Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
The knocking on my cottage door feels like somebody pounding on the lid of my coffin, summoning me from the dead.
This zombie does not want to rise.
I groan and roll over, curling into a ball of human ughhhhh . I couldn’t escape last night’s mortification even in my melatonin-induced coma. Dream after dream replayed the event from different angles, torturing me. The amazing sex, Laine’s horrified face, Harlow laughing while her rainbow dick swayed like a gay elephant’s trunk.
I gingerly run my hand over my bruised backside and wince. Last night literally kicked my ass.
And yet, the knocking continues. I squint at the clock—eight a.m.—and sigh. I’m usually an early riser. I love working in the morning, when my brain’s freshest and the day’s problems haven’t crowded out my creativity yet. But I took enough melatonin to bring down that gay elephant, and I feel hungover. From the sleep aid, from embarrassment, from the most mind-blowing sex of my life. I grab the water bottle by my bed and drain it. Being that thoroughly turned on dehydrates a woman.
“Zoe Brennan, are you alive in there? Why aren’t you in your office organizing your highlighters?!”
Despite everything, I smile. Hannah Tate is the only person in the world I can handle seeing right now. She’s well acquainted with feeling like a disaster and always manages to walk me back from whatever dark mood’s gripped me that day.
I hobble to the door and find her standing there, a giant three-ring binder pressed to her chest.
“Good morning,” I hoarse out as I let her in, then move into my tiny kitchen to click the electric kettle on.
“Sweet Jesus, what happened to you?” Hannah looks vaguely alarmed as she takes in my mussed hair, two-legged limp, and dead eyes. She shuts the door behind her, which is good because I’m still in my tiny Stevie Nicks T-shirt and a pair of panties. At least those are fresh.
Fresh-ish.
“Long, horrible story.” I make a cup of Darjeeling tea before throwing an extra pillow on the couch and easing my sore ass onto it. “You don’t want to hear.”
“Of course I want to hear!” Hannah tosses the binder down and sits across from me.
I frown at her. “What’s that?”
“Oh, this?” Her words peter out into a sigh. “River’s inspiration material for our Tolkienesque wedding so you can start the planning here.” She air quotes Tolkienesque as though the term’s been debated mightily.
“He’s really sticking with that, huh?”
Hannah blinks. “I thought he was joking at first, but ‘he has a vision.’” She checks her watch. “Come on, Brennan. Spill the story and make it fast. You’ve got a vineyard tour in thirty minutes.”
I let out a sigh that excavates my insides. The treehouse my cousin River built and Hannah now manages for us must’ve been booked last minute. I should be grateful for the extra revenue, but all I feel is depleted. I sip my tea, weighing the pros and cons. I don’t usually like to share personal things like this, even with Hannah. It’s not about trust or privacy—it’s just that talking about feelings always has the unfortunate side effect of making them real to me.
But last night was so mortifying, it needs an exorcism. I take a deep breath. “Did I ever tell you about Charlaine Woods—Rachel’s big sister?”
“No. Why?”
“Well. Charlaine was the ‘First Lesbian’ I ever knew, and last night I fucked her by accident.”
Hannah’s eyebrows rise. “There’s a lot to unpack there. Proceed.”
Most queer folks have the same set of core stories—when they first knew, how they came out, the first crushing discrimination they experienced—but my favorite tale is hearing about the First Lesbian, the Alpha Queer, the first person you recognized as living the outer experience that matched your heart’s inner longing.
And mine’s Charlaine Woods. Star soccer player, effortlessly cool, completely aloof in this charming way that made you want her golden-brown eyes to stop their wandering and settle on you. What got me most of all was how entirely in control she was—of herself, how she felt, the situation. She was more self-possessed at seventeen than most adults, and God , so ambitious. I was obsessed with her. Rachel’s perfect older sister, the subject of my queer longing before I even knew what the word meant. All I knew was that a bell rang within me every time I saw her, some note of shared existence. The First Lesbian. My Alpha Queer.
