Zoe Brennan, First Crush

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

Day always comes too soon after a night spent under the stars. Worse, I drank so much coffee last night, it seems to have lost any effect. I lay my head down on the bar in our empty tasting room then jolt upright when my phone buzzes from my back pocket.

WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel

Your goat did $1,382.47 worth of damage to my car. Here’s the itemized breakdown.

Three photos come in quick succession showing a bill for the many tasks required to de-goat Rachel’s SUV. I groan.

Zoe

$250 for a ceiling shampoo? Was that really necessary?

WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel

There were HOOF MARKS on my CEILING. Send it to my Pay-Me app.

I snort despite the hit my checking account’s about to take, then transfer the funds over less two dollars and fifty-two cents, an amount I pick at random, because the discrepancy will bug her to no end.

WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel

Received.

A second later, the typing … notification pops up, then disappears, pops up again, my petty smile growing until another text arrives.

WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel

Stay away from Charlaine.

I stare down at the phone in disbelief.

Zoe

Being that she’s my vintner … no.

WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel

Romantically, asshole.

Zoe

Why, you got dibs or something?

WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel

She will destroy you, Zoe, and you know it.

WARNING, it’s that bitch Rachel

Also, you owe me $2.52.

I slowly lower my forehead to the bar again. I’m too tired to think about Rachel’s ominous words, and now too broke to feel joy.

“Am I interrupting your nap?” Tristan cruelly flicks each switch on as he enters for his afternoon shift. He’s got charcoal eyeliner on today, which means swooning will occur in this tasting room tonight. The smoky gray brings out the grassy centers of his hazel eyes, and he knows it. Right now, those babe magnets are fixed on me in a decidedly are you kidding me posture.

Ungrateful subordinate.

“Yes.”

He sighs through his nose as he readies the tasting room for our Thursday crowds. And by crowds, I mean Ms. Betty’s cross-stitch club that comes here every week to drink and embroider until someone gets hurt. He puts out an assortment of tapestry needles, spare hoops, and embroidery floss in discount colors at their usual table by the windows. All he needs are the butt cushions from the back to pad the chairs for our genteel guests and their long-suffering asses and a healthy stock of chilled Georgia Girls, and we’ll be ready for a long, rowdy afternoon with the ladies.

Laine enters through the patio doors, the epitome of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, which how?

“Good afternoon, boss!” She hops onto a barstool and beams at me. It’s enough to make my dead pulse stammer in my veins. Before when she called me boss, it was snide, a reluctant acquiescence to whatever dumb thing I was demanding of her. But this time, it’s friendly and light, a nod to our new understanding forged beneath the canopy of my mother’s tree. A door creaks open inside me, just an inch.

I try to smile back, but it collapses into a yawn. “Bad afternoon. Sleepy afternoon.” Broke afternoon more like it, but despite Laine’s pivotal involvement in yesterday’s goat debacle, I’m not asking her for money to help cover it. Not sure why, exactly.

Laine scoffs and drums her hands happily on the bar. “Get some coffee and come right back. I’ve got an idea I want to run by you.”

I’m too busy frowning to move, though.

“Go on,” she adds, a devilish smile on her face. “ Chop, chop. ”

“Ex-cuse me, Beave?”

“Oh, you done it now,” Tristan drawls as he spools some loose floss.

Laine lifts her ass off the barstool and leans over the bar. Her eyes are alight with mischief, a small, satisfied smirk dancing on her lips. She’s so close, I can smell the crisp citrus notes of young wine wafting off her skin. It fits her, highlighting her real scent like a perfume. My mouth waters.

“Sorry for callin’ you names, boss,” Laine says, inches from my face, though she doesn’t sound sorry at all. Her smirk’s now a grin, and my ears flush. It’s hard to hold up this mock outrage when her warm breath slides down my throat, prickling the skin there. “But I was there that night, so I’ve got rights.” Laine hovers there for a moment, that wicked grin jacking up my heartbeat like caffeine hasn’t managed to all day. Can I drink two cups of her every morning? Sweet Jesus.

She points to the back. “Go on now. We’ve got work to do!”

