I turned to walk away and stumbled past the row of vines where Jamie had kissed me so passionately. I paused and pressed my fingertips to my lips. Through tears, I wondered how I could have been so stupid. I promised myself that after I wrote the article, I would never think about that place again. I wouldn’t think about how he took the pain away for a little while, like a needle in the dark.
It all came back as the sun blasted me that morning in the vineyard. The dream was wrong. I wanted to believe that Rose prayed for me to find someone to share my life with. I wanted to believe that there was a cosmic force drawing Jamie and me together, but that’s not how things work. I shivered, even with the morning sun blaring down on me, because I realized there was no room for pain in love. Love is not the same thing as a marriage or a relationship or having children. Love is not work. Love is a feeling, pure and simple. It’s a feeling you can have one moment, in which you believe you could throw yourself in front of a speeding train for someone; and it can vanish the next, when they tear your heart out and steal every last beat for themselves. If I had any love for Jamie inside of me, I ripped it out of my heart that morning as I stood there among the sea of vines. Every last bit of hope I had for a relationship evaporated into the atmosphere like a memory forgotten.
I walked toward the inn thinking, I’m all I’ve got. I never should’ve let go of that mantra.
No one would ever know what Jamie and I had shared. The moments of closeness, the things he whispered to me, the way he said I was beautiful with so much conviction. Who could prove or deny it? Back in my room, I stared at the bed, thinking it had only been hours since we had lain there wrapped and tangled in each other, the way lovers do. I felt like we had grown together like a couple of trees planted too closely together, our branches mingling so that we didn’t know whose limbs belonged to whom. But it didn’t matter now because Jamie had uprooted himself. I had thought there was a chance we could stay that way forever. How naive of me. How sad. How pathetic.
The maid had tossed all of my belongings into a neat pile on the dresser and desk. It made packing up simple. I dialed Jerry.
“Jerry Evans.”
“Can you get me a flight tonight?”
“What? You and the winery guy want to elope to Cancun or something?”
“No.” Don’t cry, don’t do it, Kate!
I started crying.
“Oh shit,” he said, quietly. “Go to the airport. I’ll text you the details in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” I said through sobs, and then I hung up.
I stuffed all of my belongings into my tiny suitcase, including the numerous pages of notes and doodling. I drove all the way to San Francisco International Airport with a newfound confidence. I honked at shitty drivers; I even gave the finger a few times. It was only after I began screaming at an elderly woman in a green Chevy Nova that I decided I had a legitimate case of road rage and should probably cool it before I got myself shot.
At the airport desk, I upgraded to a first-class ticket, thinking it would be easier to drown my sorrows with the free, unlimited booze. I tucked myself into my giant seat. The flight attendant brought me a blanket and pillow. I asked for an extra blanket and then I proceeded to wrap myself into a fleece cocoon. I managed to pin my arms against my body inside of the blankets, which was wonderful. If only it didn’t slightly resemble a straitjacket. When we got off the ground, I undid the seat-back table with my teeth and ordered a double scotch on the rocks. I don’t even drink scotch. When my drink came, I leaned over and sucked the entire thing through the straw in three large gulps. It was then that I noticed there was a passenger seated next to me.
She was staring at me with round, giant blue eyes. “How old are you?” I asked.
“Twelve,” she said.
“What’s your name?” I cocked my head to the side as if I were interrogating her, unconcerned that I must have looked ridiculous.
“Aurora. Are you a crazy person or something?”
“Takes one to know one, kid.” Her eyes widened even more. “I’m just kidding. No, I’m not crazy . . . yet. Anyway, crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, so that’s a silly question.” She nodded in agreement, a thoughtful expression on her face. I could tell right away she was one of those kids who are wiser than their years. “The truth is that I just got my heart trampled over. I had a rough day. You know how that is?” I arched my eyebrows for emphasis.