Maybe I wasn’t alone, after all.
The story of last night’s threesome spills out the way the juiciest confessions to priests must, desire and carnal lust burdened with shame and regret. When I’m done, Hannah sits back and whistles.
“I can’t believe you had sex with your first crush—the First Lesbian , no less,” Hannah says in awe. “That’s like accidentally climbing Mount Everest, emotionally speaking.”
I give her an annoyed look. “She was my first queer crush, that’s it.”
Hannah snorts. “You just told me more about Charlaine Woods than anyone you’ve ever dated. Well, except for Harlow Benoit, maybe. For you to have a threesome with those two?” She crosses her arms behind her head and smirks. “You should go ahead and vow your abstinence now. Nothing’s ever going to compare to last night.”
I start to argue but can’t. “ Fuck. ” I cradle my tired face in my hands. “It was so mortifying, Hannah. I never want to see Laine again.”
“Do you have to? Doesn’t she live out west?”
“Yeah, maybe she’ll leave soon.” I wonder how long I need to live underground until she returns to California, and I can live in peace again.
“What exactly is so embarrassing for you, anyways? Is it the association with the prom thing?” Hannah uncrosses her arms and sits forward eagerly. “Are you finally going to tell me about what happened with Chance Woods that night?”
I eye her warily. “If I tell you, do you promise to never bring it up, ever?”
“I promise.” Hannah crosses her heart, then pulls her wavy hair into a pile on the top of her head and secures it with a pen. “Gotta hear every word of this,” she explains. “Go ahead.”
“So Chance and Charlaine are twins and two years older than me. I was a sophomore their senior year.”
“Were you still friends with Rachel then?”
“No.” I huff out a breath. “Once she realized I had a crush on Charlaine, she started talking shit about my family and stopped talking to me altogether.”
“She friend-dumped you because you’re gay ?”
“No, pretty sure it was because I was gay for Charlaine , which to Rachel was as good as sleeping with the enemy. Aunt Bri had started to suspect I was queer, too.” River’s mom, my aunt Bri, had stepped in to help care for me after my mom died, and while she meant well, she was a gun-toting conservative. When her suspicions about my sexuality were confirmed years later, she disowned me, and River stood up for me, leading to the dissolution of their own relationship when she wouldn’t welcome me back into the family because of her “values.” Which I guess amounts to Dicks and Vaginas 4-Eva, because Aunt Bri shoved me toward any boy that showed interest in me prior to that. Starting with Chance Woods.
“Why? How did Bri know?” Hannah asks gently. While she’s had her own issues with her mom, Trish, over the years, Trish has never judged a person in her life, and Hannah’s sensitive to how much Aunt Bri, my mother’s only sister, hurt me.
“There were some … browser windows I left open on my laptop.” I clear my throat. “Aunt Bri had my password. I didn’t know.”
“Shit.”
“I lied my way out of it, said it was pop-up spam. But she watched me after that, and when she heard Chance asked me to prom, she came over that night with a big, poufy dress and a bag full of new makeup.”
“Saying no wasn’t an option,” Hannah murmurs, and I nod.
“So I went, and it was fine. Chance is a good guy, and he mostly hung out with his friends anyway. The after party’s when things went to hell.”
I take a deep breath, the cringe already rising within me like the tide. “I’d made this dumb decision when I said yes to Chance. He’s Charlaine’s twin, right? They’re not identical obviously, but they look a lot alike. He was nice, into me, and the socially acceptable version of who I really wanted. I thought, maybe I should have sex with him and finally prove whether I’m gay or not. But I was nervous, so when someone handed me a beer, I drank it. And another. And another.”
Hannah leans forward. “That asshole didn’t do anything to you, did he?”
“No, no, no. It was me. I did the … things.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I found him outside playing beer pong, and I pulled him aside. And in front of the entire senior class, I said … I said …” I groan at the ceiling.
