Twenty-nine
Sadie
T he hospital room is quiet except for the soft hum of machines and the occasional beep of Rosie’s monitor.
Morning sunlight filters through the blinds, casting narrow strips of gold across her blanket.
She’s pale today. Not just tired but washed out, like someone drained the color from her skin overnight.
The kind of pale that constricts around my heart.
I try not to react. If she sees fear on my face, she’ll make a joke to brush it away, and I’ll pretend I’m not scared. We’ve been doing that dance for days now.
We’re playing checkers, or at least pretending to. Her fingers tremble when she moves a red piece. It takes her two tries to settle it on the square, and I act like I don’t notice. I let her take one of mine, even though I could’ve jumped her a move earlier .
She looks up at me and smirks, weak but knowing. “Don’t go easy on me just because I look like death.”
My stomach clenches, but I play along. “You don’t look like death. Maybe like you need a nap and a mimosa.”
She chuckles. “Maybe two. And pancakes. God, I miss pancakes.”
The room smells like antiseptic and overripe lilies from a wilting bouquet in the corner. I hate how flowers always smell like grief in hospitals.
I move my piece, though I’ve lost track of who’s winning. I’m not really here for the game.
“I didn’t tell you this last night...” I pick at a loose thread on my jeans.
“The police came by to ask about Alex yesterday, and apparently I have a tell. When we talked about it later, Beckett said he knew I hadn’t told them everything.
He said I wasn’t being honest, implied that I was still protecting Alex.
” I look up. “But I’m not. I just— I’m trying to get away from that situation.
I don’t want to start talking to the police and inadvertently involve myself more.
And if Alex were to trace the information back to me?
That could be dangerous.” I sigh. “Anyway, Beckett doesn’t seem to understand that at all. I don’t think he trusts me.”
Rosie nods slowly, like she understands something even I haven’t figured out yet. “And so you left.”
I nod. “I left because I realized he’s like every man in my life. They all want to control me.”
The silence stretches between us, not quite comfortable this time.
“I turned off my phone to clear my head, and so my alarm didn’t go off.
And Zach fired me for not showing up at my shift.
I would have been less than an hour late, and we don’t usually have customers until closer to noon, so I stock shelves.
It’s not like I couldn’t have made up the time.
Plus, yesterday the dishwasher went out and my calves hurt from climbing the back stairs to get our tasting glasses cleaned. ”
Her brows pull together. “Zach? That weasel. He’s always been jealous of you. You worked hard and were much better at the jo b than he ever was. He only has a job there because his last name is Paradise.”
That stings. Not because it’s untrue, but because I didn’t see it. I blink. “What?”
“You’re good at that job, Sadie. People love you. You made that place better. I could tell by the way you talked about it. He couldn’t stand it. He was just waiting for an excuse.”
Something warm and bright unfurls inside me. I didn’t think I wanted validation, but apparently, I did. Desperately. “And now,” I say, my voice hitching, “I’m couch-surfing, unemployed, and single. So yeah, kind of a banner week.”
Rosie shifts slowly and reaches across the board, her hand finding mine. Her fingers are cold, paper-thin. “Sadie, you deserve someone who shows up for you. Not someone who disappears when things get hard. And definitely not someone who makes you feel invisible.”
She doesn’t say Alex’s name, but I hear it anyway. I always do.
“You think Beckett would’ve stuck around?” I whisper.
“I think he was trying,” she says. “I think you didn’t let him.”
I look down at our hands. Hers seems so small next to mine. “I didn’t mean to push him away. I just didn’t want him to see how messed up things were. How messed up I am.”
“You’re not messed up,” she says. “You’re human. And scared. But you’ve got a good heart, Sadie. Don’t waste it being scared.”
I pull in a sharp breath. I want to argue. I want to say she’s wrong. But I can’t.
Rosie’s face softens. “You’re not allowed to talk yourself out of love because you’re scared. Especially not the kind that really sees you.”
My eyes sting. I look back at the checkerboard, but all I see is her—fragile, kind, fading.
“I hate that you’re in here,” I whisper. “I hate that I get to walk away from everything and you’re stuck waiting for a heart. ”
Her smile is faint now, slow and sleepy.
“We all wait for something, Sadie. Doesn’t mean yours hurts less.