I stumble when I stand up, accidentally kicking a bucket, an empty crate, and for some reason, the wall , on my way to the back, where we keep our coffee stash. I’ve drunk so much coffee today it tastes like water now, but I can’t tell Laine no. Not when she’s looking at me like that.

Quite troubling, really.

The blush has worked its way down my entire body, and I hate myself a little for physically responding to her casual flirting. Because I know why she’s doing this—I’m an expert in this field. This is good, old-fashioned throw her a bone sympathy. When two people come to an understanding that, yes, we hooked up, and no, we’re not gonna do it anymore , but it’s not quite mutual? This is what happens: pity-flirting.

The rejector pity-flirts with the rejectee, and while it may look convincing, the message is clear: hey, maybe it could happen again! But we both know it won’t, so accept this light flirting for your bruised ego so I don’t feel bad about never wanting to see you naked again, okay? Thaaaaanks.

I’m extremely familiar. So familiar that, when Hannah first moved here, she didn’t believe me when I explained nobody in town wanted anything to do with me.

“What’re you talking about?” she’d said as Kai blew me a kiss in Das Kaffee Haus. “Everyone’s been wagging their eyebrows at you all day!”

“It’s pity-flirting, Hannah. I guess some might still find me attractive, but they’ve all had their taste—”

“A conscious word choice, here for it.”

“And chose not to have seconds or thirds and why am I talking about myself like I’m a meal?”

“Because society has trained us to think of women as something to be consumed.”

“Fucking society.” We’d clinked gingerbread lattes at that and carried on with our day, Hannah pointing out every instance of empty queer flirtation, and me, dryly outlining the series of unfortunate events that got me there like some sad lesbian Lemony Snicket.

Still, I can’t be angry with Laine for throwing me a bone. It’s better than the sour looks and frustrated sighs she’s doled out ever since she started working here. I just need to keep my head on straight about what it means, that’s all.

When I return, she’s busily gesturing to Tristan while he stands by, arms folded, a big frown on his face.

“I don’t know,” Tristan says, unconvinced. “Zoe doesn’t like to sweat.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” I step up to their little duo, peering between them.

Laine turns to me, her face like sunlight. “Mayor Esposito’s Field Day fundraiser is next weekend.”

“Yeah, so?” My tone turns frosty. Rachel plans the Field Day fundraiser in the mayor’s honor every year, which is a great idea, but that’s the problem—throwing an all-ages field day was my great idea before Rachel stole and repackaged it as her own. She even schedules it the same weekend in spring I used to schedule mine, forcing our events into a direct head-to-head popularity contest—which I lost when she tacked on a fundraiser for Mayor Esposito. From what I hear, Rachel prances about like Queen Spandex when she’s not viciously elbowing children out of the way to win all the events.

“We should sign up as a team.”

“I’d rather drink red wine vinegar.”

“You need time to pitch to the mayor, now’s your chance. Plus, what does Rachel hate more than anything?” Laine’s smile stretches across her face, pure Grinchian connivery, and my lower belly hums in response.

I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out in a rumble. “Um, losing?” I pose it like a question, but there’s no question about it. I once saw Rachel self-destruct over Candyland.

She was fifteen.

“That’s right.” Laine’s eyes shimmer like caramel in a pan—hot, sweet, sticky—as they track down my face to my mouth, then back again. “ Especially to me. Doesn’t that sound like fun, boss?”

Laine Woods is business evil, and boy, do I like it . A flood of warmth streams down my spine as I feel my cheeks burn.

Yes. Yes, it does.

The best part of being a baseball player is having your own theme song play as you walk up to bat. I’ve always wanted one. Something that’d automatically start rolling whenever I enter a room, letting everybody know that I’m Zoe Brennan, and I’m about to kick some ass .

I wouldn’t have chosen “Let It Go” from the Frozen soundtrack, yet that’s what’s playing as our ragtag team of Bluebell employees and friends saunters onto the field, dressed in matching tie-dye shirts from the gift shop and a can-fuckin’-do attitude. Teddy’s in front with the Bluetooth speaker, running slightly ahead so that Tristan can’t tackle him and change it to “Bad Blood” by Taylor Swift and Kendrick Lamar.

