by Beth Bolden
“It matters,” Nathan enunciated each word carefully and slowly, like Damon was an idiot who needed help understanding, “because when you burn through your trust starting a business in a field you have no experience in, in a highly competitive market like Napa, with one of Aquino’s rejects, you’ll be back on my doorstep, begging to join us again.”
“I wouldn’t beg, and I certainly wouldn’t beg you,” Damon said. “I’m capable of working. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. I know manual labor isn’t something your highly privileged brain comprehends, but I’m good at it.”
That was the whole root of this disconnect with his father. He didn’t get Damon, and had long since given up trying.
“You’re a Hess,” Nathan said. “You’re not meant to be working the fields. You’re meant to own them.”
Damon wanted to tell his father that he could do both, that he was enjoying doing both now. But it had always been useless to argue with Nathan Hess, and nothing had changed in years.
“Thank you for the unsolicited advice.” Damon paused. “Now since you’re so eager for me to exercise my rights as a land owner, get the fuck off my land.”
Nathan threw his hands up, his expression making it perfectly clear that he hadn’t wanted to come here and argue, but that he’d done it because he’d felt obligated. Not out of fatherly love or familial concern, but fear of financial waste.
Damon watched him walk away and told himself that he’d reconciled himself to a shitty father years ago. But if that was true, why did every encounter feel like razor blades slashing at his composure, at his sense of self? When would he finally feel like he wasn’t obligated to fulfill the duties of being a Hess? He’d left the family. He’d left the business. He kept to himself, and did his own thing.
The money and the land still tied him to them though, and if it had been any other land, and money from anyone else but his grandfather, he might have rejected both. But his grandfather had cared about this land, about what it had meant. Had felt an obligation and a responsibility that far eclipsed his father’s noblesse oblige bullshit. And when Damon walked it, early in the morning, the sun creeping over the hills, he remembered the only person in his family who hadn’t been a total waste of his time.
He’d come here and taken back his land first for his grandfather, and then he’d discovered, especially after that horrible night, a purpose of his own.
John Hess would have been proud of him—no matter what he’d done to the vines. If Damon closed his eyes, he could almost hear his deep, gritty voice. It’s your land, he’d have said, you can do whatever the hell you want with it. They’re just vines.
Damon shoved his hands in his pockets, because the urge was strong to call Xander, because he couldn’t have a conversation with a ghost. Xander might be one of the few who’d understand besides his grandfather. But their relationship was so new, so fresh, so tentative, and he didn’t want to crush it with all his personal baggage. Xander didn’t need to hear all of that, definitely not yet, no matter how much Damon wanted to tell him.
He knew some of what Damon struggled with, but he definitely didn’t need to know the whole of it. Rachel, who’d practically known him his whole life, had gotten sick of it and left. That had hurt badly, but he’d persevered, and he’d even felt cautiously optimistic about his chances with Xander.
His father showing up had re-opened old wounds, reminding Damon of their existence when he’d been trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t fucked up.
That being a Hess carried with it a whole load of ridiculous expectations and that it was bad enough being born into it. Anyone sane didn’t choose it.
* * *
After being dismissed by Damon, Xander went to the grocery store, randomly wandering the aisles, picking up vegetables, and then putting them down again. He finally managed to fill half a cart with ingredients he thought he could use to work on recipes for the restaurant. He went back home, put the food away, and went on a grueling, punishing run.
The truth was Xander really wanted to be pissed, but after exhausting himself, all he felt was empty and directionless. Instead of cooking anything, he grabbed carrots and a tub of hummus and plopped down on the couch.
It was easy enough to feel certain of Damon and Damon’s feelings when they were together, but it turned out it was also easy enough for doubt to creep in. No matter how much Xander wanted to trust him completely, he didn’t know him completely. Couldn’t know him completely, not yet anyway.
He stewed all night as he sat on the couch, laptop in hand, as he researched some recipes he wanted to try for the restaurant. He was sure he’d enjoy the quiet, but it turned out the quiet was actually way too quiet—especially when he was upset and wanted someone to vent to. He never thought he’d miss the ambient noise of Nate and Kian being in the house, but it turned out he did.
He almost texted his friend Wyatt, but remembered that this was one of the nights he and his brother ran their food truck near Venice Beach, so he’d be way too busy to listen to or comment on Xander’s bad mood.
Calling Miles again was out of the question, as was calling Kian.
Xander impatiently tapped his fingers on the laptop keyboard. Everything he was thinking now was total crap, and he hated how much sense that made. For him, food came from a place of care and love. He cooked because he wanted to share with someone. And right now, what he wanted was to share with Damon.
He glanced at his phone, sitting so innocently on the coffee table. Wouldn’t it be better if he found out now that this was normal behavior for Damon? Wouldn’t it be better to know now if Damon wasn’t worth the trust he wanted so badly to place in him?
The truth, no matter how painful, was always better than a lie. And if Xander was lying to himself, then he needed to know.
He could’ve just texted—Damon had always answered texts quickly, even quickly enough for Xander’s natural impatience—but he dialed his number instead.