“Yeah,” she said and let out a deep breath. “I know exactly what you mean. This boy in my class, Genesis, told me he liked me and then told everyone else that I wouldn’t leave him alone.”
“Genesis? That’s his name? Um, red flag right there. What kind of name is Genesis?” She just shrugged. “Well, I’ll tell you. That is an English New Age rock group from the seventies and eighties. His parents are either really old or they’ve been dropping acid for way too long. My guess is the latter, hence Genesis’s bizarre behavior. Don’t sweat it. Someone else will come along. Unless, of course, you realize now that being alone is better than having your heart broken over and over again. Realize that now, kid, and save yourself the trouble.”
“So being alone is better?” She was looking me right in the eye. Could I really lie to her?
“Are your parents married?”
“Yes, they’ve been married for twenty-two years,” she said with a smile.
“Well, I guess it’s a case-by-case basis. Don’t listen to me. It happens for some people. Maybe you’ll be that person.”
“Maybe you will, too. You just can’t let all that bullshit make you hard.” That, from a twelve-year-old.
“You’re probably right. Hey, do you want to help me? I have to write this article . . .”
Page 11
* * *
Never Start a Sentence with “So”
After traveling most of the day and scribbling the article down on the back of a couple of flyers I grabbed from the rental car company, I finally made it back to my cold, dark Lincoln Park apartment. I immediately opened my laptop, shot an e-mail off to Jerry, then went to sleep and stayed that way for the next two days.
To: Jerry Evans
From: Kate Corbin
Subject: Fuck it!
This is it, Jerry. I don’t even know what to call it. This is all I have. I’m sure I’m fired or severely demoted. Maybe I can be the coffee cart girl? I know R.J. won’t approve of this, so I feel like I’ve totally let you down. I have some vacation time accrued and I’d like to take next week off if I still have a job. I need to get my head straight. I fucked up, Jerry. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with that guy. I fucked up and I’m sorry. —Kate
UNTITLED ARTICLE ON R. J. LAWSON AND WINERY
So you have two birds. One is long, lean, and powerful, with sheer physical strength on its side. The other is colorful, small, and fast, and prized for its beauty. Who will win? First, you must know that the challenge is the game of business, otherwise known as deception, and the winner of this game will always be the more cunning player, regardless of his physicality. Forget what you’ve seen—looks can be deceiving. You have to search inside the competitor’s heart. You have to detect the rhythm that drives him, what fuels the challenger’s willingness to sacrifice dignity and integrity for money. That’s what it all comes down to in the end. The winner of this game gets a gold, diamond-encrusted cage. But success comes with a price—in this case, the freedom to fly. He may have the promise of admirers, but his majestic wings will never dance across the sky again.
The world wants to know why everything R. J. Lawson touches turns to gold. Well, I’ll tell you: he’s the more cunning bird. He was a genius who peaked at eighteen, made his money, and now proudly waves his wallet at anything that interests him—in this case, wine. I spent one week at R. J. Lawson’s famed Napa Valley winery during the harvest season to learn more about him and his seemingly worthwh
ile cause. While there, I observed that he spent little time at the winery, but he does take credit for all the work. He described his approach as hands-on, yet I didn’t see him complete a single task during my visit, with the exception of sipping a glass of Pinot.
His image is held together by a few loyal pawns who are willing to do his dirty work. I saw right through it. I saw that R.J. had mastered the game of buying people and buying success. Maybe inside the man there is a boy whose curiosity earned him a great deal of adoration and money, but there is no trace of that exceptional wonder and gift in the man I met.
If R.J. had shown me a modicum of brilliance or even humanity, aside from rapping off the many charities he’s donated to, maybe I could write a nicer article about him, but the truth is this: he acted as though I wasn’t worth his time. He was misogynistic and degrading toward his staff. He was pompous and put out while answering a few questions. From afar, one might envy what R.J. has acquired. It’s no lie that the wine is fantastic and the winery itself is something of a shining gem among the hills of Napa Valley, but that doesn’t mean R.J. is not paying a price for all of that perfection. His shrewd cunning has condemned him to the confines of a cage. He may sit perched above all that beauty, but he’s in that cage alone.
