Zoe Brennan, First Crush

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

“Mwreah?” I flop up in bed, flailing about for the ringing thing that woke me from a very good, if problematic, dream where I was inexplicably a 1950s secretary taking dictation from a suited Laine on a loud, clicking typewriter. Only, her mouth was on my ear, breathing the words into me from behind while she grabbed my breast with one hand and fingered me hard in time with the clicking of the keys with the other. I groan, wishing for the secretary dream to come back, but somebody’s shouting at me.

Oh, right. My phone. I find it on the nightstand and yank the charging cord out. The ringing finally stops. Bliss.

“Zoe! You there?” A voice that sounds both far away and too close makes me snuffle awake again. I grab the phone and put it against my head.

“What.”

“Zoe? This is Jamal. Don’t tell me I woke your ass up.”

“Jamal?” I pull the phone back and squint at it before resting it haphazardly on my face. “It’s two a.m. What the hell?”

“This is your friendly neighborhood frost warning. You’ve got approximately twenty minutes to get your smudge pots going before your buds are killed! Now go get Laine—she isn’t answering her phone!”

That wakes me all the way up. A late spring frost is the worst-case scenario. The low temperature kills the buds and can wipe out entire crops, which would devastate a vineyard the size of ours. We can’t afford to buy replacement grapes like the richer vineyards can, nor can we go all out and hire helicopters to fly over our vines all night, keeping the air moving and preventing the frost from forming like Into the Woods does.

No, us poor outfits do smudge pots.

I leap out of bed, chilling my bare feet as I race around my cold bedroom, throwing on my warmest pair of jeans, boots, and a thick sweater. I grab my coat and scarf, and for the second time today, race down the rows of my vineyard, this time heading for the Treebnb. I haven’t seen Laine since she left Into the Woods on foot with our new foster goat, and I pray she’s home. The cold air assaults the few inches of my exposed skin, slicing through my layers until I shiver. Ironically, these icy winds streaming down the mountains will protect our higher-placed crops from frost forming on their baby buds and tendrils, but they can’t reach the vines located lower on our property.

I take the steps up the spiral staircase to our Treebnb two at a time, clutching the rail. “Laine?” I beat at her door. “Wake up!” Running smudge pots requires all hands on deck, and right now, there are only two sets of hands: mine and Laine’s. Josiah, our vineyard hand, would normally handle these with Dad, but he’s out of town. Not only do you have to haul out your propane-fueled smudge pots—metal chimneys speckled with holes that emit heat from the fire raging inside—you’ve gotta get the fires started, too, then stand guard over them until the frost passes. We only have about five working smudge pots, which means Dad and Josiah end up lighting fires in big steel drums strategically placed around the property to cover the rest.

It’s a lot of work, and with less than twenty minutes? We’ll be lucky to protect half the crops. Damn, this frost came out of nowhere .

“LAINE!” I bellow, briefly considering using my master key to break in and haul her out of bed when shuffling steps approach the doorway, followed by a string of cursing. She’s at the door a minute later.

“What is it?” she garbles, eyes barely open. There’s something wrong with her face, like her teeth are too big for it.

“Frost!” I exclaim, then realize what’s so weird. “Are you … wearing a retainer?”

“What?” Laine’s eyes widen and she ducks out of sight, spitting hard. “ No! ”

I literally hear the bulky dental device clatter against the floor, and despite the dire situation, a smirk tugs my upper lip. “You were .”

“No, I wasn’t!” Laine snaps over her shoulder, leaving the door open for me. She’s wearing a sports bra and thermal jammy pants that hug the muscular curvature of her body, but all I can think about is the fact that Laine Woods is embarrassed about something.

My smirk grows into a full grin. Laine narrows her eyes at me as she yanks on a sweatshirt, then grabs her jeans from the floor. “What are you looking at?”

“Your beautiful teeth.”

Laine groans, then shoves past me. “Let’s go!”

Two minutes later, we’re running to the barn, stepping lightly past the devil goat all nestled in his stupid hay to get to the smudge pots.

