Page 50 of Corkscrew You
“Ha, ha, bullshit,” is her response.
Which, of course, immediately gets my back up. Ava and I, in particular, used to scrap a lot as kids. Needling each other until we finally got a reaction. I’d say our score on those battles was pretty much fifty-fifty. I’m not about to cede a victory this early in the piece.
“Got a lot on with the new job.” I keep my voice level. “The winery needs a drastic overhaul.”
“And Dad’s being a nutbar. Which doesn’t help.”
“Guess not,” I admit cautiously.
“Plus his shit has totally eclipsedyourshit,” she continues.
Her casual tone jolts me into instant alert. If I were smart, I’d say nothing. But the whisky has found its way into my bloodstream. Goji butter is no defense against twelve-year-old triple-cask-matured single malt.
“Myshit?”
My sister gives me the side eye.
“Don’t get all huffy,” she says. “This is coming from a place of caring. I’ve been worried about you.”
“OK…” I’m not yet convinced. “But what do you mean by ‘my shit’?”
“I mean what happened to you in France,” she replies. “We were about to fly over, watch you get hitched, and then whammo – it’s off. And, like, all of two weeks later, Dad hits the deck and so all our attention went to him. I don’t thinkanyof us asked you about what happened, or how you felt about it, did we?”
“Hardly surprising,” I say. “Dad has a potentially fatal heart condition.”
“Really?” Ava’s giving me the side eye again. “You cancelled yourwedding. You quit a job that you loved and left a place you’d called home for four years. Are we so useless that we couldn’t have remarked on at leastoneof those events?”
I take another decent slug of whisky. Not up to me to comment.
“Well, on behalf of the useless Durant clan, I’d like to apologize,” Ava says. “And better late than never, I’d like to ask how you’re doing.”
“Thanks,” is all I feel like replying right now.
“Nate,” she says, in a warning tone. “Talk to me.”
“And what’stalkingabout it going to achieve?” I say, with more heat than I’d intended. “Won’t change what happened. Won’t make it any better. Won’t stop me feeling what I’m feeling. So why bother?”
“It wasn’t you who called it off, then, was it? The wedding?”
Fuck, she won’t give up. Never has, never will. What the hell, may as well get it over with. But Ava will be theonlyfamily member I tell. I swear on my grandfather’s grave.
“No,” I say. “She left me. For a death metal drummer.”
A pause. “Norwegian or Swedish?”
“There’s a difference?”
“Oh, yeah. Swedish is more melodic, with a lot of grindcore-based riffs and stuff. Norwegian’s more accurately black metal, much more grimy and lo-fi.”
Now, I’m givingherthe side eye.
“What?” she says. “I like metal!”
“He was Norwegian,” I tell her. “Name sounded like Ass-Bjorn.”
“So how long had the stick-man been sticking it to Camille?”
A wave of nausea rocks through me. Can’t tell if it’s shame or anger or regret, or a putrid stew of all three. Might also be whisky on a near-empty stomach. There is that.
