Page 21 of Pour Decisions
And wait.
“Told you,” she says.
“You could have told me sooner,” I tell her. She shrugs in response, noncommittal. Not that I expected anything more I suppose.
I leave, unsure what else I should do, making it to my car without running into anyone else from the competition. Though, I don’t doubt that Blondie opened her big mouth and told people I was chasing after Riggs or something that would come across as equally unflattering for me.
The trip home seems to take much longer than the one to the hotel. Even though I know it’s like the distance equivalent to an optical illusion, I’m still near exhausted by the time I get home. This entire experience has been taxing on my energy and emotions.
The house is dark and quiet when I walk in, my mom and grandma already having retired to their rooms. I’m tempted to reach out to Tess to let her know what happened but decide to wait until morning when I can sound more upbeat about missing him. Like it didn’t really matter if I caught him or not. Like there’s not this pit in my stomach that feels very much like I’ve missed out on something huge and important. And if I don’t get it back, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
9
TWO MONTHS LATER
By the time I let myself into the house at the end of the day, I am dog tired. Which in a way is good. Making myself exhausted any more is the only way I get through the day, or the night, without daydreaming of Riggs. Something I’m disgusted with myself over. It was one night, months ago, and still I can’t get him out of my mind.
Every time I think about reaching out to him, I remember what Blondie said about him believing that I slept with him to win. I go back and forth whether or not I believe her. He didn’t counter accuse me of it when I accused him of sabotaging me. But it’s not like I know him well enough to know how he would respond in a situation like we had anyway.
At the time I really believed that he was trying to ruin my chances. But now that I’ve had time to think about it, I realize how immature that was. While I’d still like to apologize to him for my behavior, I just can’t work up the nerve to do so. Instead, I just moon over him a bit, look at the pictures from Tess and Megan, and daydream about what life would be like if things were different. If I were different and didn’t have him at the forefront of my mind all the time.
I even went on a date last week, a rarity that I usually celebrate when it finally occurs. All I did the entire night was compare the two. My date’s brown eyes versus Riggs’ green ones. The date’s brown crew cut with Riggs shaggy dishwater blond. Riggs standing at six feet, two inches towering over my date at five feet ten inches if my estimations are correct. It wasn’t fair to the date or to me to do it, but that didn’t stop me.
So, today I was grateful for the eight plus hours of manual labor. We’ve got critters attacking the vines on the west side of the vineyard. And with only three acres from the start, we need every vine to be productive. And the best way to get a critter to stop eating what you don’t want them to, is to give them something else. So we tried a combination of squirrel feeders, bird feeders, and no climb fencing to see which will prove most effective.
“You look tired, Sweetheart. Can I get you anything?” my mom asks.
“I think I’m just going to take a shower and go to bed.”
“Okay.” She pats me on the shoulder, and I turn to head down the hall toward my room. “Oh, hey, Morgan,” she calls after me. “This came for you today?” she calls after me.
“What is it?”
She hands me a manilla envelope addressed to me, but with no return address notated. “I’m not sure,” she says. “It came by messenger for you earlier. I didn’t open it.”
“Okay, thanks.” I take it to my room and throw it on my bed before disappearing into my bathroom for a good half hour. That’s how grimy I feel.
I dress in yoga pants and a tank top when I get out, then pour myself a glass of wine and sit on my bed to look at the contents of the envelope. I slide my finger under the lip of the sealed edge carefully to loosen the gummy adhesive. Years ago, we never would have opened mail from an unknown source because of anthrax and ricin scares. It’s amazing how quickly things change.
I pour the contents out on the mattress in front of me.
The first thing I see is an invitation to this year’s Wine Review Magazine’s Innovation in US Wine Making Awards Ceremony.
It’s a big award, I’m surprised to see I’m invited.
Second, is an ID badge with my name on it.
Makes sense, if I’m invited.
It’s the next thing I see—a certificate of sorts—that makes little sense.
We are pleased to announce that Morgan Anderson, of Morgan’s Run, is a finalist in the
Wine Review Magazine’s Annual Innovation in US Wine Making award for:
Ginuwine Juniperfection
Then I read it again to make sure I got it right the first time.
