Page 86 of Que Será, Syrah

Thanks for nothing, I think to myself. But then, over the next mile or so, the whole sorry story comes pouring out. “I thought I had things under control,” I tell him. “But then her husband showed up and everything went to shit.”

“Yeah. Him I heard about.”

“She lied to me, Miles.”

“So? Sounds to me like you lied too.” Miles waves off my protests. “Nope. Sorry. Doesn’t work that way, pal. If you’re gonna equate keeping secrets with telling lies—which, I’m not saying you’re wrong about that—but then you’re both equally to blame. You lied at work; she lied to her family. Same, same—as my wife likes to say.”

I tack on another point.

But it’s not the same. Yes, I lied at work and to her family, but she lied to me. “And she’s married.” Surely Miles—this year’s Mr. Marriage—will understand the gravity of that!

Instead, he shrugs it off. “Are you sure? ’Cause I heard there’s some kind of question about that. Apparently, she claims it was never valid?”

“Who cares what she claims? She knew what she was doing. No one forced her into it. It’s not like marriage was a hole she fell into by accident.” But even as I say it, I see the trap I’ve sprung on myself. She’d never claimed it was an accident, did she? And the six months she wasted trying to extricate herself from it was proof that she had, in fact, taken it seriously.

She acknowledged her mistake. She worked diligently to fix it. And I still gave her grief.

“So, what’s the part that’s got you butthurt? And please tell me it’s not because some asshole was there before you; because that’s some seriously toxic shit. You might need years of therapy, if that’s the case.”

“No, of course that’s not it.” I eye the distance between here and the edge of the creek bed and consider accidentally-on-purpose bumping him off the trail. We’re running alongside Oak Creek, at the moment. It’s still swollen from last week’s rain and probably cold as hell. It won’t hurt him—much—to go for a swim. But it’ll make the rest of his run fucking miserable, which (I’m not gonna lie) makes me smile a little bit brighter. But “I’m not that big an asshole,” I tell him. And I think, as far as commentaries goes, that one covers both scenarios nicely.

“Besides,” I can’t help pointing out. “If we’re talking about her husband, it’s not even true.”

“What?” This time, it’s Miles who breaks stride and falters. I take the opportunity to pull ahead, grinning to myself as I do.

“Fuck yeah, bruh,” I call, turning to run backwards for a few paces. “Didn’t you know? It was the other way around.”

“Do I even want to know what you meant by that?” Miles asks when he catches up. And fuck me, the old guy isn’t even breathing hard.

And maybe it’s because that night has always been one of my happiest memories, something to pull out and look at whenever life gets grim. Or maybe it’s because the sound of the water is bringing it all back, and I think I’d trade my soul for the chance to turn back time for a couple of hours. But I do end up telling him something about the night we met—the abbreviated, G-rated version, obviously.

“You shoulda seen her,” I sigh happily, caught up in the memory. “She was ah-mazing.”

“I can imagine,” Miles replies. Adding, when I turn to glare daggers at him, “What? Don’t look at me like that. She’s too young for me, even if I were still in the market. But I can see the appeal for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Younger, I mean. You guys are about the same age, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re a little hung up on the financial aspect.”

And, much as I’d like to disagree, I really can’t. “Fair.”

“Based on how you just described her, she probably struck you as the perfect manic pixie dream heiress. How could you resist?”

“Okay, what? That’s not a thing.”

“Are you sure? Think about it.”

And so, I do. Beautiful and quirky, a little on the wild side. Obviously wealthy. “You might be onto something,” I finally concede. “I mean, I didn’t even know her name or anything about her family. But yeah, I could tell there’d never been a day in her life where she’d had to worry about money—or a lot of other things. I was the one clocking all the exits, making plans for which way I’d run if shit hit the fan.” When shit hit the fan. Because that was another difference. For her it was maybe a possibility. For me? Dead certainty.

“So, is that the problem? You were attracted to her money, and now that there’s a possibility that she might lose some of it?—”

“Half of it,” I remind him. And myself. “And it’s not just the money, it’s the winery.”

“Right. So, is that it?”

---