Lucy
It feels like approximately eleven hours of stifling, awkward silence before I register that we haven’t even made it to the freeway yet.
I glance at the dashboard clock, a little surprised to realize that Reece got it working again.
It’s been three minutes since we pulled out of my driveway.
Three minutes since I left my old life behind to embark on my new one with…him.
I may hate the guy next to me with the sort of blistering loathing that only a scorned woman is capable of, but I hate awkward silences nearly as much, and my fat mouth opens before I can stop it.
“So. How have you been?”
Reece snorts and doesn’t even glance over as he turns on his blinker and pulls into the turn lane for the on-ramp. “Really? We’re doing this?”
“Well, what exactly was your plan? To not speak to each other for two weeks?”
“No, actually.” His thumbs drum against the steering wheel. “My plan was to make this trip alone in about five days, settle into my new job in Sonoma, and remain blissfully unaware that you were headed that same direction.”
I glance over at that, a little disbelieving. “Oh come on. You know that California wine country has always been my dream. It didn’t occur to you that I might be there?”
He shrugs and looks out the window. “It’s a big enough place. Pretty sure we could have managed to go an awful long time without seeing each other. You on one side of the business, me on the other.”
I bristle a little. I wouldn’t go so far as to say there’s tension between the winemakers and the people who sell the wine, but it’s not unusual for winemakers to get up on their high horses because they’re the ones actually handling the grapes.
And it’s not that I don’t admire them. Growing up in a wine country, albeit a new, up-and-coming one, I understand just how important the entire process of winemaking is, from the soil to the vines to the crush to the casks. I get all that. I was raised on it.
But I resent the subtle implication that just because my passion is educating other people about that—showing them just how magical wine can be, with the right cheese or the right setting—that I’m somehow an insignificant talking head.
Once upon a time, Reece understood this. Back when we sat up late into the night, my head on his shoulder, his fingers tangled in my hair, he’d listen as I talked about starting my own winery. Virginia, California, Argentina, Australia, it didn’t matter. And though he’d never said a word about his own dreams, I’d secretly always thought we were going to do it together—a small, boutique vineyard with wine that was both award-winning and affordable/approachable.
I turn my head and look out the window. That was a long time ago.
As he merges onto the freeway, it belatedly occurs to me that with him behind the wheel, he could easily ignore my route altogether and drive straight to California as was his original plan.
I reach into the backseat and rummage around until I come up with the blue journal where I painstakingly planned the trip, with driving directions, motel options, and a place to jot thoughts about all the different stops.
He’s heading south, at least. That’s a start.
Reece glances over briefly at my notebook as I smooth my hand over the page where I’ve written Day One in curly letters across the top, followed by directions.
“You know they have GPS for that, right?” he asks.
I shrug. “Yeah. I’ll use that if we get lost. But it chews up the data on my phone, and I don’t want to pay the extra if I go over my monthly allowance.”
He doesn’t respond, probably because he can’t turn my statement into a fight.
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“I thought we could stop in Wilmington tonight. North Carolina,” I continue.
“I know where Wilmington is, Luce. And why? We can easily make it to Miami in one day.”
I grit my teeth, hating that he’s talking down to me, as though I hadn’t bothered to look up the distance from Virginia to Florida. He never used to do that. It’s one of the things I used to adore most about him (aside from his eyes, smile, hands, laugh, etc.)—the way he didn’t treat me like I was young and stupid the way Craig often did. Reece always treated me like we were equals, like I was every bit as smart as him, despite having been born a year later.
That’s over, apparently.
“I know we can make it,” I say. “But isn’t the entire point of this trip to do what we want to?”