I glance over at Laine, and she smiles. Her glasses have been tucked away for the day, and she’s sporting a smear of yellow paint across each cheekbone, like the eye black football players wear to reduce glare, but less useful since Teddy insisted we go full rainbow.

After all, how often do you have an all-queer field day team?

Our grand entrance turns heads, and soon a mob of children is singing along to the wildly complex anthem Teddy’s chosen for us. It feels good to slap their little palms as we jog toward the contestants’ area, and when Rachel sees us from the stage, straight-up delightful. She looks pissed , and a rich, sultry satisfaction blooms in my chest.

Laine leans in, her warm breath tickling my ear. “Go on and say it.”

“Say what?” I turn my head, halting when I realize any farther would bring us lip to lip.

Laine’s eyes twinkle. “That I’m a genius for signing us up.”

I shrug coyly. “That remains to be seen.” My eyes drift back to the stage, where Mayor Esposito stands straight-backed in a royal blue skirt suit next to Rachel. If I manage to get the mayor alone to deliver my pitch for hosting the showcase, I’ll call Laine anything she wants.

Rachel hits the mic in a rapid, woodpecker attack, thwick-thwick-thwick , until we take our places among the other contestants. A too-big grin transforms her expression from murderous to psychopathic. “Welcome to Blue Ridge’s favorite field day festival”—she throws that grenade at me before her gaze travels across the crowds—“in honor of everybody’s favorite mayor, Flor Esposito!” She lifts her hands in a dainty little clap, like exerting too much noise might be considered masculine. That’s Rachel in a nutshell, though—deeply self-conscious, restrained, but vicious .

“Team captains, please report to the sign-in desk to get your squad’s schedule of events and remember,” Rachel says, her dark eyes glittering beneath the rim of her faux-aged mauve baseball hat, “ have fun! ”

Tristan shudders. “Why did that feel like a threat?”

We nominate Laine as our captain, and when she returns with our team’s schedule, she’s grinning.

I raise an eyebrow. “What have you done?”

Laine shrugs. “Oh, nothing. Just made sure that our team is competing against Rachel’s in every challenge. We’re gonna kick some Woods ass.” Our team erupts into cheers.

“Now, now,” I say, raising both hands. “Rachel’s right—”

Booing ensues.

“—we are here to have fun, but also corner the mayor so she can’t hide from me anymore. Winning is optional.”

Laine laughs and pats my back. “Right. Sure. Anyway , we’ve got to play to our strengths if we’re going to sweep this thing—which is mandatory . Teddy, I hear you’re the Peloton champ of Appalachia?”

“These hips hinge like a nutcracker, baby.” Teddy slaps his thighs. Everybody’s eyes flick to Diego, out of concern or morbid curiosity or some mix of both, but he’s too busy beaming at his husband to notice.

Laine nods as if that settles things. “Great. Nutcracker, you’re on the tricycle race. Tristan, Diego, and I will take tug-of-war.”

My brow furrows. “Hey! I’m strong.” It’s a stretch, but I can’t take Laine’s truthful assessments without putting up a fight. “Ish.”

Diego smiles kindly at me. “Honey, you arm-wrestled Bowie and lost.”

“He’s two!” My eyes bug out with indignation. “What was I supposed to do, smack a toddler down?”

“Yes,” Teddy, Diego, and Laine say in unison.

“At least, for today.” Laine grins. “But don’t worry, you’re doing the balloon race, and that requires no toddler fighting.”

I don’t know what the balloon race entails, but I’m relieved it’s not the human wheelbarrow. Halfhearted protests aside, my workout routine consists of removing corks and zipping up my own dresses. But luckily, Laine’s decided she and Teddy will do the human wheelbarrow, which basically requires someone driving you by the ankles while you attempt an extended plank. No, thank you. The only plank I can do is the pirate kind.

Someone sounds an air horn, and the teams scatter to their respective events. The mayor immediately disappears from the stage, and my lips form a thin line.

