Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
This time, I’m the one knocking on Laine’s door before our not-date. I may be wearing jeans with ripped knees and a faded raglan tee, but I put no less thought into my outfit for today. Why is it so difficult to strike that perfect balance of look-how-casually-hot-I-am and I-didn’t-try-at-all-to-achieve-this ? Whoever figures that out should run for president.
Laine answers the door, and I guess she’s got political potential because somehow, she’s done just that. Freshly showered and dressed in a pair of form-fitting joggers in charcoal gray and a crisp white thermal that hugs the contours of her shoulders, she looks effortlessly hot and smells amazing, the clean light scent of her soap tickling my nose from here.
“Hey.” The corners of her mouth quirk in a half-smile as her eyes travel across my face, lingering on my neck before meeting my gaze again.
“Hey.” I smile back, that feeling of date/not-date glitching through me all over again. “You ready?”
“You don’t have to go to this, you know,” Laine says as she locks up behind her.
I frown a little, stung. “Do you … not want me to go?”
“No, I mean, you can go if you want to, but you don’t have to go.” Laine grimaces. “I’m making this weird, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.” I arch an eyebrow. “Am I going or what?”
Laine blows out a breath. “You’re going. To a kids’ soccer game.”
I shrug. “What else am I doing on a Saturday morning at nine a.m.? Besides, these games get pretty crazy.”
“Crazy? How?”
I snort. “Just you wait.”
If Laine didn’t understand before, she’s starting to now as we roll through the jam-packed parking lot of the county rec center. It’s a full-blown tailgate, with tents, zero gravity chairs, and packed coolers as far as the eye can see. We nab one of the last spots, and Laine whistles. “Damn.”
I grin at her. “Right? Come on.” I lead her over to a big tent at the edge of the field.
“Zoe Bee! And ho-lee shit , is that”—Booch, everyone’s favorite country boy, presses a hand to his aproned chest, eyes theatrically wide—“ the Charlaine Woods, #27, best forward the Gilmer County Bobcats ever did see?”
“Booch!” Laine accepts his vigorous thumping hug with genuine delight. “My man !” Booch is the best kind of redneck—the hilarious, loving, we’re-all-here-on-Earth-to-have-fun-so-let’s-go-do-donuts-in-the-parking-lot kind. He gets here at six a.m. on Soccer Saturdays for the primo spot. Both his kids Edward and Bella play at different points throughout the day, so Booch comes pre pared . His smoker’s already going, making my mouth water for his famous ribs at nine in the damn morning.
Booch’s eyes jack even wider. “You helping Chance coach our team? Now we’re cookin’ with gas, baby!” He points at Laine with his spatula. “My Bella’s on your team, and she’s a star in the making, Charlaine, you mark my words. She just needs some”—Booch tilts his head from side to side—“redirection from time to time, that’s all.”
“Naw, I’m just here to spectate, but good for Bella. What’s her number?”
At this, Booch throws his head back and laughs. “They don’t have numbers yet, girl, half of ’em can’t count! But she’s the one that looks like me with a curly wig on. Can’t miss her.”
We bid our farewells to Booch, but not before he stuffs our hands with homemade cinnamon rolls and cups of coffee, bless him.
Laine’s eyebrows are raised high as we find an empty spot in the bleachers and settle in. “It was not like this when I was growing up.”
“Well, when football’s over, the sports fans of Blue Ridge gotta latch onto something. You’re in for a treat.”
We both are , I think as Laine tears off a big chunk of her roll, getting icing all over her face and laughing. She looks out on the field with unmistakable fondness. “Thanks for getting me out here today, boss. I didn’t realize that’s what Chance was angling at when he brought it up.” Laine’s smile flickers. “I used to be able to read him like a book.”
“What … happened?” I wince a little as the question slides out. I hadn’t meant to ask, but it’s been bothering me ever since the family dinner. It was the first time I’d seen Chance and Laine interact since, geez, high school maybe? Them being at such odds felt like a fundamental law of my universe got Lisa Franked.
Laine’s shoulders stiffen. “It started when I went to UC Davis to get my viticulture degree instead of UGA with him. Chance had already decided where we’d live off campus, what courses we’d take together, which ones we’d divide and conquer on. But I wanted to see what else was out there. Not because I don’t love Georgia, but because I knew I’d love other places, too. I tried to get him to apply to the same schools, but he refused, saying UGA’s horticulture program was good enough for both of us.” Laine licks a strip of icing off her thumb. “He called my bluff, thinking I’d cave and stay. And, well. I didn’t.”
