Page 84 of Que Será, Syrah

“I just wanted to make sure that we’re okay,” she tells me. And between the pain on her face, the uncertainty lurking in her eyes—yeah, it’s a fucking time warp. A redo of the night before. And I can’t help but laugh.

“Okay? Oh, yeah. Sure. Of course, we are.” But then reality crashes in and I shake my head. “No, actually, we’re not. You need to leave.”

“But- but why? What did I do?” She looks so honestly shocked that it actually steadies me. Because she can’t possibly be this clueless, right? It has to be an act.

“I don’t fuck with married women,” I tell her. “I know I haven’t exactly provided you with a lot of evidence of it, but I really do have a conscience and a code of ethics. You’ve been stomping all over them, and it has to stop.”

“Omigod,” she groans, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes. “Not this again!”

My mouth falls open and I stare at her for what feels like several seconds. “Excuse me?” I mean, I probably should have guessed that someone with her background wouldn’t have much use for anyone else’s morals, but really?

“What?” She looks confused for an instant then, “Oh! No, I didn’t mean you. I meant that I already went through all of this with my sisters, that’s all.”

And with that she launches into this long-ass story, all about falsehoods and deceit, and people fucking each other over for the sake of a few hundred acres of dirt. And it’s so far removed from my own reality that I can’t even begin to relate.

“I’m not sure why you thought any of that would help,” I tell her when she’s finally done.

“I don’t know that I did. I was mostly trying to explain that I’m not married. Didn’t you say that was a problem?”

“But you thought you were—right?”

“Well, yes; six months ago, immediately after the wedding. But it was never legal, so…”

“Who cares about the legalities?” I say, almost yelling in frustration.

Her eyes widen in alarm. “Uh…you do? Most of the time? What’s going on?”

I wish to God I knew. I feel like I’m stumbling through the dark, disoriented by all the unfamiliar noises. I take a breath and my lungs seize up. “Do not make this about me,” I gasp.

“Okay, but listen,” she says as she starts to pace. “It shouldn’t matter what I thought, right? Because ignorance of the law is not a…something, something. Defense against it? I dunno.”

“That is not the flex you think it is,” I tell her. “All that means is that you’re still responsible for the consequences of your actions, whether or not you were aware of them going in.”

“Oh.” She stops pacing then, looking startled and so dismayed that, fuck me, I really want to believe that this is just a stellar performance. “Couldn’t it just be that I made a mistake?”

“Sure. You mean like with your tattoo, or driving without a license?”

“Okay, yes, all right?” Her face flushed red, she scowls at me. “I don’t know why you’re being like this, but fine. Maybe I had too much to drink, and I thought it would be fun to get a tattoo. And when he handed me a mirror and asked me to check the stencil, maybe my hair was in the way, and I didn’t notice the big, honking ‘W’ at the front of the word. Lock me up.”

“Jesus, Legs. This is not about your tattoo!”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

“Because what I’m trying to say is that this is a pattern with you. When you keep making the same kind of mistake, again and again?—”

“But it’s not! I got the tattoo because I wanted one—plain and simple. I married Nico for a lot of reasons, mostly because I was upset. My grandmother had just died. I was hurting, and scared, and not thinking clearly. And it just felt so good, in that moment, to have someone who was on my side. It never occurred to me that he only wanted to get his hands on my winery. I thought he was marrying me for a green card!”

“Annnnd we’re done. That’s all it needed.”

“What? Why? People get married for all sorts of reasons, don’t they? In fact, I’d argue that most marriages are transactional. Why should one be different from another?”

“Because what you’re calling a transaction, is fraud. And that’s a bridge too far.”

“But you just said?—”

“Stop it! It’s like you don’t take anything seriously, like it’s all a big joke to you. And I just can’t deal with it anymore! I don’t know where I stand on anything, right now; it’s like there’s nothing but shifting sand beneath my feet. Do you know how much I hate that feeling?”

“Okay yes, I’ve made mistakes. My crappy tattoo, driving without a license—you’re right about all of that. But I don’t think it’s fair to say that I don’t take things seriously or accept responsibility when I mess up. And this thing with Nico, I am dealing with it, okay? That’s practically all I’ve done for six months. I’m trying, Clay; I really am. I’m trying so hard to turn my life around, and get myself back on track, to make my grandmother proud, and to earn my sisters’ respect. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

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