“Look alive, Brennan!” Laine yells from up ahead, and I straighten immediately in response to the stern coach vibes she’s putting off. First up for the Eager BV-ers is the tricycle race. Teddy’s a small-statured man, but even he looks huge on the shiny blue trike, knees flared wide on either side of him like he’s on the world’s squattiest potty. The race begins with a loud Ahhoooga! , and the children competing stream forward, leaving the awkward adults cursing in their dusty wake, Teddy included. Representing the Woods Winners (real clever, Rachel) is Chance’s daughter, Darla, who just turned six and has definitely inherited the family’s competitive streak. With a bloodthirsty grin, she pedals her trike squealing around the track. Teddy looks ready, willing, and able to take out the gaggle of children flanking him on all sides, but luckily Darla screeches across the finish line before mistakes are made. Despite being Gulliver on a Lilliputian vehicle, Teddy comes in second.

“You’ll get ’em next time, Nutcracker.” Laine claps Teddy on the shoulder as he limps past. The Woods Winners are busy congratulating little Darla, but Rachel stops long enough to give me a predatory smile.

My blood runs cold. I drag our team into a huddle. “Okay, listen up, BV-ers. We cannot afford to place second again.”

“We can’t?” Laine asks, her tone teasing.

“No!” I frown at her, hard.

“But we’re here to have fun, boss.” Her smile is so playful now I feel the urge to push her down and lick it off.

“That was before I had to see that .” I thumb over my shoulder in a rough approximation of where Rachel still stands with her shit-eating smile. “Now it’s about total annihilation. And team building.”

Laine’s smile turns up a notch. “Well, you heard the boss, team!” We each put a hand in the middle, and on the count of three, yell, “B-V, BV-ERS!”

My pep talk must work because the BV-ers crush Chance, his wife Betsy, and one of their farmhands in tug-of-war. The moment Chance and Betsy fall into the dirt, Tristan and Laine do a running chest thump while Diego beats his pecs and crows at the sky. Rachel, now an alarming shade of fuchsia, marches up to her fallen teammates.

“What was that, Betsy?! I thought you taught Pilates!” Rachel yanks their team’s schedule out of Chance’s hands and begins scribbling furiously on it, then stomps over to the sign-in table, where a volunteer accepts Rachel’s substitutions with a look of mild concern.

“It’s working.” Laine points at Rachel. “Rachel’s gonna compete in every team event for the rest of the day. She can’t stand other people losing on her behalf. After this next event, you’ll have time to find a Rachel-free mayor.”

My eyebrows lift, impressed.

“Am I a genius yet?”

I squint in assessment. “You’re getting fives on your AP exams, but Mensa hasn’t called. Yet.”

Sure enough, as we line up for the balloon race, instead of Betsy and Chance competing against Laine and me, it’s now Rachel and Chance.

After a few seconds’ studying, it appears the goal of the balloon race is to position a balloon between two people’s bodies without popping it, letting it fall to the ground, or dying of embarrassment.

“So, um.” I clear my throat. “How do we …” I motion between the two of us as we take our places at the starting line. A helpful teenager approaches with a basketful of balloons, takes one look at us and, grinning, presents us with the smallest one he has.

Laine gives me a sly wink. “Whatever it takes. Right, boss?”

She nestles the balloon in the dip between her breasts, then beckons me forward with a finger.

“Laine, I—”

“Want to win, don’t you?” Her eyebrows are raised, infuriatingly jolly. “That’s what I thought. Stop worrying about being professional and get over here.” Her voice this time is low, a command, and I step forward, willing myself not to gasp a little as I press my chest into hers, pinning the balloon in our wall-to-wall cleavage.

“This is obscene,” I whisper. She locks her arms under mine, clutching my body to hers. Slowly, I do the same. Can she feel my nipples hardening against the swell of her breasts? “How on earth do they let children play—” But I stop abruptly to turn and stare at Rachel and Chance, both horrified and delighted to see how an adult sister and brother could possibly make this work. Rachel snagged the biggest balloon she could, which they’re currently trying to pin between their sides, but it keeps slipping out.

“Gotta go butt-to-butt, baby!” Teddy yells, to the crowd’s glee.