“Have you ever used a smudge pot?” We heave it onto the hand truck, the propane sloshing in its tank below. Thank God Dad preloaded them with fuel for the season.

Laine grimaces. “Nope.”

I exhale a sigh. “Right. Napa. Okay, just follow my lead.”

Together we manage to get the smudge pots in place, setting each one ablaze, but as the temperature continues to drop, it’s woefully clear that we need way more fires across the property to save the buds. I’m drenched in cold sweat beneath my clothes from the labor, but we don’t stop until the steel drums are positioned in all the low-lying areas of our property. The fires in those are harder to light, but we split up, and an hour later, Bluebell Vineyards is a dark sky with a constellation of fiery stars flickering merrily. I finish lighting the last one and find Laine where she’s collapsed beneath a big tree, her back against its trunk and legs sprawled out.

The image twists beneath my skin, squeezing my heart. It’s Mom’s favorite tree, where I sit vigil on her birthdays to this day. Not from dawn until dusk like I used to, but I spend at least an hour at twilight there every year, telling myself my favorite stories about her and holding them close. I do it in part because it’s tradition, but also because I’m terrified of forgetting them. I haven’t sat here for any other purpose since Mom died, but I ease down onto the ground next to Laine, my body singing a symphony of aches and pains.

It’s quiet for a long minute as we stare out onto the vineyard lit by fire below. I get why Laine picked this tree to sit under—there’s a sweeping view of our entire property from up here. That’s why it was Mom’s favorite, too.

“I’m sorry,” Laine says, so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the winds whipping down the mountains.

I turn and frown at her. Her features are displayed in shades of gray instead of her usual golds and browns, but she’s as bold in this monochrome moonlight as she is in color. “You’re … sorry? For what? Adopting a damn goat without asking?”

Laine blinks, then huffs out a small laugh. “That, too, I guess. God, everything. For being such a pain in your ass. For being wrong all the time and refusing to admit it. For being such a liability here.” She riffles a hand through her hair, which I’ve noticed she does when she feels uncomfortable. “A late-season frost, just like you said.” She huffs again, and it’s filled with self-loathing. “Thank God you stopped me from pruning that day. I could’ve really screwed things up.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, unsure how to feel now that I’m finally receiving all the remorse I’ve felt owed ever since Laine showed up. Not sure I want it anymore, though. Not if it comes with this potent disgust for herself underlying her words. “You didn’t.”

Laine draws her knees up, her eyes watchful over the fires. She looks defeated, a word I don’t associate with Laine Woods. “In California, everything I did was too Georgia. In Georgia, everything I do is too California.” She shakes her head, her frustration with herself evident and painful to see. “I don’t fit anywhere.”

“What about … Missouri?”

She looks so affronted it makes me laugh.

“What? Right in the middle.” I squint an eye and poke a finger at an imaginary map. “You could be a Branson dyke.”

Laine scrunches up her face and lets out a single incredulous laugh. “Okay, first? Missouri isn’t in the middle of the country, look at a map sometime; second, what the hell is a Branson dyke ?”

I shrug again, ridiculously pleased to have gotten a laugh out of her. “Oh, I don’t know. A lady that enjoys themed minigolf, riverboat gambling, and breasts?”

“I do enjoy breasts.” Laine tilts her head to the side. “And minigolf.”

“All Branson dykes do,” I explain, the new authority on this thing I just invented. “See? You’d fit right in.”

“Next stop, the city of freshly chlorinated waterfalls,” Laine says, but her tone’s too wistful for chemically blue water.

“You fit here, Laine,” I say softly. She side-eyes me, one eyebrow high, as though she knows I’m full of shit. “Or you could, at least. If you wanted to.”

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” Laine murmurs, more to the vineyard than me. “Rachel’s right—my career out west imploded. Everything was going so well, I thought—” She pauses to swipe at a single tear rolling down her cheek. “I thought I was invincible. Destined for the top.”

“What happened?” I ask softly.