Xander’s heart thumped in his chest, loud enough that he could hear it even over Alton Brown’s muted voice on the TV. He didn’t have to wait in suspense very long; Damon picked up on the second ring.
Like he’d been waiting too, trying to decide whether he should call Xander.
Xander pushed that thought aside. He was doing it again: his hopeful heart making up the best possible scenario for him to believe, instead of the truth.
He needed the truth.
“Xander,” Damon said breathlessly. Exactly as breathless as Xander felt.
He’d considered playing all his cards close to his chest, acting like everything was okay, and waiting for Damon to say something about earlier this afternoon. But when faced with Damon’s voice, Xander discovered that was total bullshit.
He wasn’t the kind of guy who prevaricated. He wasn’t the person who let shit go for a half-hearted explanation. He’d done it when he was much younger, and after that flaming disaster of a relationship, he’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t let himself be manipulated again. After that, he’d always been straight, to the point of making guys uncomfortable. It was why he’d stopped seeking relationships. He wanted a level of honesty that nobody was quite prepared to give. The initial shock of his attraction to Damon and discovering that it was mutual had thrown him off-balance enough that he’d forgotten who he was. Who he’d become, out of necessity.
“What the hell was with that today?” Xander demanded.
Silence.
Damon didn’t know the truth-seeking missile that had been Xander. He’d met him briefly that one night, a year ago, but even then the shock of attraction had melted his rough edges away almost immediately.
Damon didn’t know the guy that Miles and Wyatt and Kian did. And it was time he did.
“That was my father,” Damon said. “You didn’t want to meet him.”
“You’re right,” Xander admitted, and he didn’t want to be an asshole, though he knew he got mistaken for one sometimes, “I didn’t want to meet him.
But I also didn’t want to be shoved aside like some sort of toy you’re ashamed of.”
More silence.
This might be the end of their relationship, personal and professional, if Damon didn’t understand what Xander was trying to say. He tried again, a little less abrasive this time. Miles had told him for years that wanting honesty didn’t necessarily mean being a dick, and Xander had never felt that particular piece of advice had much merit. But he did now.
“You could have explained that to me,” Xander added. “Instead of just telling me to leave, like David. You hired him.”
“I hired you,” Damon said, sounding perplexed, and it was only the confusion in his voice that prevented Xander from exploding into a rage of flames.
Yes, he had technically hired Xander. Yes, he was paying him a salary. But they were partners, Damon had made that clear, and they were trying to be even more.
Reducing him to a mere underling hired to be at his convenience smacked of everything that Xander had joyfully left behind at Terroir. He’d done that because he’d believed that Damon would be a far better boss than Bastian Aquino had ever been.
“Can you just . . . let me in?” Damon asked.
Xander nearly dropped the phone. “You’re here?” He ran a hand through his hair, messy after a quick shower, and left to dry however it wanted. He glanced down at his old pair of jogging shorts he’d shrugged on. He looked like hell, but maybe that was okay.
Honesty, right? In all things. Including his appearance.
“I wanted to say I was sorry,” Damon said, and he did genuinely sound apologetic. “I wasn’t expecting . . .”
It was clear what Damon hadn’t been expecting. He hadn’t been expecting Xander to come at him like a runaway freight train on fire with rage—justified or not.
Xander set his laptop aside, and went to the front door, opening it. Damon stood on the front porch, phone to his ear and a pizza box in his hands. His mouth twisted in a wry, apologetic smile. “You are here.”
“I said I was,” Damon said. “I’m not going to lie to you.”
Damon couldn’t possibly know about the fears lurking in the back of Xander’s brain, and buried deep, like unexploded mines, in his heart. He still set them to rest. He extended the pizza box. “I thought you might be hungry, and my mother said never to go to someone’s house empty-handed.”
Popping open the box, Xander took in the scent of fresh dough, tomatoes and grease. “Pepperoni and mushroom?”
Damon shrugged, and looked embarrassed. “Is it terribly self-serving of me to admit that it’s my favorite?”
Xander just stared at him.
“I thought if you didn’t want it, I might as well get something I would eat,” Damon said. He stopped, glancing around. “Are you just going to leave me on the porch, rambling about pizza?”
Xander had considered it. It might be an excessive punishment for Damon’s crime but he was still mad—or afraid, he’d lost track of what each felt like. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.
“You don’t know.” Damon looked like he wanted to grab the pizza back and go back to his car and stress eat the whole thing. Xander understood the impulse all too well.
“I need to tell you something about me first,” Xander said, shifting his feet. It was one thing to preach honesty, and to demand it at every turn, but it turned out it was totally different to demand your own honesty when it came to someone you cared about.
“I don’t date because I’m not good at it. I need . . . a measure of transparency that most people aren’t willing to give,” Xander admitted. “I can be a real asshole about it.”
“And you don’t think I can give it?” Damon asked. Calculatingly, a bit harder than Xander expected.
“I don’t know . . . I thought you could. I wanted you to be able to. I wouldn’t have started this otherwise. But this afternoon . . .”
“Made you doubt,” Damon finished for him. Which was good because Xander hadn’t been exactly sure what this afternoon had made him feel.
But he knew the truth, and he wondered if he would ever have the courage to say it out loud. Or if Damon would just say it for him.