“She did not think this through,” I murmur while Laine shakes with laughter against me. Betsy must have the same thought, because she’s standing on the sidelines, smirk fully on display at her cursing sister-in-law.

“On yer marks, get set, GO! ” an old-timer hollers, and we’re off. First with Laine jogging backward, hauling me with her, but it trips me up too much, so we move to a shuffling, sideways motion. She holds me so close, her pulse ticks against my flesh, the places where our bodies press together becoming slick with sweat in the day’s growing heat.

“That’s it—shuffle right, shuffle right.” Laine’s instructions come in between fits of our giddy, wheezing laughter. It’s impossible not to lose it with Chance and Rachel struggling to keep it PG next to us.

“ Fine! ” Rachel screeches when they’ve still barely managed a few steps forward. “Butt-to-butt!” Wide-eyed, Chance starts rolling the balloon carefully from his hip to his ass, which he’s stuck out at a ridiculous angle.

“Breathe!” Laine commands between her own sobs of laughter. “Zoe, you’re turning red! You’ve gotta breathe!”

“I don’t know if I—can,” I hiccup out, eyes streaming, “ever— breathe—again!”

“Stick your butt out, Chance, farther! Farther , are you—Chance!” Their balloon gets halfway around Rachel’s own ass before it pops loudly, speared by a brassy grommet on her jean shorts. “ Dammit! ”

“Woods Winners are deee-qualified!” the old-timer announces through his megaphone just as Laine and I fall cackling across the finish line. He gestures at us where we lay on the ground. “These here Eager BV-ers win!”

Laine’s still laughing as we face each other, long, ticklish spears of grass pressed into our cheeks. Her arms are still locked around me, our pink balloon cradled between us like a heart. A sweet, effusive joy blooms in my chest, dampened only slightly when Teddy’s face appears upside down above us.

“Good job, lesbians!” he yells into our faces. “Next up, human wheelbarrow!”

If Rachel was feeling the competition before, she’s out for blood now. She pulls on fingerless weight-lifting gloves one at a time, then cracks her neck like an ominous maraca, but I’m not worried. Laine and Teddy are our fittest members. Teddy can do a hundred push-ups drunk on sangria, and Laine lifts barrels we use hand trucks for. I’m about to go find the mayor when I hear a loud yelp from behind. Teddy’s on the ground, grabbing wildly at his groin. Diego rushes over.

“I must’ve sprained something going around that last curve,” Teddy moans, massaging at the spot where crotch meets thigh so aggressively, it makes Tristan blush. Teddy looks up at Laine with mournful eyes. “I can’t do it, Coach.”

One by one Laine assesses Tristan, then Diego, before settling on me with a sigh. Tristan and Diego are both big guys—while they could wheel Laine no doubt, she wouldn’t be able to make the return trip holding up their heavy bottom halves. That’s why Teddy had been the perfect choice—small, but strong. Now she’s left with only one extremely imperfect choice.

“You strong?” Though Laine’s frowning at me, the look somehow still feels tender.

“Ish?” It comes out as a question.

“We don’t have to do the event,” Laine says so the others can’t hear. But all it takes is one look at Rachel doing warm-up planks to fill me with determination.

“Hell yes , we do! We can’t let her win without a fight.”

We get in our lane, and gingerly, I get down on my hands and knees. Rachel’s next to us, about to be driven by her sister-in-law Betsy, and my god what a weird game this is.

The referee blows the whistle, and suddenly my back half is levitating into the air so fast, I don’t have time to brace my arms. My chin hits the dirt hard, grass entering my nose and mouth.

“Oh, shit, are you all right?!” Laine asks, but I can barely hear her over Rachel’s demonic snorting to my left. I spit the grass out and glare at Rachel, who’s crawling forward on her hands like some kind of horror movie beastie.

“I’m fine!” I bark out.

“You don’t look like you’re fine, Brennan!” Rachel yells over her shoulder.

“Well, you look like the girl from The Ring !” I twist my sore neck as far as it’ll go. “Move it, Laine!”

