Zoe Brennan, First Crush

Chapter Twenty-Six

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Nonna’s funeral was on an orange October afternoon in the small church up the lane. She’d been very specific in her wishes—cremation, a short Mass, and a long party—and we complied. After we opened her house to friends and family to visit her urn, Dad and his brothers and sisters scattered her ashes in her garden and surreptitiously around her favorite spots in Montepulciano, as she’d instructed. It seemed a little weird to want your earthly remains at your favorite fishmonger’s stall, but the fishmonger removed his hat and held it to his chest as they did the deed, even saying a few words remembering Nonna for her kindness and impeccable taste in seafood. It was a beautiful day and a sad day, all wrapped up in love for the woman she’d been, the family she’d created, and the life she’d lived.

I’m profoundly glad I came. I only wish I’d done it sooner, so I could have more memories of Nonna than the precious handful I gathered during my childhood. Taking time off from the vineyard, traveling here, visiting relatives—I wish I’d made space in my life to experience my life and the others in it, long before now. All my fears of leaving Bluebell Vineyards in the hands of my friends have come to naught. The love and support so freely given by my community has been nothing short of amazing, leaving me choked up and humble. Hannah’s jumped in on festival preparations with truly unhinged positivity. Tristan’s called in moonlighters to cover tasting room shifts for the next week and is attacking the vineyard’s normal paperwork with gusto and ease. Even Matthew at Everyday Bon Vivant has pitched in, commandeering my to-do list like a pirate greedy for logistics.

And Laine. Even though I panicked, and showed her, yet again, that I struggle to believe in her love, she’s been there for me, supporting me from afar. Before the plane takes off, I send the text I should’ve sent every minute I’ve been away.

Zoe

I love you, Laine Woods. Everything will be okay because we’ll make it okay.

Somehow , my brain adds quietly.

The attendant walks by, and I hurry to turn my phone off, settling in for the long flight home. The sprawling metropolis of Rome disappears as our plane lifts above the thin sheaf of clouds. I sigh, and Teddy turns in his seat and squints at me, as though he’s assessing my mental health.

“So …,” Teddy begins. “Lots to process. Should we start with how you’re going to tell Laine everything as soon as you get home, or how sexy Cosimo looks in Italian menswear?”

“ Jesus , Teddy, can you not sweat my dad to my face?”

“No,” Teddy replies simply. “I cannot. Guess we better start with Laine then, hmm?”

I heave another sigh, effectively trapped. “Look, I want to tell her everything, but I don’t want her to feel pressured to stay out of guilt to keep my struggling vineyard afloat. I want her to want to stay, you know? If she knows Dad’s never coming back, how will I know that—”

“That she’s staying out of love for you while also staying because that decision will truly make her happiest, without secretly holding it against you for the rest of your lives?” Teddy arches an eyebrow.

I grimace. “Yes?”

“You won’t! You can’t know that. And this isn’t some test you can give her to see if she passes or fails.”

“ Test ? I don’t test —”

Teddy leans his head back and groans. “I’ve developed a theory about you, would you like to hear it?”

“Not really,” I grumble, now regretting getting seats together.

“Understandable, personal growth is always a drag when it’s happening to you,” Teddy says, drumming his fingers on the armrests. “But I’m going to tell you anyway because I love you, and I’m tired of watching you sabotage your life.”

Teddy stops to clear his throat, and then, in a tone he usually reserves for discussing money, he says, “Zoe, my dear, you are a beautiful, whip-smart, delightful little coward. You’re terrified of being hurt and even more terrified of being loved. So instead of putting your neck out and showing someone how you feel, you withdraw and wait for them to prove how much they like you.”

I rear back. “I do not!”

Teddy looks down his nose at me, and without breaking stride, continues. “Maybe your suitor is brave, so they text you first, ask you out. You have a good time, you go home, but then, you do it all over again. You wait for them to prove to you, again, how they feel. And if they don’t text you, if they dare wait to see if you’ll initiate contact first? You chalk it up to another rejection, the one you were so afraid would happen that you willed it into existence. It’s like giving them a never-ending test that, even if they pass it, you force them to take again and again, every day. Do you see the problem with this approach?”