“After years of making Le Jardin’s signature line, I’d finally earned the right to experiment with a new white for the label. It’s a big deal, you know, they don’t put their name on just anything, and I was so eager to make my wine for once, I just—” Laine pauses to shake her head. “I aimed for the fences. Tried the organic processing method I’d been dying to implement, experimented with a new blend of grapes, too much new all at once, and it was …” Her shoulders drop, along with her gaze. “Not great. This wine critic Benjamin Soren attended an early tasting and wrote a scathing review for Vinitopia magazine. ‘The Hayseed Vintner,’ he called me, the Georgia bumpkin who made wine that tasted like a barnyard. Le Jardin fired me a few weeks later.”

“Over one review?” I can’t keep the shock from my voice. “That’s crazy!”

“That’s Le Jardin . They don’t keep losers around.”

“Laine, you’re not a loser. So you made something that one asshole didn’t like—”

She holds up a finger. “Lots of assholes didn’t like it, to be fair.”

“So what? At least you made something! At least you tried .” I shake my head. “So many people go their whole lives without ever taking a chance on themselves. Too afraid to speak up, or stick their necks out, or God forbid, be seen trying to do something. To them, being embarrassed or disliked is scarier than never being anything at all. That’s losing to me. So you tried something, and it didn’t work out. That doesn’t make you a loser. It makes you brave.”

The words hang in the air around us, like little stars burning brightly. I huddle closer into myself, into the comfort of my ambition. “We have this one life, Laine. If we’re not brave enough to try and live it, to give ourselves and our dreams the benefit of the doubt, then what’s the point?”

Laine looks at me sidelong, surprise changing the architecture of her expression. It warms my cheeks, the way she watches me, as though I might say something profound that she actually wants to hear.

It’s ironic since she’s the one who taught me this lesson. This almost-religious faith in trying is what drew me to her in the first place, all those years ago.

I duck my chin into my scarf.

“But what if you fail so spectacularly, you’re not sure you know how to try anymore? What if trying feels like failing, and everything feels wrong? How do you keep going then?”

“Maybe because it’s your dream?” I offer slowly. This is unknown territory, this conversing with Laine—not fighting, or bickering, or feeling so in awe of her that I couldn’t speak at all. Maybe this foreign terrain is only accessible under the light of the moon and the magic of a dozen tiny fires, but … I want to explore it. “Maybe because you know, deep down, that trying is hard, failing is harder, but giving up what you love would be hardest of all.”

Laine looks at me then, long and assessing. “Is that how you feel?”

“About Bluebell? Yes.” I lean my head against the tree trunk and look at her, too. “This place is special. My mom knew it, my dad knew it, and they built our whole lives around this small, beautiful piece of the universe. I feel a moral imperative to keep it going, to cherish it, to share it with others.”

Laine considers me thoughtfully. “I’m sorry about that, too. I’ve been a real dick about Bluebell Vineyards.”

“Yeah. You have.”

Laine drags a long breath in. “Would you believe me if I said it wasn’t about Bluebell at all?”

“I would, because this place is magical, and any problems you have with it come from you.” I intend the words to be playful, but Laine’s frown only grows.

“You’re right.” She looks sheepishly up at the moon now, like she’s asking it for forgiveness instead of me. “I told myself coming home was only temporary, but even still, it feels like surrender. Been working through some resentment about how it all went down, and—I don’t know. It was easier to put all those bad feelings on C’est la Grigio than take ownership of my fuckups, you know? Because I did fuck up. Everything in that review is true. I am difficult to work with. The wine I made did taste like a barnyard.” She looks down at our vineyards with such regret, it catches in my heart. “But I swear I’m a better vintner now, and I can do better. I will do better, for you.”

And I’m— impressed . I’m floored . Here Laine is, spilling out her feelings, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve spent so long living in a house of deferred sadness, Dad and I both moving around our grief gingerly, cautiously, as though one loud footstep might wake it up, and it’d devour us for good. Ignoring our feelings has become a way of life. When I feel sad, angry, or hurt, I turn those feelings into work. But now, under Mom’s favorite tree, Laine’s shoulder gently pressed against my own, staying silent about my own crimes seems … well, criminal. A violation of everything about this moment that’s made it so meaningful. I don’t want to leave Laine out here in truth-land alone.