I’d seen some of this play out in real time that last year of friendship with Rachel, of course. The twins preparing their college applications, a tense few weeks after Chance and Charlaine returned from a visit to UGA. But by then, Rachel was avoiding Charlaine every chance she got, so I did, too, and missed a lot of this context.
“Mom and Dad ultimately got on board, though. I’d get my fancy viticulture and enology degree, then come home to help Dad and Chance run the winemaking operations after graduation. That was the plan.”
“But you didn’t follow the plan.”
“I did not,” Laine agrees. “The summer before my senior year, I got the internship at Le Jardin. It was such a big deal—I had to take it. That summer blew my mind. Showed me all the things I’d miss if I came home. A chance to learn from the top experts in America, living in a queer wonderland? Zoe, do you even know how many lesbians live in Napa Valley?” Laine shakes her head. “Who’d want to come home and make their daddy’s wine after that?”
I take another bite of my cinnamon bun to avoid answering. Because I’d done exactly that, hadn’t I? The moment they handed me my diploma, I was on my way home to take over operations for Dad. I didn’t want Laine to perceive me that way, though. Like there’s some fundamental difference in our ambition because I chose to return while she set off to explore. I think it’s easier to leave home when you don’t know how much there is to lose. Your hands can reach for more when they’re not busy clutching the little you have left.
“When I took the full-time position at Le Jardin after graduation, that’s when everyone got mad at me.” Laine crumples the paper napkin between her fingers. “I didn’t mean to break my promise, but why’d they make me promise in the first place? Why couldn’t they appreciate the opportunities I had, give me grace to live my own life?”
“Maybe because they couldn’t imagine living their lives without you,” I offer. “Your plans changed their plans.”
“Well, that’s the problem with making plans around other people, isn’t it? Only person you can count on is yourself.” She smiles at me ruefully, and I return it with a little sigh.
Because she’s absolutely right.
“Why did you miss Chance’s wedding, though?”
Laine sucks in a deep breath. “There was a festival. Le Jardin’s chief vintner made me swear up and down I’d be there, talked it up like it would be the highlight of my career. Date was set for months. Then Chance set his wedding date, and there was a conflict. He couldn’t move his date, and I’d have lost my job if I missed that festival.”
“Was it worth it?” I ask quietly.
Laine snorts and takes another long, pensive lick off her forefinger this time. “They had me manning a merch table the whole time.”
I wince.
“Chance didn’t speak to me for months. With him and Rachel both mad at me, it made it hard to want to come home at all. I love Mom and Dad, and Into the Woods is in my bones, but I just—didn’t want to feel bad anymore. No matter what I said or did, I couldn’t win.”
She straightens and gives me a tight-lipped smile before I can dare pity her. She doesn’t realize how floored I am at getting this glimpse into how her brain works. Her inability to take constructive criticism, the way that one terrible review decimated her entire self-perception, avoiding home instead of confronting her problems with Chance and Rachel … it all makes sense now.
Laine Woods doesn’t know how to lose.
The thought almost makes me laugh. I could teach her a thing or two about losing. You don’t run a tiny, resource-poor vineyard for as long as I have without seeing your fair share of business ideas tank. There was the sparkling apple cider I begged Dad to make one harvest that tasted like cinnamon-flavored vomit. The haunted house I spent months rigging up in our barn that provided a mere three minutes of spooky entertainment. But then, there were the unexpected wins, too, like the time I held a memorial for Prince, and we truly partied like it was 1999. Mom once told me that anything worth doing in this life is worth failing at. Not every idea is a winner, but they don’t all have to be, either.
They just have to exist.
Laine’s turned her attention to the field as the screams of true enthusiasm ring through the air, whether to avoid the aftermath of giving such a confession or out of real support, hard to tell. Darla, Benny, and Bella’s team goes first, being the youngest kids’ match of the day with the collective least patience for waiting. The referee is a bored-looking teenager I recognize from the checkout line at the Piggly Wiggly. She quietly delights in taking forever to type your fruit’s code in until you finally give up and put it back.
Well. This’ll be fun.
The teen ref blows the whistle, and they’re off, a horde of adorable kids in matching T-shirts in their team’s colors. Chance is on the sidelines, already in coach mode, clapping at nothing and yelling encouragement. Laine moves to the edge of her seat, watching intently as the children stumble into a loose formation on the field.
“They’re clumping out there,” Laine says, frowning. She cups her hands around her mouth. “Look alive, blue!”
I raise an eyebrow. I don’t know if Laine’s ready for this level of soccer.