Is that really what I do? A dozen tiny relationships click through my mind like PowerPoint slides, throwing themselves into the ring for reassessment. Did Kai really ghost me? Or did she ask me on three dates and wait for me to take a turn doing the asking? Have I really willed each of my many rejections into existence?

“Jesus,” I hiss out, then unscrew the cap off the mini wine bottle he hands me. He must’ve shaken down the attendants when we boarded the plane. “What the hell have I done?”

“Tried your very hardest to protect your heart,” Teddy says matter-of-factly. “Have you ever heard of your inner firefighters?”

“Huh? No,” I mumble, still trying to process the bomb he’s dropped on me. “Firefighters?”

“Inside every person is a team of firefighters. They’re trained to put out fires and save you, even if they destroy everything else in your house. Sometimes the damage they cause trying to save you is worse than whatever made you summon them in the first place.”

“What are you saying? Is this more Brené Brown?”

Teddy reaches over and places his hand on my arm. “I’m saying you have a large, robust team of firefighters, Zoe Brennan. A whole sexy calendar’s worth.” He smirks. “Maybe you should try giving them a night off sometime, eh? Maybe a whole year.”

I bite my lips, and after a long second, nod. “So how do I do that?”

“You’ve got be vulnerable, baby. Go home and tell Laine everything. What you really want, and what you’re afraid of, lay out all your options. No more secret tests. Then, let her decide what she wants to do next. You don’t get to be her boss on this one, and if she chooses to be the Cosimo to your Julie, then that’s her choice that she gets to make, just like your dad did. But Laine can’t make that decision without all the information. You’ve got to be brave enough to give it to her.”

I take a deep breath, then exhale slowly and place my hand over his and squeeze. “Thank you, Teddy. For being here. For knowing me.”

“It’s an honor and a privilege, and sometimes, a goddamn circus, and I’ve loved every minute of it. Just don’t mess this up, all right?” Teddy leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. “I like that bossy butch know-it-all wine snob.”

Me too, Teddy. Me too.

The longer the flight goes on, the more restless I am to see Laine. Now that Teddy’s convinced me of the path forward, I’m dying to tell her everything, to apologize for how I acted and present Bluebell Vineyards and me and forever to her and beg her to stay. Laine hasn’t texted much over the days I’ve been away. I keep telling myself it’s because she’s beyond busy orchestrating the secondary fermentations for the reds, finishing up the blending and bottling of our whites, and holding down the fort at large as we prepare for the showcase, which is now a mere eight days away. But I can’t help feeling intensely vulnerable about breaking down in front of her the way I did. I haven’t had a panic attack in decades, but my protective skin slipped off that night, exposing the raw animal of hurt I’ve kept leashed and hidden away.

If she ran from me now, after seeing all that? I wouldn’t even blame her.

I’ve reached out to Tristan and Hannah, too, both of whom have been quick to reassure me everything’s fine, but not much else. It’s strange, honestly. Like they’re all conspiring to create a real separation between me and the vineyard.

I mean, how dare they? Also, well played, because I finally get just how much I’ve let Bluebell rule my life and the consequences of my conscious submission to its never-ending work.

And all this time, Mom wanted to sell it.

As soon as we touch down in Atlanta, I turn off airplane mode but frown when I see that Laine hasn’t texted me back. It’s seven p.m., which is normally when she takes a dinner break, but when I call her the phone rings and rings. A small spurt of fear erupts in my chest that continues to grow as we deplane, get all four of Teddy’s bags and file a missing claim for mine because somehow, my single suitcase has been lost, and find our car in the economy lot. She doesn’t answer any of my calls or texts.

Is she okay? Did she fall into a vat? Suffocate from the toxic carbon dioxide pumping out of our fermenting reds?

Or … did she leave?

Did she assume Dad would be with me and leave as soon as she could, saving herself from having to break it off to my face? Teddy doesn’t even bother trying to call off my emotional firefighters or whatever for the last hour’s drive, letting me place call after call to everyone in my phone, looking for answers and finding none.

I can’t get ahold of anybody. What the hell is going on?

By the time Teddy pulls into our parking lot, it’s almost ten, and my chest feels too small for the heart pumping erratically within it. The car is still running when I throw open my door and run up to the winery, where the lights are all on, the exhaust system thrumming loudly.