“I do know,” I say softly. “What it’s like, I mean. To lay a big bag of bad feelings at the wrong doorstep and light it on fire.”

Laine frowns. “Is that—a burning dog shit metaphor?”

“Well, it fits, doesn’t it?” I shake my head irritably. “Listen, I’m sorry for making things difficult for you here. I’m viciously protective of Bluebell as you’ve noticed, but the tension between us stems from more than that.” I swallow, the words suddenly difficult to find, but I want to pay Laine’s courage and honesty back to her and prove that I’m ready to make things better, too.

“It’s just, I’m used to being set aside, okay? I’ve hooked up with every queer woman in Blue Ridge only to watch each one of them move on and find somebody else. But I’m not used to facing that feeling of being discarded every day, here, at my favorite place on earth. You criticizing Bluebell Vineyards after what happened between us snowballed into one big uncomfortable rejection for me.”

“You feel … rejected?” Laine asks.

“Well, yeah.” My cheeks are on fire, and my mouth has suddenly gone bone dry. “Part of me has been punishing you for your negative opinions about the vineyard and our wines, but—about me, also. You hit me on two fronts.” I turn to her now, ready to face her. The mild shock in her expression makes me feel a little better. At least my petty bullshit hasn’t been totally transparent. “I’m sorry for being so unprofessional, Laine. I know we said we’d put what happened behind us, and this time, I really will.”

In the cold, dark night, our bodies creating our own force field of warmth, I wait for Laine’s reaction. I desperately want her to tell me it’s okay, that she likes it here and that our wines are actually good. And if I’m honest, that she’s struggled with keeping things professional between us, too. Those scorching moments, when her desire to dominate collides with my own, they couldn’t have all been in my head.

Could they?

I see her full lips part, hear the intake of air, but the space between that breath and the words that follow stretches on. When my eyes flick upward, her expression’s unreadable.

“Was all that true? What Rachel said about … how you felt back then?”

For an instant, I consider owning it. Telling her just how much she meant to me as a young queer, the massive space she’s occupied in my psyche since I was a wee tween. Would she understand then how hard it’s been having her here, hating me? Would it change anything?

“Nah.” I shrug. “It was just a little crush.”

We have departed truth-land, and it shows. God. That wouldn’t convince a wall.

“Uh-huh,” Laine says.

“I didn’t even know I was gay.”

Sure, Zoe. Let’s double down on the bullshit.

“No, no. Makes sense,” Laine deadpans. “Wanting to kiss other girls is surprisingly unclear.”

“How would I know?” My voice rises. “What if I was just a Charlaine-o-sexual?”

Laine frowns. “I thought you were Italian, not Irish.”

I throw my head back and laugh, Laine’s ember eyes twinkling above her own pleased smile.

“You were my best friend’s older sister.” I shrug again, as if that’s what this moment needs—more ambivalent body language. “You were like a celebrity to us.” My body is on fire in this cold, starless night, burning from the inside out, and I point my gaze at the vineyard blocks instead, willing my heart to stop hammering in my chest. “Now you know why it blew my mind when I discovered that Lina, the dead-sexy butch in the blindfold, was actually Charlaine Woods , #27 of the Gilmer County Bobcats. Star student and queen of Blue Ridge who could do no wrong.”

I wait for her smug smile, for that damn right, next time you better remember who you’re dealing with attitude to flare. Her lips twitch upward before melting into a frown. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

And dammit if that’s not worse than the arrogance I’d expected.

I swallow hard. “Well, celebrity or not, you didn’t even remember who I was that night at Harlow’s.”

Laine blows out a long breath. “Yes, I did.”