The staff at the winery made a pathetic attempt at hospitality in the wake of my awful experience with R.J. Sadly, I found their strategies to be somewhat elaborate. So, my conclusion is that R. J. Lawson’s big ego was probably responsible for orchestrating all of the backpedaling and ridiculous behavior from the others at the helm. Although the facility seems unmatched in the region, you might be gambling with your happiness by taking a trip to R. J. Lawson. Before you do anything, you have to ask yourself about that bird, the one who is willing to sacrifice the freedom to fly for the material facade. However mesmerized you are by the glittering gold of that cage, the only question you need to ask is: Where does that bird shit?
My advice about R. J. Lawson would be this: drink the wine, but don’t drink the Kool-Aid.
Kate Corbin
Chicago Crier
• • •
On Monday morning, when I finally woke from a depressing slumber, I opened my computer to find a new e-mail from Jerry. He always gave it away in the subject line; maybe that’s why he made a better editor than writer. I appreciated it in that moment and was able to let out a huge sigh of relief when I realized that, at the very least, I still had my job.
To: Kate Corbin
From: Jerry Evens
Subject: You still have a job!
It’s brilliant, Kate. I don’t know what we’ll do with it, but it’s the most inspired work I’ve seen out of you and that’s all that matters. R.J. may have done his best to make getting the details nearly impossible, but you proved that as long as you can capture the essence of a situation, a story will be born from it.
I agree that it’s best you take a week off. Apparently you left your luggage at the airport. There was no name on the tag, just the address to the paper, so the airline delivered it here. I opened the suitcase when it arrived today and realized quickly that it was yours from all of your notes and belongings. I’ll lock it in the storage room until you get back, unless you need it right away. Just let me know.
I’m worried about you, Kate, but I know how strong you are, and I know we’ll get you back on track soon. Beth has some ideas.
Your Loyal Editor,
Jerry
There was nothing particularly heartfelt or touching about Jerry’s e-mail, but for some reason it made me cry. The truth was that I didn’t want anyone worrying about me or pitying me. I wanted to stop feeling like I was searching for something else or some answer to the meaning of it all. The expectation that life should be more than waking up alone, riding the train to work, and then going home to fall asleep alone had been weighing on me for so long, but I always found myself back at my apartment . . . alone. Everything in between was just heartache.
I shuffled down my short hallway to the kitchen, where I scanned the barren refrigerator. Staring at the same jar of jelly for ten minutes, I contemplated eating it with a spoon. There was little I was willing to do to keep myself alive at that point. I hadn’t showered in two days, and aside from a couple of stale crackers and an old skunky beer that had been in my fridge for a year, I had consumed nothing. The jelly seemed appropriate, until I finally allowed my most basic survival instinct to kick in. I threw on a pair of sweats and a jacket and headed to the market and produce stand on the corner. There was an older man at the counter making fresh homemade salsa, so after picking up a banana, some Fig Newton–like cookies, and a bag of pretzels, I figured: What would go better with all of that than salsa? Am I losing my mind?
“Excuse me?” I asked. He looked up through his dark lashes. His eyes were almost identical to mine. A hazel that looked spectacularly green in the light, but sort of a dull brown in the shadow.
“Yes, ma’am, what can I help you with?”
“Are you my father?”
He chuckled but stopped immediately when he saw how serious I was. “Oh, hmm, no, dear. I’ve been married for almost forty years and we have three children. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, well, shot in the dark, you know?” He nodded, but his eyes still held the same pitying expression he had on before. “Do you sell beer here?”
“No, but there’s a wineshop about half a block down.”
I shook my head frantically. “I’m detoxing, I can’t have wine.”