The ref’s whistle PHRRRRIIIIPTTT s, and the game gets off to a bumbling start. Someone manages to kick the ball, and the giant clump of red and blue shirts promptly runs in the wrong direction.
“Darla, turn around! It’s the OTHER way!” Laine’s yelling along with the other parents, which only makes the kids more confused. Half of the team’s just standing there, staring up into the stands, waiting for further instructions. “BENNY! Behind you, buddy!” Laine leaps to her feet, making exaggerated pointing gestures to where the soccer ball sits some twenty yards in the distance, completely forgotten. “The ball! Find the BALL!”
Incredibly, the game devolves from there. Laine’s going hoarse from screaming increasingly frantic instructions to the point that someone cracks open a beer and passes it down the row to her, which she chugs and crumples in a minute flat. Finally, Darla gets the ball and dribbles it toward the goal. Laine is jumping up and down on the bleachers now, clapping her niece on with the kind of fervor that leads to aneurysms. “THAT’S RIGHT, DAR-DAR, YOU GOT THIS! KEEP GOING, BABY, KEEP GOING, KEEP—”
PHRRRRIIIIPTTT! “SHOELACES,” the teen ref calls out.
Everybody freezes. These kids may not know the rules of soccer, but they know what SHOELACES means. Laine, however, doesn’t.
“ Shoelaces? What the hell is she talking about?!” Laine looks at me with sheer panic. “Darla was about to score!”
“That boy’s shoelaces came untied.” I point, trying to be helpful.
“ So?! ”
“So … these are six-year-olds,” I say slowly. “They can’t tie their own laces, the ref’s gotta do it. It’s a trip hazard.”
Laine’s chest heaves as she stares at me, bewildered, as though I’ve invented shoelaces and tripping and should perhaps be destroyed for my crimes. She whips back to the field to watch as the ref saunters over to the kid and takes no less than five excruciating minutes to tie his shoes. When she blows her whistle again, some kid steals the ball from Darla, and Laine moans.
At halftime, the kids scramble off the field for Gatorade and animal crackers. I pat Laine’s shoulder. “Need a cookie, Beave?”
“I didn’t expect it to be so stressful.” She looks at me earnestly. “They’re so … bad .”
I smile. “They’re six. What did you expect?”
“Hey there, Zoe!” A silky voice lifts from down below as a long-legged lady in cutoffs and a cropped hoodie climbs the bleachers toward us. Mariah Adams, bleached blonde and tanned brown no matter what time of year, pauses in front of me, hands on her hips. “You haven’t been to Soccer Saturday in ages!” She winks. “Not since you were my fan, I think.”
Great. Last thing I need right now is an ex stopping by to pity-flirt.
“Hey yourself, Mariah,” I say, squinting up at her. The sun’s behind her, making it hard to look at her dead-on. “Let me introduce you—this is Laine Woods, my new vintner. Laine, this is—”
“The other team’s coach,” Laine says and stands abruptly, startling Mariah back a bit.
“Well, aren’t you somebody’s cousin,” Mariah says, amused. “Competition gettin’ to you, sport?”
“And how do y’all know each other?” Laine asks flatly.
Mariah’s eyebrows raise in unison, and she looks at me. Call off your dyke, will you?
Mine raise right back, and I shrug ever so slightly. She’s not my dyke?
Mariah tilts her head. You sure about that? But she claps her hands together. “Well, it’s nice to see you, Zoe. My number’s still the same, case you’re wondering.” She smiles extra big as she takes a step back. “Laine, good meeting you. Try not to bust a vein out here screaming, ’kay? You’ll scare the children.” Mariah tips her baseball cap slightly in my direction, then trots away from us.
“Jesus.” Laine plops back down. “ That’s your type?” The judgment in her tone is thick and growly.
“My only type is single.” It’s not entirely true—Mariah’s definitely sorority-girl gay and a bit of a pillow princess, which isn’t my first choice in partners, but you can’t be that picky in a queer community this size. Besides, she’s nice, and I did enjoy her tan lines. “Why, you jealous?” I smirk, unable to resist teasing her.
“ No ,” Laine says too quickly. “Just maybe don’t sleep with the enemy next time, all right?”
“The enemy ,” I repeat, incredulous. “The single queer mom coaching her daughter’s co-ed soccer team? That enemy?”
“I said what I said.” Laine scowls at the field.
“Okay, what’s your type then?” I fold my arms, too amused to let this go.
“Harlow.”
The name slams into my chest like a bullet, taking my breath away. “Oh. Right.”