” She reaches for her cup of water, and her hand shakes.
“We’ve talked about this before, but your parents loved you.
Caleb loves you in his long-distance way.
You deserve to love and be loved. Don’t ever forget that. ”
Her voice drifts on the last words, and her eyes slip closed for a moment too long.
“Rosie?” I ask gently.
She opens her eyes with effort. “Sorry. Just tired.”
“Maybe we should stop the game.”
She nods.
The light outside has shifted, shadows stretching across the floor like they’re reaching in. I sit there a moment longer, afraid to move. Afraid that if I do, I’ll break whatever thread is still holding her here.
She squeezes my hand. Barely. But I feel it.
“You’ll be okay,” she says, eyes barely open. “Promise me you’ll be okay.”
I lean over, brushing her hair off her forehead with shaking fingers. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I whisper. “Promise.”
She exhales, soft and long. “Okay.” She slips her lucky bracelet off her wrist. “Try to talk to Tarryn or someone else besides Zach at the winery. And you need to borrow this to bring you luck.”
I hold up my hands. “You promised to wear this until you got a new heart.”
“Sure. But you need a job now . Take it and go kick butt and bring it back to me.”
It’s not worth arguing with her. I take the bracelet and slip it on my wrist before I kiss her forehead. Her skin is cool. Fragile.
I stand, and I don’t look back as I leave.
Because if I do, I won’t be able to walk away.
I wish I could give her my heart. I would do anything to save her. I look up to a God I’m not sure is there and beg him to find h er a heart. She is a beautiful person, inside and out, and she deserves to live somewhere outside of this stupid hospital.
Instead of dwelling on this, I’m going to find a job today. I don’t know what happened at the tasting room, but I was good at the job there, and I see signs all the time about wineries looking to hire someone.
The air is warm and dusty by the time the rideshare drops me at the second winery parking lot, and I already know how this is going to go.
It’s late afternoon, the sun hazy behind a veil of clouds, and everything around me smells like dry earth and distant fermenting grapes.
Fake it till you make it, right?
The Two Sisters tasting room is sleek and bright, with clean white counters and shiny rows of bottles lined up like soldiers.
A curated playlist hums in the background, some soft acoustic set meant to make you sip slower and spend more.
The woman behind the bar glances up from arranging a tray of polished glasses. Her expression is polite. Detached.
“Hi there,” she says. “Looking to do a tasting?”
“Actually,” I say, squaring my shoulders, “I’m interested in employment. I used to work at the tasting room at Paradise Hill. I’ve run large events, wine club logistics, private tastings. You name it.”
She tilts her head, her smile tightening. “Do you have your sommelier certification?”
“No,” I admit, trying to keep my voice light. “But I know my varietals, and I’m great with guests. I’d be happy to train into a more formal role.”
She looks away—just for a second—but I can tell I’ve alread y lost her.
“We’re currently only hiring certified sommeliers, I’m afraid,” she says. “But I can keep your information on file.”
Of course. I hand her my resume anyway and thank her, though I know it’ll go straight into the recycling bin the moment I leave. I call another rideshare, and it’s the same driver when it arrives. She asks where to next. I explain, and she offers to wait for me at each vineyard. I’m so grateful.
I hit two more wineries. One manager greets me with a smile that fades the moment I say the word employment . The other lets me leave a resume, but her eyes skim over me like I’m invisible. I can practically hear her thinking, Why are you bothering?
At the last stop, a boutique winery off a gravel road lined with lavender, I get as far as the entry before a man in a golf shirt with a Bluetooth in his ear intercepts me.
“We’re not hiring right now,” he says without preamble, like he’s done this a hundred times.
“I just wanted to leave my information,” I say, holding out my resume.
He takes it reluctantly. His gaze narrows. “Wait…are you the girl who used to date one of the Paradise brothers?”
I blink, stunned. “Excuse me?”
He grins like we’re sharing a joke. “I think I saw you in the paper at that big fundraiser. You were with what’s his name? Beckett?”
It hits like a punch to the stomach. Not just the assumption, but the erasure of everything else I am. In his mind, I’m not a professional, not a manager, not even a decent candidate. Just some girl who used to date a Paradise.
I laugh it off, even though it stings. What else can I do? And I leave before I punch him.