by Tif Marcelo
But that’s the thing: just because it’s not done on purpose doesn’t mean it’s not damaging or hurtful.
Taking the coffee would be conceding.
Bottom line: I don’t want to accept it.
The bottomless bottom line: I need coffee.
I wrap my fingers around the foam carrier. I pull out a cup and take a long, glorious sip. It renders me grateful—another flash of weakness—and I tamp down the feeling. Nothing is going to deter my focus.
“Can I come in?” Mitchell shoves his hands into his pockets.
“I don’t think so. I’ve got to get myself ready for our meeting.”
“Ah.” His eyes dim, as if he hoped I’d forgotten all about today’s agenda. “About that. I’m here to cancel the meeting, Bryn.”
My eyebrows scrunch downward. “Really?”
“After you left, we had a conversation, my brothers and me. Levi should have never spoken to you as if the plans were set in stone. Because they aren’t.”
I wait for more. For something meaningful. An apology, a reassurance that Paraiso won’t be thrown under the bus. “Is that it?”
He stutters. “Y-yeah. That’s it.”
I pause. I wait.
I listen for the magic words. That he should have spoken to me first. He should have told the truth. He was sorry to have not come to me the moment Paraiso was in the discussion. To say because I matter to him, Paraiso matters to him, too.
But he looks to me, as if it’s my turn to speak. I clear my throat. “I won’t have to worry about losing any of my leased areas?”
“Nope. You have my word.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. His vibe shifts so his stance relaxes. “Can we make up now?”
My insides plunge at Mitchell’s ignorance and I put a hand on the door, brace myself at this failed expectation. “Sure, yeah. Thanks for coming to let me know.”
Mitchell’s mouth opens like he has more to say, and he raises his hand as if to stop me. But I close the door before he can tempt me more, before I can fall into his arms and into what I thought was something real.
30
MITCHELL
“Trust me. The reveal will be a million times better if there’s a break in streaming.” Laurel slides a manicured finger down the page of her planner and draws an imaginary circle around this week, the last week of July. At an impromptu meeting to discuss how to ramp up live stream viewership before the opening on August 12, she, Bryn, and I had barely sat down at Paraiso’s kitchen island when Laurel launched into her suggestions. She’s on point and no-nonsense, as usual. “An extended cliff-hanger, if you will. Take the rest of this week off, then we’ll stream your last two weeks of prep for the opening. Think of this break as your last vacation before this place blows up. Aren’t you booked for the next three months?”
Bryn raises her eyes to me, hope lingering in them. “Four. Every weekend offered has at least seventy-five percent occupancy.”
“Well, dang. Look at that.” Laurel shifts her gaze to me. “How about you, how’s your reno?”
“Coming along faster in some ways, slower in others. By Paraiso’s opening, we’ll have the tasting room open for private tastings and have vineyard tours set up for the public. But the harvest will have to take priority from late August until October. We’re hoping for a November opening for the entire winery for events.”
“Then it’s settled. And your plans to . . . kind of let things fizzle out? The breakup? You guys have talked about it? We all agree at the website that it’s a great plan. It’ll truly bring in the crowd.”
We both nod, though it’s a lie. We haven’t talked about us breaking up since the beginning, when all of this started. And with the spat between my brother and Bryn, and our tense conversation yesterday, she’s barely speaking to me. Who the hell knows where I stand?
“My suggestion? Make it simple. The least dramatic as possible. The more you put out there, the more these viewers are going to hang on to the drama. You are aware to expect some general backlash over your breakup?”
“Backlash?” Worry floods Bryn’s face.
Laurel answers as if she’s talking about lollipops and bubblegum, like it’s a small treat. “No worries, you two. Trust me when I say all publicity is good publicity. You breaking up will have everyone talking. They’ll wonder why and how. Your desirability factor will shoot through the roof.”
It’s my turn to ask for clarification. “Desirability factor?”
“Curiosity will bring folks to your businesses. Fans, you know?”
But my mind is still stuck on the word desirability, and I’m on the defensive. Fans desiring Bryn? Men wanting Bryn? My body tenses. I didn’t think of the secondary and tertiary effects of the live stream, that nothing ever goes away once it’s been transmitted through the Internet.
“Oh, don’t look so hesitant, you two. It won’t be so bad. The Internet is fickle. You’ll be the talk for a little while, but some other drama with another Internet couple will roll through and take the limelight.” Laurel spins her gold watch around. “Oh crap, look at the time. I’ve got to go.” Laurel stands, sighing. “Aw, I’ve gotten really fond of you guys. I might even say I’m gonna miss you.” She approaches us from behind and puts a hand on my shoulder and her other on Bryn’s, the most affection she’s showed us the last month.
Then her face promptly flips to her normal don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. “Adeline.”
The assistant gathers all of Laurel’s things and trails after her, giving us a haphazard wave before closing the door behind them. Silence descends upon Bryn and me like fog, the chill in her mood palpable.
Throwing my pride aside, I relent. “Okay, Aquino. Tell me what’s up.”