Laine glances up at me then, her eyes flickering with interest at the obvious fluster she’s caused. “I mean, like Harlow. Fun, funny, sexy. Maybe more interested in serious relationships, though. What about you? You ever going to settle down?”
“Um, me? Settle down?” The world stops spinning around me, and I’m almost thrown off into space from the sudden halt. I huff out a laugh. “I don’t know, settling down’s never felt like an option before.”
“What do you mean?”
I try to think of how to explain what it’s like being queer in a tiny mountain community, taking whatever scraps of interest I could get only to watch them fizzle out after a few hours, days, weeks. “You know when you’re driving toward the Aska trails, and the road curves this way and that, never showing you more than fifteen feet ahead before turning again, and then suddenly, you hit that stretch where the road’s straight as an arrow, and you can see for miles and miles, like the road goes on forever?”
Laine nods, and I blow out a breath. “My relationships never reach that stretch, where I can see off into the distance. The end’s always there, right in front of me.”
She hmm s thoughtfully before leaning back on her palms again. “You ever consider that maybe you’ve got to take those twists and turns to get to the long stretch?” My cheeks burn as I face the field once more. I start to say no , but it’s giving petulant teenager, even to me.
The second half starts with a bang, and this time, it’s Benny who gets the ball. Even though he’s running toward the wrong goal, Laine’s whooping like a madwoman, taking whatever she can get. Maybe now she’ll understand the plight of being a single Blue Ridge lesbian. Ten feet from the goal, Benny starts to kick, and—
PHRRRRIIIIPTTT! The ref points to Bella, where she sits on the sidelines making dandelion wishes. “SHOELACES.”
“She’s NOT EVEN PLAYING!” Laine yells. “COME ON!”
The ref makes unflinching eye contact with Laine as she takes extra time tying one shoe, then, untying and retying the other one, too.
“Oh my god, the ref’s fucking with me, isn’t she?”
“You’ll want to avoid checkout number three at the Piggly Wiggly.”
With a minute left in the first half, Darla gets the ball again, and she and Benny run side by side toward the goal, the right one and everything, dribbling the ball back and forth, as twinnish as twins can be. Laine’s sleeves are fully rolled up now, a fine layer of sweat dampening her forehead, as she claps like a maniac, urging those babies on. Then—
PHRRRRIIIIPTTT! The ref smiles fiendishly at Laine. “SHOELA—”
Laine leaps down and marches over to the referee and starts yelling in her face. I can’t make out much, but the words evil and Sisyphean and What did I ever do to you?! float up before Chance comes over and joins them. At first, I think he’s gonna drag Laine off the field, but now he’s yelling at the ref, too, to the teenager’s evident delight.
“THAT KID WAS WEARING VELCRO !” Chance bellows.
PHRRRRIIIIPTTT! The ref’s whistle shrieks in Chance’s face, then she tosses a yellow card at him. Chance throws his clipboard on the ground, groans rising from the bleachers.
Laine snatches the whistle out of the ref’s hand. “You can’t yellow card him!”
Undeterred, teen ref licks the back of a red card and sticks it against Laine’s forehead. “YOU’RE OUTTA HERE, CHAMP.”
It takes Booch plus three other concerned parents to drag Laine off the field. I find her sitting on my truck’s bumper, sulky as the day is long. It’s weirdly endearing.
“Well, well, well.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Never been thrown out of Soccer Saturday before.”
“You haven’t been paying attention then.” Laine sniffs. Her eyes flick upward as Chance, Darla, and Benny join us. The twins rush over, completely undisturbed by the game’s 0-0 score, and give Laine a hug on each side. “Hey, lil bits,” she says, her growly voice softening a bit. “Sorry Aunt Laine got booted out.”
“You were the loudest one there,” Darla says, then gives Laine a kiss on the cheek, which makes her smile.
Laine looks up at Chance, sheepish. “Sorry. I got … carried away.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Chance says, chewing his gum. “Maniacal’s another.”
“ May- be if you taught those kids how to stay in formation, I’d have kept my cool better.” Laine stands, flint sparking in her eyes once more.
“Oh, you think you can do better?” Chance says.
“I know I can, a—butthole .” Laine steps into his face. They used to be eye-to-eye, but Chance shot up at least three more inches during college, and it clearly bugs Laine to hell and back. “When’s practice?”
Chance stares her down. “Tuesdays at five thirty p.m., Coach .”
“I’ll see you then, Coach .”
With that, they nod aggressively at each other, and Laine turns and stalks off to the passenger side of my truck, just missing the first genuine smile I’ve seen Chance sport since she’s come home.
I salute him before getting into the driver’s side.
My work here is done.