it didn’t work at that time.”
“Can you prove it?” Meera walks toward the back room, gesturing for me to follow her. As she disappears through the swinging doors, I look back over at Thornton, Hani, and Elise. A nod. They nod back. They’re nervous. I step into the back room and find Meera waiting for me, uncorking a fresh bottle of wine.
“This is our newest,” she says, offering me a glass. I take a sip.
“It’s good,” I say.
“So, who are you really?”
“Joan Dixon. I’m a journalist.” Goddamn, does it feel good to say those words.
“I thought you’d have been here earlier. Not you, in particular, but some journalist.” I am quiet. Let her talk. “I had my whole speech planned. Do you want to hear it?” I nod. “I was going to tell whomever appeared at my doorstep the hypothetical story about a local vineyard that claimed to have a high-yield grape that would allow way more wine to be made off a small plot of land.” Meera refills both our glasses. She motions for me to drink. I obey her. “Turns out they just bought the garbage wine excess from a larger vineyard, selling it under the table. And wouldn’t you know it? No one knew until someone found out about that other vineyard.”
“Did you sign an NDA?” I don’t want to spook her, but making up hypothetical vineyard stories seems to speak to a legal inability to speak freely about what happened with CAM.
“We were twenty years old when we developed CAM, living in dorm rooms and eating ramen,” she says. I wait. I need her to say it. “No, I didn’t sign an NDA. I did, however, sign away my shares on the back of a King Taco receipt. No way was I going down with that ship.” My heart sings. “Also, fuck that and fuck them.” She walks over to the shelves and grabs another bottle of wine. She uncorks it, sets down two fresh glasses. “Now, this is my personal favorite.” I drink. She drinks, watching me the whole time. “Really sit in it.”
“It’s good,” I say, not knowing the first thing to say about wine or how to “sit in it.”
“So, how’d you find me?”
“Does it matter?” I realize that I’m becoming quite drunk. I think that’s the point.
“I guess not,” she says, taking a long drink from her glass. She pours herself another.
“Can I record this?” Not trusting my quickly drunkening self, I pull my phone from my sling bag. She watches me.
“Are you dressed like that girl from that one movie?”
“Yeah.” I look down at my outfit. After sleeping in it, the basketcase costume looks more genuine than ever.
“Should I ask why?”
“Probably not.” I hold out my phone and she gives me a nod. I press Record. I ask her again if I can record this conversation and Meera says yes.
“I used to believe telling someone my story would be seen as gossip. But it was my story, so how could it be—gossip is something most people believe is at best catty, and at worst a downright lie. But my story was neither of these things.” Meera pours. “And then I started paying attention. Really paying attention. Let me ask you a question, Joan. If I told you that I overheard two people gossiping about someone at work. Describe those people to me.”
“I don’t know … um … I’d think one of the women was—”
“Why is it a
woman?”
“What?”
“Why did you imagine that it was two women I overheard? I just said two people.”
“Oh, shit. Yeah … damn.” I’m stunned by own ignorance.
“I realized that people in power use that word to debase those who would pass along information they would rather was kept secret. And isn’t it odd how it seems to be only women who are called out for gossiping?” Meera puts giant air quotes around the word “gossiping.”
“I’ve never quite thought about it like that,” I say.
“Women secretly confiding in other women, arming each other with hard-won information that will allow our fellow sisters to thrive, is a true rebellion.” Meera raises her glass. “To gossip.”
“To gossip,” I say, clinking her glass. Meera takes a long, luxurious drink, carefully sets her glass down, and locks eyes with me. Her gaze is resolute and commanding.
“CAM was never going to be what Chris wanted. He was obsessed. And it broke him. One night I was joking around that we could just do it the way everyone else does and no one would know. We hide a server farm somewhere, set up some ditzy start-up that only talks in inspirational memes, throw in some talk about America and don’t you yearn for a time when you didn’t have to lock your doors, and people would eat it up. No one understands this tech shit anyway. We’d seen it happen a million times. And where was the harm? People’s stuff is stored just as safely in a server farm.”
“So they deliberately misled people?”
“That was the plan.”
“To what end?”
“All anyone in tech wants—well, guys like Chris and Asher, anyway—is to develop some app or start-up that is just shiny enough that they can get bought for some ridiculous amount of money. It doesn’t even have to work. Like, that’s completely legal. Because the dudes buying these things are just as fucking dumb and arrogant as the dudes making them.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I tapped out when they started talking about what later became Bloom. It didn’t feel right. You want to make a difference, you know?” She drinks. “Or at least be able to sleep at night.”