“Laine, are you in here?” I call as soon as I open the door.

I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t a half dozen people dressed in hazmat suits surrounding Laine, who’s loping back and forth like an agitated wolf. Her hands hang by her sides, fingers splayed wide yet clenched in place like claws. She’s the only one wearing normal clothes, though they’re wrinkled and dirty, like she hasn’t changed in days. She spins on her heels when she hears my voice, her eyes red and ruined.

“Zoe, baby,” she says, her usual deep, smooth voice scraped raw. “I’ve fucked up so bad.”

“Brettanomyces,” Jamal confirms from behind the clear plastic face panel of his hood. “The numbers are completely out of control.” He drops the sample vials in a baggie, the pity radiating off him in waves. “I’m so sorry, y’all.”

“Brettanomyces,” I repeat dumbly, still trying to process the information thrown at me in the last five minutes. “But Dad always tests for it—that’s part of our precautions to keep it out of the wine.” I turn back to Laine. “Did you follow the standard hygiene protocols?”

Laine nods vehemently. “To the letter! Only—”

“Only what ?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but reality feels like an avalanche right now, breaking away in huge, head-crushing chunks, coming down on me all at once. The panic I’ve felt all evening finally has something to feast upon, tainting me the same way Brettanomyces has our entire line of wines for next season. I don’t know much about the fermentation process, but I know about Brett—every wine person does. It’s an opportunistic, nasty yeast that, once it infiltrates your vineyard, is incredibly difficult and expensive to get rid of. Brett takes a good wine and reduces its fruit, flattens its acids, and robs it of its texture and mouthfeel. But worst of all is what Brett does to the smell , the taste .

Vomit.

Band-Aids.

Manure.

These are just a few of the descriptors a Bretty wine garners. It’s responsible for ruining entire vintages, entire seasons, and if you’re poor enough, entire vineyards.

“Well, I didn’t do all the sulfur treatments—like we discussed, remember? A more natural approach?” Tears stream down Laine’s cheeks, but I don’t think she realizes it. Her voice thickens, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “If I had, it would’ve stopped it. Fucking stupid , Laine. Stupid .” She smashes her open palm against her face. The vitriol in her voice razors my heart, and I grab her hand, holding it in mine, as if that could protect her from her own self-loathing.

“You don’t know that for sure. Sulfur treatments don’t kill Brett—they just weaken it. This infestation grew so quickly, whatever the source was might’ve been too strong even for the sulfur to combat.” Jamal puts a suited hand on Laine’s shoulder to comfort her, but I can’t help feeling like Laine and I are in a plague ward for two.

“And it’s in all of our base wines for next year?” I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone bone dry. Which is ironic, because if any of our wines were made dry, they wouldn’t be so susceptible to a Brett infestation. It’s the residual sugars in our sweet wines that Brett loves so much.

Jamal nods. “It’s been in every tote I tested. It wasn’t in any of Laine’s new red blends, though, or any of the reds and whites ready to sell this season.”

The sigh that leaves my body trembles on its way out. Somehow, one season’s worth of wine will have to cover the expenses of running Bluebell for two years, until the next batch of base wines are ready to blend and bottle, and that’s assuming we’re able to get the Brett infestation under control by then. I’ve always known it’d take only one calamity to bring our small vineyard to its knees, and now it’s happened. How can I convince Laine to stay now? This isn’t the Bluebell Vineyards I was planning on asking her to trade her dreams for, but she’s so racked with guilt, she’d probably spend the rest of her life in a dungeon if I asked her to. The last of Dad’s bottled wines are safe, but everything Laine’s produced, save the new red blends, weirdly, is chock-full of Brett’s farm-ass polyphenols.

I frown, mulling that over. “Why would the new reds be safe, but everything else not?”

Jamal shrugs. “The new red blends have been bottle-aging since late July, correct?” When Laine nods, he shrugs again. “The infestation must’ve occurred after that. Since it’s not in last season’s wines, either, this is a new problem. Did anything out of the ordinary happen since August? Any visitors to the winery that might’ve brought it in on their clothes?”

One second passes, two, and boom . The realization hits, its implications rippling outward in shock waves. My eyes widen.

“Rachel!”