After a pause, she says, “What did you tell Levi about yesterday’s canceled meeting?” Hands clasped on the island countertop, Bryn looks at me as if she and I never spent an intimate moment together. “Tell me the exact words you used.”
“I told him he didn’t have the right to tell you anything that wasn’t confirmed.” Quickly, I add, “He apologized. Levi—he sometimes jumps the gun, and since he’s only here for another week, he thought he would get the conversation going with you. He was wrong.”
Sarcasm bursts from her. “Yeah, he was wrong. But beyond that? What else did you say?”
I shake my head. I feel like a mouse walking into a trap as the words leave my lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, have a good week off, Mitchell.” She stands abruptly, gathering the papers spread out in front of her into a pile. One by one she flicks light switches off, walks out of the kitchen, and leaves me in darkness. As I hear her climb the stairs, I jump to my feet and head to the bottom of the stairs. She’s already halfway up to the second floor.
I call up, “I don’t understand. What the fuck did I do?”
“Please lock the door behind you.”
Fury builds like a slow-rolling boil. My words are clipped. “Fine. If that’s what you really want. Then I’m fucking out of here.” A week is exactly what I need from this place, this town, from her. My therapy appointments have all been about Bryn, my life consumed with her presence, with this live stream. Being forced together has given me tunnel vision, a skewed reality.
The live stream is not reality.
This, right now, with us pissing each other off, as we did the very first moment we met, is reality. And I’m sick of her attitude, of her unwillingness to bend, of her inability to communicate.
But as I hear the stomps of her footsteps on the stairs, I double-check her bluff. Walking out right now will keep me from having the last say. And I can’t let her win, not this easily.
I can’t leave this unchecked.
“So, that’s it?” I put a foot on the stair. “Is this how it’s going to go down? You’re just going to shut me out? After everything we’
ve been to each other . . . one misunderstanding and none of it matters?”
She turns. “What would we be, Mitchell? We’re two people who created a contract. The first, when I moved here, called a lease, and the second, for this live stream deal.”
“And what of everything in between?”
“What in between?” She’s holding the banister, lit by the solitary dim bulb overhead. I know how Bryn is, and this is all a front, but her reaction, intent on downplaying our connection, makes me want to scream. Was it all really just a contract? Up to what point is our relationship a game?
Everything about the woman is ice. Ice behind a glass wall, and it feels like she’s so out of reach.
“You know what I’m talking about,” I plead.
Her gaze flickers, and it’s in that recognition I know there’s something there. It’s enough, a reach into the middle, so I try to pull her in. “My brother’s an asshole, I won’t deny it, but pushing me away doesn’t solve anything. We agreed when we started all this we’d tell the truth. I want it now.”
“Fine.” She steps down two stairs. “The truth is this. You’re not the person I thought you were.”
Her words act like bullets, jolting me, rendering me blind. My hand grabs the banister so I don’t crumble. I’ve heard worse before, from drill sergeants, from my brothers in our rough play on words. But for it to come from Bryn, from her beautiful lips . . .
“Why didn’t you stand up to Levi in the first place? Why didn’t you definitively tell him no when he brought up Paraiso? Because the Mitchell I had something more with would have treated me like we meant something. Where’s the guy who’s so headstrong, who can dish out as much as he takes? Have you seen the amazing things you’ve done here? You brought life to the vineyard. All you have to do is walk through this place for everything to flower. You belong here. This is your legacy, your destiny, too. But somehow, with Levi around, with Levi making the calls, you succumbed to second. All you do is placate him to calm him down. And I’m just so damn disappointed.”
I turn away, having heard enough. The air is sucked from my chest, leaving me with anger. So much of it that bile rises up through my esophagus.
How could she . . . How dare she judge me? Words jackknife out of me, with her as the target. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not exactly who I thought you were either. I thought by now you’d have a heart, that you’d care for more than just yourself. Because there’s more to life than being right or winning. It’s never just black-and-white, you against the world. But I was wrong. No matter how hard I try, how much I bend, how much I show you, it won’t be enough. It’s only you and this dream, and the rest of us are just the help, the things on your to-do list.”
She heaves a breath, and I know I’ve stepped too far. And yet I don’t take my words back, my chest clamping down tight.
“Then I guess we’re agreed. The breakup will be easier than expected. See you next week, Mitchell.” She stomps up the stairs and slams her bedroom door.
This time I don’t have any trouble going to the door and turning the knob. I can’t wait to get the hell out of there.
31
BRYN
For the first time since arriving at Paraiso, I’m itching to leave it.
This morning I’m up before my alarm and in a sundress and Chucks fifteen minutes later. Ten minutes after that, I’m dragging my suitcase down the stairs. It bursts at the zipper despite my plans to be away for only three days. After last night’s fight with Mitchell, I had just enough energy to throw my clothes haphazardly into my bag. I pretended each piece of clothing was every one of the harsh and hurtful words we said to one another, balled up and thrown inside.
I don’t even know what I packed, though my only plans are to veg on my dad’s fuzzy-soft velvet suede couch in front of his big screen and do absolutely nothing but eat and watch Gilmore Girls.