This afternoon had made him feel vulnerable again, and he’d sworn that he’d never feel that again. Taking down that wall that separated him from the rest of the world had initially felt good and right, especially when it was Damon he was letting in. But he’d been caught up in the rightness of it, the first initial swoon of realizing that his crush was mutual.
Damon was going to screw things up, he’d admitted that much to Xander before they’d even kissed. And anyone would and could. Nobody was perfect.
Xander pushed down the natural fear that bubbled up inside him. “A little, yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” Damon said, sounding genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry I made you doubt. My dad . . . he fucks me up bad. I can’t say he’s the reason I’m an alcoholic, but if one person was actually at fault, he would be. I didn’t want you to be poisoned by his shit, or watch me as I tried to avoid it.”
And looking back, Xander could see that. He’d seen the fear in Damon’s eyes, the reluctance as his father had walked toward them.
He understood trying to protect people you cared about from terrible things. He’d been trying to protect Kian for what felt like forever.
This wasn’t all that different.
Xander turned and walked into the house, gesturing for Damon to follow him.
He settled back down on the couch, and Damon wavered, unsure, in the doorway to the living room. “Come sit,” Xander said, patting the spot next to him, “let’s eat our feelings.”
Damon walked over, a grateful look in his eyes as he sat down.
They’d each unapologetically devoured two pieces when Xander spoke. “Was it bad today?”
Sighing, Damon leaned back on the couch, crossing his hands across his stomach. He looked younger and more vulnerable than Xander had ever seen him. “Yes.”
“Why did you come back to Napa, if he was so awful?” Xander couldn’t help but ask. “You could’ve stayed away? Don’t get me wrong, I’m selfishly happy you’re here, but wouldn’t you have been better off someplace else?”
“My grandfather left me that land when he died about a year and a half ago,” Damon said softly. “And I loved him. I wanted to make him proud. I wanted to prove to him that I could be more than just a guy who loved booze.”
“You can, you are,” Xander argued, suddenly feeling irrationally and fiercely angry that anybody could shit on their own family like this—especially for a disease that nobody could prevent. “You’re doing an incredible thing. Brave and important.”
Damon shot Xander a lazy, soft glance. “I know. Doesn’t make it very easy.”
“Easy things aren’t worth doing,” Xander scoffed, and then grinned. “Besides, I’m here, I can help.”
His glance slid away, and Xander felt the pizza, greasy and heavy, settling nauseously in his stomach. “You can, you have. But I take more than I give. Today was a good example of that.”
“We both have . . . baggage,” Xander pointed out. “But I know we can work through this. I want to work through this. I called you even though I was angry with you. But I still called. And you weren’t sure if I’d open the door, but you came here anyway.”
Damon reached up and cradled the side of Xander’s face with his palm. “I want better for you than to have to deal with my baggage.”
Xander had had a feeling this was where this conversation was going, and there was no way he was going to let Damon push him away selflessly when he’d already faced his own demons and told them off. “No way. You don’t get to make that choice.”
“You sure about that?”
“You try to take my personal autonomy away, I’ll kick your ass,” Xander said.
Damon burst out laughing, and Xander patted himself on the back for lightening his mood. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Admittedly, it would pr
obably end up being a lot more homoerotic, and would almost definitely devolve into sex, but the point remains. This is my decision, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Damon raised an eyebrow. “Homoerotic? Think I can get a demonstration?”
Leaning closer, Xander kissed him firmly on the mouth. He tasted like spicy tomatoes and the earthy musk of mushrooms. Normally he might not like it, but he loved it now. He deepened the kiss a little, Damon’s other hand reaching up to pull him closer. It was good, soft but hot, a reaffirmation of everything they’d both admitted they felt. But before it could get too hot, Xander pulled back.
Damon’s bottom lip jutted out, and he pouted. “We’re still taking things slowly?”
Xander had to nod. He was Damon’s first time with a guy. He didn’t want to rush him, no matter if he wanted to rush himself. There was too much at stake here—Xander’s heart for one, the restaurant for another.
“Fine,” Damon grumbled. “It’s probably the right call, but for the record, it sucks.”
Xander plopped back against the couch. “Yes, it does. And not even in the good way.”
Chapter Nine
Xander was fussing with a ravioli filling—simple but essential that it be absolutely perfect—when his phone rang.
He picked it up gingerly with flour-dusted fingertips and set it between his shoulder and ear as he continued to stir some caramelized onions on the stove.
“What’s up?” he asked Damon.
His heart still accelerated a little whenever Damon called him or texted him or otherwise acknowledged his existence. At first Xander had been embarrassed by it, but then he’d caught Damon’s fingers trembling the other night as they’d sat on the couch, watching a movie. Damon’s cheeks had flushed bright red, and all Xander could do was confess his own crush symptoms.
They were still taking it slow, because Xander was still irrationally worried that Damon might change his mind, and also because neither of them really knew how to just date someone. Damon had been married forever, and other than few meaningless hookups, Xander had been celibate and alone. They were still figuring it all out, and they had a mostly unspoken agreement that sex complicated a brand-new relationship that was already complicated enough.