I cut a disbelieving glance at her, and she quickly amends. “I mean, I didn’t immediately connect the dead-sexy Amélie type hyperventilating in the nude with my kid sister’s best friend. Even after you said it, my brain refused to compute.” Her smile is faint, but playful. “In my defense, you were naked. But I remember you. Of course I remember you.”

The words fill me to the brim, like a glass of overflowing champagne, the feelings they create fizzing over me in bubbling streams. Down my neck, my chest, my arms, across the tight buds of my nipples. She did remember me. And she thinks I’m sexy, too? Swoo—

I stop mid-swoon.

“Wait. Just as Chop Chop?” I raise an eyebrow.

Laine laughs. “More than that. You used to come to all my games, like this bonus member of my family fan club. This sad, shadowed girl, but you always lit up in the stands.” She shrugs. “And here I thought you were just really into soccer.”

I snort. “Not so much.”

“You always painted my number on your cheek. I loved that.” Laine smiles fondly, and somehow, I know that smile is for young Zoe. It ricochets around my heart, searching for its home until it lands, warm and soothing against a spot that’s ached for ages. “It always made me feel special, you looking up to me like that,” she says quietly. “It’s … hurt, watching you change your mind. Feeling so dumb every time you called me out for my lack of experience here. Knowing you wouldn’t want me near your vineyard after you found out about the review.”

I twist to face her, and before I can think better of it, my gloved hands grip her by her upper arms. Her muscles tense beneath my touch. “Let’s get one thing straight, Laine Woods. I don’t give two shits about that review. All that matters to me is that you try while you’re here. Try to learn how we do things in a Georgia vineyard and try to make our wine as good as possible.”

Her eyes search mine, like she’s hunting for any trace that I don’t mean the words I’m saying. I lift my chin. “Can you do that for me?” My thumb rubs a light circle against her arm until I force myself to stop.

“I will,” she says, her voice a vow.

“Good. And maybe try to keep more of an open mind, too.”

“About what?” Laine’s forehead creases a little. “I’m open-minded.”

“About everything , Laine. Living here, working here. Georgia Girls.” A small smile settles on my face. “How good it tastes.”

“Don’t you mean how good they taste?” A corner of her mouth lifts wickedly, and a current zips from her arms into my hands. I realize I’m still gripping her, but instead of letting go, my fingers momentarily tighten, like I mean to drag her to my mouth, taste her all over again.

Her eyebrows lift into a playful bend, but her eyes are dark and hungry. It steals the air from my lungs.

“I’m sorry. I just promised you I’d be professional,” I breathe out into the small space between us, feeling my temperature rise, “but you’re making it difficult.”

The apology would be more effective if I could let go of her. Laine’s smirk deepens, her chest broadening between my hands, like a lion about to teach a lesson to the kitten swatting at its nose. “You saying I’m asking for it, boss?”

Are you? I want to demand, shake the answer I want from her like apples from a tree. Are you asking for it?

Or am I ?

My fingers finally release her, a jolt of shame retracting them like bolts in a lock. “I’m sorry, Jesus . I’m a terrible boss.”

She clocks the change in my demeanor, and her own smirk softens.

“Now let me get something straight with you , Zoe Brennan,” she says, meeting my eyes. “We’ve only worked together for a few weeks, but you’re already the best boss I’ve ever had. You’re creative and kind and, god, this sounds corny, but you’re inspiring .” Her words drip down my spine like warm honey, settling between my legs. “So I’m gonna do my best for you, and together, we’re gonna win that showcase. Got it?”

I swallow and nod. Laine, who dominated every Gilmer County spelling bee, soccer game, and goddamn limbo contest, on my team. Truly on my team. Whatever hesitation I saw when I assigned her the red wine renovation is long gone now, as though she couldn’t access her signature determination until we banished the specter of that horrible review for good.

Laine smiles and leans back against the tree, her shoulder pressing warmth into mine as we quietly watch the fires dotting the vineyard like the first fireflies of summer. The thick cover of clouds spackling the night sky has begun to peel away, revealing cracks of cold, silvered moonlight. As the night passes us by, the heat swirling within me finally cools, but down below, our fires burn bright.