Scratch that—Veronica Mars. Because what I need right now is some girl power. My sister’s off to another foodie adventure, so I’ll have my dad’s house to myself during the day when he’s at work. I’ll order one each of everything on True North’s menu for pickup, stuff myself, then return to Paraiso with renewed vigor. With the rest of the week without the camera, I’ll prep for the opening. Maybe even walk around the house without a bra on.
That’s what I need—alone time. Me time. Without-Mitchell time.
I load my suitcase in my Mini Cooper’s trunk, grunting. How did I fit this in here last time? I push it in with the other things I promised my people: wine for my dad, hard cider for my tito and tita to sample for their restaurant. Macarons for Camille from Golden’s specialty dessert shop.
See, Mitchell, I’m not selfish. Look at all of these things I have for others. And hell, what have I been doing all my life—sitting on my ass? I’ve emotionally supported my dad and my sister. Worked extra and overtime without pay for the Bautistas. There’s nothing wrong with having goals, and there’s absolutely no crime in pursuing them.
Giving up on the task, I growl and push the suitcase in and lean against the hatchback, forcing it closed.
Take that, Mitchell.
I get into the car and drive down the hill. The GPS is set to the fastest way back to the Bay Area, and I intend on speeding, those cops be damned. I’m at once reminded of getting pulled over by Cody, of Mitchell laughing next to me. Of our time at Home Warehouse, where he kissed me in front of the camera for the first time.
Stop thinking of him.
Except I can’t, because as I reach the bottom of the hill, I squeeze past Mitchell’s truck, pulled off to the side of the gravel road. Its hood is raised, and a cloud of smoke wafts from the engine. Mitchell’s in front of it, one hand fiddling with the engine and the other holding his phone against his ear. His face has worry written all over it.
Shit.
The stubborn part of me tells me to ignore him, to keep going. Mitchell is a grown man, and he’s the one with the bullheaded attachment to a truck that only works half the time. He can take care of himself.
But there’s the other side of me, the side that cannot seem to shake him.
Even now, as I’m trying to run away from what he said, and oh God, what I said to him . . .
You’re not the person I thought you were.
How fucking stupid was I? How hurtful and mean. And a liar. Because he is exactly the man he has always been. I just wanted to hurt him. To hurt him in the same way he’d disappointed me. With hindsight is perfect vision. I should have reeled in the argument.
We were both out of line, and I’m sorry for my hand in it.
I stop and roll down the passenger-side window. The sharp smell of something burning reaches my nose. “Hey, you okay?”
He shakes his head, hangs up the phone, and walks to my side of the car. My heart pounds as he leans in. He smells clean, his face is newly shaved, sideburns trimmed. Such a small change in his appearance, and yet it switches his persona 180 degrees. A thin white undershirt reveals the outline of his pecs. The slacks he’s wearing have a crease line down the middle.
That crease makes me remember the date. “Today’s the retirement ceremony.”
“Yep. It starts in about three and a half hours. But as you can see . . .” He gestures at his truck, frustration written on his face. “Levi’s out for the morning. Cody’s sound asleep. Granny’s in Reno. So, it’s a taxi for me.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry.” And I mean it. It took mammoth effort for Mitchell to decide to attend. To be held back now . . .
“Tell me about it. The nearest car won’t get here for another half hour. Depending on traffic, it’s going to take at least three hours to get to San Francisco. I’ll be lucky to get there on time. Dammit.” His speech is edged with panic, and he continues a rant under his breath. He mutters the pros and cons of different courses of action he could take.
And, sh
it. He’s cornered me and he doesn’t even know it. The two sides of my brain scuffle for the right thing to do. What’s right in the human, friendly sense, versus what I think is right for me now. We aren’t supposed to be speaking to one another. Hours in the car alone might not be a good idea.
Yet if the tables were turned, Mitchell would have already loaded my bags into his car and started down the road.
I offer before I can talk myself out of it. “I’m headed into the city today, too. That’s actually where I’m going now.”
“Safe travels, and those speed limit signs? Remember they’re for the maximum speed, not minimum, okay?”
I laugh at Mitchell’s reference to my ticket. I guess he didn’t think I would help him either. “Just . . . just cancel your taxi.” When Mitchell looks at me as if I have two heads, I unlock the door. “C’mon, let’s get on the road.”
“Are you sure?”
I sigh. “Let’s go before I regret it, Dunford.”
“Damn, you have just saved this day.” He ducks through the window and loops his arm around my neck with a hug that is awkward at best.
But I almost don’t let go. When we untangle ourselves, I point right at his chest. “One thing. Truce. Let’s make it through the drive without wringing each other’s necks.”
“You’ve got it.” He kisses me on the cheek. It’s friendly and chaste and grateful. He lifts the hatchback and unloads the contents, declaring he’ll compensate me for gas, and he’ll owe me one. Then he repacks everything precisely so it all fits, and there’s room for a sliver of light in the rearview mirror.
“I didn’t realize you were a pack master. Call me impressed,” I say.
He shuts the hatchback easily and hops back into the passenger seat. “You should see what I can get into a rucksack. A backpack.” He grins, taps his temples. “Takes smarts.”