Laine hikes my ankles up even higher around her hips, and I make like a scorpion outta hell, willing my screaming shoulders to comply as we lurch forward. It’s a short stretch, accounting for the fact most Americans don’t have functioning abs, but it’s still long enough to constitute torture. By the end, I’m forking along on my forearms, Laine hunched over so she doesn’t warp my body at an unnatural angle. But we make it, passing Rachel and Betsy already on their return trip. When it’s my turn to carry Laine’s legs, my arms have turned to jelly, but I’ll be damned if I’m giving up now. I tuck her feet against my sides, and we power forward. Rachel and Betsy cross the finish line before we’re even halfway there.

“THAT’S RIGHT!” Rachel whoops, jumping up and down and hoisting a bewildered Betsy’s arm into the air.

“ Dammit! ” Laine runs her hands through her hair, hot anger reddening her features. “If I hadn’t dropped you, we’d have won!”

Doubtful, but Laine looks like she could overturn a Gatorade table, so I’m not gonna argue. She turns to me, her frustration evaporating.

“You okay, boss?” Laine’s fingers gently tilt my chin up to inspect the scratches there.

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy shoving me face-first in the dirt, Beave.” I try to smile but it quickly turns into a wince as she grazes a tender spot.

“Believe me, in all the ways I’ve imagined getting you dirty, it’s never involved the human wheelbarrow.” Color paints the tops of her cheekbones as though perhaps she didn’t mean to say that, but she juts her chin out a bit higher, owning it all the same. Her eyes are warm and molten, and for an instant, I lean into her touch. “Can I help you get cleaned up?” The words prickle the skin along my arms, making my chin sting even more.

I take a small step back, freeing myself from her grasp. “No, I’m okay. Besides, we only have the egg race left, and I still need to find the mayor. This one’s yours, right?”

After a second, Laine nods, like she’s reluctantly coming back from somewhere far away. An overwhelming urge to join her there fills me. I lean in close and whisper in her ear, “You gonna win this one for me?”

“Yes, boss.” The words breathe out onto my neck and shoot straight to my core, making my lower belly thrum from their delicious tug. She leans back, our lips dangerously close, but her eyes flick from mine to something over my shoulder before widening slightly. “Mayor Esposito, walking alone, your five o’clock.” She takes me by the shoulders, spins me on my feet, then gives me a little nudge. “I’ll keep Rachel occupied, you get us an endorsement.”

Us. That little word, as small as me but so incredibly vast in comparison. It’s like an ocean I could tumble into and never surface from again.

“Mayor!” I call, wishing I’d had time to clean off my dirt-streaked face before doing this. She pauses mid-stride, and when she sees me, her shoulders tighten.

She has been avoiding me.

“Zoe! Lovely to see you enjoying the festivities!” Her eyes flicker to my chin before finding mine again. “You okay?”

“Yep! Do you mind if I join you for a bit?”

Her smile tightens, too. “Not at all. I was just walking over to watch the anxious people ferry eggs on spoons across an obstacle course.”

“What a coincidence! Me, too.”

We exchange pleasantries, me asking about her campaign, her telling me about the parking meter controversy, until we reach the egg race and take a seat in the stands. “Listen, Mayor, I have an idea to run by you.”

“If this is about endorsing Bluebell Vineyards for the showcase, Zoe, I’m afraid my hands are tied.” She gestures at the massive fundraiser going on around us. “Into the Woods is one of my biggest supporters and one of the best vineyards in the southeast. I can’t ignore that.”

I take a deep breath. I prepared for this.

“Okay, but you pride yourself on embracing the unexpected and bringing innovation to Blue Ridge, right?”

Mayor Esposito nods resolutely. “Right.”

“Well, you can’t get more expected than Into the Woods.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fantastic vineyard, and I love Molly and Ezra Woods like second parents. But it’s as traditional as they come. If you plunked Into the Woods in the middle of Napa Valley, it wouldn’t make a blip on the local scene. Is that really the foot you want to put forward when wine lovers across America come to Blue Ridge? That the best we can do is the standard fare they’re used to in bigger wine scenes?”

A look of potent dismay crosses the mayor’s face. I’m getting to her. As if sensing danger, Rachel spots us in the stands. I wave, and fury darkens her face.