“Come on, Zoe. You can tell me.”
“I said, ‘Okay, let’s go have the sex.’”
“ No. ” Hannah’s eyes bug wide. “ The sex?!”
“Then I clapped my hands, Hannah, I clapped my fucking hands , and said, ‘Chop chop.’ And then, I threw up in the pool.”
Hannah doesn’t let go of my hands, but her mouth falls open . A startled laugh escapes. “Chop … chop ? Oh, Zoe”!
“Charlaine was there, she saw everything. Everyone did.” I throw back the rest of my tea. “They called me Chop Chop the rest of high school.”
Tears stream down Hannah’s cheeks as her chest quakes with the effort of holding back laughter. “That’s terrible , Zoe, oh my GOD!”
I breathe deeply through my nose, then snort, and that’s all it takes for Hannah to fully lose control.
“I’m—so—sorry,” she says between gasps, “to laugh at your— your— trauma !”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not trauma. Well, not anymore at least.” Chance and I have even laughed about it at local wine events. Most people who knew me then and know me now as the proud, hot lesbian that I am think it’s pretty hilarious and was an obvious sign of what was to come. But it doesn’t change the fact that Charlaine saw me say that to her twin brother and knows me better as Chop Chop than Zoe.
“Okay, babe.” Hannah stands up, wiping away the tears from her eyes. “If you want to shower before the tour, you better go now.”
I grumble into my mug, and Hannah extends a hand. “Come on.” She bites her lip, the words hovering there, and I glare at her. “ Hann —”
“Chop Chop,” she squeaks, then absolutely loses it.
Hannah giggles all the way down to the vineyard’s parking lot. I forgive her, but only because I love her. She hugs me tight.
“Don’t think about the embarrassing parts, Zoe.” She pulls away and runs her hands over my hair. “You’re amazing, and I guarantee you that’s all Laine and Harlow are thinking about right now. Not the fact you—”
“Han- nah ! You promised you wouldn’t bring it up all the time.”
“—ever … said … things,” she finishes brightly. I give her a scathing look, and laughing, she waves goodbye.
Hannah’s words provide comfort, though. The sex was objectively amazing, and Laine’s a big-time vintner out west. She’s probably visiting her folks for a few days before the growing season starts, then she’ll disappear into the sunset again. Who knows? Maybe she’ll look me up next time she’s in town, too, and I’ll have another chance to make her see stars. The idea heats me up from the inside out.
I hustle over to the tasting room where our tours usually begin, feeling more in control of the situation already. A few minutes pass, and nobody shows up. There’s a rental car parked near the treehouse, but the guest isn’t here, and neither is Dad. Maybe they already started? My phone buzzes from my pocket, and I check the message. Could be the guest.
WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel
The jig is up, Brennan. I found out about the Everyday Bon Vivant festival.
WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel
Might as well prepare your concession speech now because that showcase is mine.
I suck a deep breath in through my nostrils. Head start officially squandered.
And I have no vintner.
I mouth Fuck! at my phone. I can’t show weakness, though. Can’t let her know anything’s wrong. I’m not ready to concede yet .
Zoe
It’s on, Rachel.
Zoe
P.S. T.J. Maxx has decorative roosters on sale 2 for 1, thought you should know.
I shove my phone in my pocket and speed-walk along our normal tour route, but there’s nobody in the vineyard blocks, either. Voices escape from the winery, making me frown. While we bring guests into the front of the winery to glimpse the racks of pretty barrels and the precious few stainless-steel tanks we have, the voices are coming from the back, behind the plastic sheeting divide, where Dad’s worktable and the uglier plastic tote bins that comprise most of our wine storage are. There are exactly zero selfie-backdrop opportunities in there. What’s Dad playing at?