“Okay, well, there’s a liquor store about three blocks from here that sells beer.”
“Yeah, I know that one. Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.”
The liquor store was more like five blocks, but I skipped along, eating my banana and fig cookies. I felt extremely pissed at the universe when I saw Stephen and some chick about half a block down, walking in my direction. Hoping they didn’t see me, I slipped quickly into an alley. As I waited for them to pass, I scanned my attire. I was wearing the oldest pair of gray sweats that exist on this planet, a yellow T-shirt with the sunshine Care Bear on it, and my powder blue skiing jacket, although that wasn’t the worst of it. I had on two different socks, one black and one light purple, and an old pair of black Chucks with black laces. I was the twenty-six-year-old Punky Brewster. I quickly felt the top of my head. Phew. No pigtails, but it was topped off with a messy bun. Please do not let them see me.
“Kate?”
Fuck!
I shoved the last cookie into my mouth and mumbled, “Hey, Stephen.”
“This is Monique. I work with her.”
“Hi, Monique.” He never hung out with female colleagues outside of work. She was a tall, blond beauty wearing an extremely narrow pencil skirt and stilettos. There was a brief moment where I thought how perfect she and Stephen looked together, the epitome of working professionals in Chicago. My disheveled ass had taken sulking and letting myself go to a new level, and I could tell that Stephen had picked up on it.
He squinted. “Are you okay, Kate?”
“Yeah, I’m fucking dandy, Stephen. You?”
“Fine. Where are you off to?” he asked. I glanced over at Monique, who was scanning my clothes. I saw sadness and pity wash over her face.
“I’m going to get a forty.”
He pinched his eyebrows together. “What’s a forty?”
“A forty of beer.” He still looked dumbfounded. “It’s forty ounces of beer in a bottle. Not everyone can afford to indulge in expensive spirits.”
“I’ve never seen you drink beer.”
“Well, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Why would you care anyway? You never loved me, remember?”
Monique’s eyes shot open. Stephen’s jaw twitched. “I said I wasn’t sure. Plus, we were fighting when I said that. This is not the time or place to pick at old wounds.”
>
“Old wounds? That was six fucking days ago.” He shook his head in a warning gesture. “Well, you two enjoy each other,” I said as I walked away.
Still within earshot, I heard Monique ask, “Who was that?”
“Nobody,” Stephen said. Ouch.
At the liquor store, I purchased a giant can of Budweiser, some tortilla chips, and a total of eighty lottery scratchers. My thought was that each scratcher would take me roughly thirty seconds to complete. That meant that it would occupy at least forty minutes of my time. Forty minutes I wouldn’t have to think about Jamie. It was two thousand four hundred heartbeats I wouldn’t be listening to.
I walked back to my apartment, sipping my can of Bud from the crumpled paper bag it was housed in. When I entered my apartment, I could hear my cell phone ringing incessantly from the bedroom, but I didn’t answer it. I finished my beer at 11:43 a.m. and then went back to sleep. The doorbell startled me awake. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was six thirty p.m. As I slowly inched my way to the door, I breathed into my hand. My breath was horrid. Had I brushed my teeth in three days? Probably not. The doorbell rang again.
“Coming.” I opened it one inch and peeked through the sliver of space into Beth’s peering eyes.
“What up, sister? Are you gonna let me in?”
I slammed the door shut and removed the chain and then opened the door wide for Beth to enter.
“Christ, Kate, you look like death warmed over.”
“Thanks, Beth.”
“Dear god, what is that smell?”
I lifted my shoulders to my ears. “I don’t know.”
“It smells like burnt hair.”
Then it hit me. “Oh yeah, Dylan from 5B came over earlier and we smoked some pot. You know Dylan, that kid who plays the bucket on the corner? He lives in my building.”
“Isn’t he a teenager?”
“He’s twenty.”
“Since when do you smoke pot?”
“Since earlier, when Dylan from 5B came over.”