Page 98 of Que Será, Syrah

Clay winces. “Yeah, I know. That was my baggage, and I projected it onto you. And I am so fucking sorry.”

“That was some pretty heavy baggage,” I say softly.

Clay nods. “I know. That’s why it’s especially unfair that I unloaded on you.”

“I don’t mind sharing burdens, Clay, as long as I know that that’s what’s going on. I just don’t like being blindsided.”

“I remember.”

Meanwhile, up on the porch, I can hear my sisters whispering. First Bee, “I don’t understand. Did I miss something? What’s going on?”

Then Rosa’s bemused response, “I have. No. Freaking. Clue.”

“So, was there anything else you wanted to tell me?” I ask Clay.

And he nods. And then, still speaking to me alone, ignoring the chorus, he says, “You know, living here in Napa, even people like me get to hearing a lot about wine. And, God knows, you talk about it all the time. And drink enough of it. So, I’m sure you’re familiar with that one quote they’re always dragging out; something about ‘wine is sunlight held together by water’?

“Maybe? I might have heard of it,” I tease. Because seriously, who hasn’t?

“Yeah well, I never knew what that meant until the night I saw you dancing in the water, with a bottle of wine in your hand. I thought you fucking outshone the sun.”

“Well, it was dark,” I feel compelled to point out. “So, that bar was set pretty low.”

“And then there’s that other one—and I know you know this one. It’s the one from the sign, when you first drive in? About wine being bottled poetry? That one reminds me of you, as well. Only, with you it’s all song lyrics and movie quotes, rather than poetry, which—same, same—according to Miles.”

I blink in confusion. “I’m not sure how these metaphors are supposed to work, but wouldn’t that make me the bottle, rather than the wine?”

“Not the point. Thing is, you’re a lot like this place. You feel like home to me. You’re all the things I love about Napa, along with a few that I hate. But I don’t think I’d want it any other way.”

What? My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry. There are things you hate about me?”

“Well, you are part of the one percent, aren’t you?” Then he glances at the papers in my hand and shrugs. “Okay, maybe not anymore. But no, that’s not what I’m trying to say, either. I wouldn’t want you to be any other way, or anything other than what you are.”

“Oh…”

“Because for one, you’re perfect. Or perfectly imperfect—you know what I mean. But also, I’ve realized that it’s not about the ways that we’re alike, or how we’re different. We’re all like pieces of a puzzle. We’re not supposed to be the same. No one cares what the individual pieces look like, or how they’re shaped, right? What matters is whether or not they fit together.”

“So, are you saying that you think you and I fit?”

“Yeah, don’t you?”

I smile at him. “Of course, I do. But you mentioned Miles, a minute ago. And I still don’t understand what he’s got to do with anything?”

“Nothing, really. Other than he’s so fucking in love with his wife that he can’t stop talking about her. Dude drags her name into practically every conversation. It’s annoying as fuck. At least, I used to think it was. But now, I’m not so sure.”

“Really?”

“These last couple of days have mostly sucked. You and I were fighting. I came way too close to ending my career. And I bent my own code of ethics so far off plumb for you, that it all but flatlined. But at least this.” He gestures at the space between us, “is out in the open now. So, I’m happy about that. I mean, assuming there still is an us?”

We’d been drifting closer together as we spoke, as though drawn together by some gravitational force that neither of us could resist. Or like a giant, invisible hand was quietly nudging two very reluctant puzzle pieces into place. Now I take a step closer, all on my own. I slide my arms over his shoulders and smile at him, teary eyed. “I think that’s a safe assumption, Clay Romero—Romeo. Because I love you, too.”

Then Bee squeals in excitement. “What did she say?”

And Rosa gasps. “Legs…you love him?”

And a deep chuckle vibrates in Clay’s chest. “Jesus Christ. This family.” He looks at me, and I at him. “Well, go on,” he urges. “You might as well. You know you want to.”

And then neither of us can keep from grinning as I shout back, “Yes Ma. I love him awful.” And in a softer voice, I add, “I really do, you know. Even if your version of an apology is about as cheesy as a 90s Romcom.”

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