As I draw closer, I catch a snippet of conversation:
“—it’s the Pinot Noir. My wife blended it with our Norton crops just so … Most beautiful body on your tongue—a few bottles left, yes … treasured, you see, and very important to Zoe …”
That’s even stranger. Dad never mentions Mom to vineyard guests. It’s too loaded a subject for him, too painful, so we go through life pretending that every inch of this place isn’t imbued with her spirit, memories, and laughter. I push aside the plastic sheeting and see a flop of light brown hair bobbing thoughtfully to what my dad’s saying.
Laine ? Laine’s our treehouse guest?
A strangled sound rumbles in my throat. Their heads turn in unison.
She is .
It’s unfair how good some people look. Last night, all I saw of Laine was her tanned skin and the inky tattoos that drape across her muscular frame like they’re grateful to be there, but it was in the middle of an existential crisis. It’s a wonder my brain didn’t explode on the spot. Her slim, athletic build always made me sigh in juvenile longing in high school, but years spent working in vineyards under the California sun have filled her out. She’s in a pair of tight, straight-legged trousers, subtly textured, a camel-brown leather belt cinched around her narrow hips. The shirt is a pale blue button-down, cut slim and made of a matte, buttery fabric that appears structured until I realize it’s the line of her strong shoulders holding it so perfectly in place. A pair of thick, tortoiseshell glasses sits on her long, straight nose, her doe-brown hair waved perfectly to the side, and I involuntarily suck in a breath at how blazing hot she looks.
Professorial butch, a pro found new weakness. Noted.
I’m suddenly aware of my bare face, my black bob left wavy from the quick shower, and the truly giant sweater I’m currently retreating into. Laine adjusts her glasses slowly, her eyes tracking it all, and a blush wraps around my neck, flooding my cheeks with heat.
“Ah, Zoe Nicoletta! There you are!” Dad gestures for me to join them. “Do you remember little Charlaine Woods from down the road?”
A flash of muscle memory zings from my core up my spine, like every nerve ending in my body decided to squeal yes! all at once.
“I do.” The echo of last night’s ride against big Charlaine Woods makes my words come out low and breathy. “Hello, Charlaine.”
A kiss of peach appears high on her cheekbones, her deep brown eyes heating.
“It’s Laine,” she says, a real-life déjà vu, only this time she doesn’t call me baby. Her lips twitch, as though she’s not sure whether to smile. Why is she here? Our vineyard tour is optional for our Treebnb guests—she didn’t need to sign up for the first slot. Unless …
She wanted to see me? Excitement tugs low and warm in my belly.
“I still remember when Molly and Ezra brought you and Chance home from the hospital,” Dad says, a sentimental twinkle in his eyes, completely oblivious to the sexual energy thrumming between us. “And now, look at you! All grown up.”
My eyes linger on her full mouth, before flickering up to meet her gaze. “Sure are.”
An eyebrow lifts barely, amusement flashing on Laine’s face before disappearing beneath professional neutrality. She clears her throat. “Cosimo was about to show me where you age your whites.”
“Here, of course—this is our cold storage area!” Dad points to the window AC unit rigged to blast cold air at fifty-five degrees year-round, then to the plastic sheeting flaps that keep the cold air in. “Much more cost effective than a glycol system, eh?” Dad winks.
Laine startles like a patient on the operating table who’s just realized her surgeon got licensed virtually from Phoenix University. “How resourceful.” She stares at the plastic totes with clear dismay. I sigh.
This is why we don’t bring guests back here. People don’t want to know how wine gets made at scrappy little vineyards like ours. It’s not pretty.
“A little different from Le Jardin’s operations, I imagine.” I smile, trying to telepathically assure her that we know we’re small potatoes compared to the ultra-prestigious Napa vineyard she’s used to.
But Laine winces at my words. She recovers with a tight nod, but I saw something there. Before I can make sense of it, Dad laughs and shakes his head. “A Le Jardin vintner, here in our winery! Just think of it!”
I snap my head to look at him as he steps between us, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. “You’ll be a fantastic replacement for me as Bluebell’s chief vintner. Welcome aboard, Laine!”