“ Or would you rather show off a vineyard that encapsulates what makes Blue Ridge so special? Scrappy, with can’t-beat views, making fun wines that represent our lush mountains.”

Someone has to push Rachel forward to get her spoon, she’s staring at us so hard.

The mayor follows my gaze, then shifts to where my Eager BV-ers crouch in a circle of rainbow tie-dye and face paint, cheering Laine as she accepts our team’s spoon proudly. “A vineyard run by queer women with a largely queer staff, no less.”

The mayor’s gaze cuts to me sharply. “Your point?”

I shrug. “All I’m saying is you can show outsiders the Blue Ridge they’d expect from a southern mountain town, or the real Blue Ridge that would surprise and delight them, and more than anything, make them feel welcome. All of them.”

The referee calls up the contestants, and Laine takes her place at the starting line, giving me a wink and a rapid pulse. A vineyard run by queer women … Women , not woman. I didn’t even hesitate before making it plural. A flush crawls up my neck.

The mayor’s broad, unlined face is heavy in thought. “You make some intriguing points, Zoe.”

“I do that from time to time, Mayor.” I smile wryly at Rachel. She drops her egg, but catches it in her other hand, glowering up at me.

The whistle goes off, and the contestants jump into action, a mishmash of slow, steady, and too fast all at once. Three eggs immediately fall and splat to the ground. Rachel and Laine are still in it, though, speed-walking with eggs balanced precariously on their tiny spoons. For a second, it pains me to see them side by side with so much animosity between them. They’re sisters —something I always wanted, and for a while, thought I’d had in Rachel.

“You could endorse both our vineyards to Everyday Bon Vivant and let them make the final call,” I say on a whim of … kindness? Pity? Some sense of fair play that Rachel sure as shit doesn’t have? “Just don’t count us out, Mayor. I know we’d do you proud.”

Sensing anything more would be overkill, I let the words lie, sitting quietly together as the egg race grows rapidly more vicious.

Laine throws Rachel a look from the next lane over. “Watch that rock!”

Rachel snarls back, “Quit looking at me!” But her foot snags on the rock anyway, and she almost drops the egg. “See what you nearly made me do? Lord, you’re such a loser!”

“Oh yeah?” Laine’s smile grows bigger as she closes in on the last stretch. “Then why you wanna be me so bad?”

Laine’s remark must hit a little too close to home because Rachel splutters, trips, and sends her egg flying. The crowd gasps, watching the egg land on Rachel’s own head in the most satisfying splat I’ve ever heard just as Laine crosses the finish line.

“ Oh , my word ,” the mayor says, covering her mouth.

Poor Laine has one, maybe two seconds to laugh before Rachel steals someone else’s egg straight off their spoon and cracks it against Laine’s head, where it explodes in a yolky sunburst.

“Excuse me, Mayor. It’s been lovely catching up!” I hustle down the makeshift stands and push through the gawking crowds, trying to get to Laine, but that’s when it descends into chaos . Eggs flying everywhere, Laine smashing egg into Rachel’s hair, Rachel roaring and crushing eggs in each fist, Chance and me both trying to pull them apart. All the while the referee’s whistle is wailing like alarms, stopping exactly nothing until an older woman shoves to the front of the melee.

“ Enough! ” she booms across the entire field day.

Ohhhhhhhh, shit .

“Now, this rivalry has officially gone on too far and for too long ,” Molly Woods says, her eyes cutting between Rachel, Laine, and Chance. “I didn’t spend my life raising three children just so they can go for each other’s throats like wild animals!”

“Mama!” Rachel starts, completely indignant. “What are you yelling at me for? I didn’t—”

“Oh, shut up, Rachel, you literally have egg on your face.” Molly glares at Rachel, then Laine, then Chance, standing slack-jawed to the side, smeared with his sisters’ war crimes. “We are having dinner as a goddamn family this Sunday, and we are going to work this out, once and for all.” Mrs. Woods points at me. “And your ass better be at that table, too, Zoe Brennan!”

My eyes widen. “Yes, ma’am .”