Page 32 of Grape Juice
“How do you know it’s an emergency?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Oui.”
“Go on.”
“Henri broke up with his girlfriend.”
“Shit.”
“What do I do?”
“Have his babies?”
“Emma!”
“OK, OK. I only have a second, so I’ll be fast. First things first, congratulations. You and I both know that this is not always how this particular narrative plays out. So clearly there’ssomethingspecial about what you’ve got going on over there. Don’t think yourself out of enjoying it. And second, I know this makes things way more real. And thus, way more scary. And way more dangerous. The stakes are higher. But who fucking cares? You literally got on a plane because you were so bored of having nothing at stake.”
I make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a deep sigh. How lovely it is to have a friend who can translate my own brain material so much more astutely than I can—all while standing inside a refrigerator.
“Listen, I can’t pretend like I haveanyclue what you’re gonna do about the fact that you’re leaving. A long-distancerelationship with a Frenchman you’ve known a month doesn’t totally sound like a great idea to me. But you’ve only got a little more time there. Sobe there. Don’t be calling me from some closet. Later is later’s business.”
I sigh, a smile plastered on my face. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“I know! OK, I love you, gotta go—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
And with that, the warm, ever-comforting presence of Emma disappears, and my phone goes black. I clutch it to my chest, feeling the mechanical heat, mistaking it for human warmth. She is right: I know it, can feel it in every molecule of my body. I hope—pray, really—that my brain will allow me to just be here, pure and simple. Tenderness is not a cerebral act, right?
As I rejoin the group outside, Julian arrives with two wire baskets, each molded with egg-carton-like divots to nestle six bottles of wine. He sets them on the table and fills generous glasses for each of us.
Antoine raises his in the air. “Quelles vendanges, what a harvest!” His voice booms over the sounds of us gathering around. “I couldn’t have done it without each and every one of you. You always know the vintage will be good when a group like this runs the show.” His gaze moves over each of us. “This is a special place, that much I know. But it’s easy to forget until folks like you arrive, make it feel more alive. We’re all lucky to be here. So... cheers to us.”
He raises his glass even higher, looking like the Statue of Liberty or some other beacon of hospitality, and we alldo the same. Emma’s diatribe rings in my ears as I look around: With our arms in the air like this, glasses glowing yellow, we are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Someone switches the speakers on inside the cellar. Loud, brass-heavy music drifts through the field, bumping up against tree trunks and wine bottles. The sun is getting milkier. Julian refills our glasses from Antoine’s limitless stash.
From my position at the tarte table, I can’t see Henri—and frankly, I prefer it that way. If we can’t speak properly, I don’t want to attempt to survive passing eye contact.
Ruby, across from me, keeps trying to catch my attention, but we are nowhere near close enough to whisper in confidence. Pietro tosses his round of dough in the air like some caricature of an Italian chef—but he fails to catch it on the way down, coating the tabletop and everything on it in flour. Julian, compelled to taste every bottle he opens, is getting tipsier at a startling rate.
From the corners of the property, guests begin to seep in. The music is interrupted by engine noises as cars park around the domaine with no obvious logic. Families, couples, old winemakers with dripping, storybook beards traipse in—all of them clutchingmorewine, adding their bottles to the flood of cuvées arranged across every available surface. Each guest claps Antoine on the back, kisses Bea on both cheeks, waves jubilant and joyful hellos to us.
Half an hour passes that way, a slew of greetings offered with flour-encrusted palms. Once we’ve prepared enough tarte flambée for the time being and downed enough winefor the music to sound runny, Bea waves us off. “This is your party.” She shoos us like we’re now in the way. “You’re meant to go enjoy it.”
Antoine passes Julian a magnum of Champagne. “This one’s just for you five,” he says and winks. “Go open it somewhere by yourselves. No sharing.”
Julian takes the lead, directing us toward the garden and up a small ladder to the top of the shed. As we hoist ourselves onto the roof, I look anywhere but at Henri—as if seeing him head-on will rupture something in me. As if I might fling my arms around his neck or punch him in the throat.
Once we’re all gathered, Julian wrenches the cork from the Champagne with a balletic twist, and the pop is like an aural exclamation point. He fills each of our outstretched glasses, and the wine hisses—the sound of relief. We sit in a circle with Ruby on one side of me and Henri on the other. I feel us not touching, and to occupy myself, I dip my ear to my glass.
“What on earth are you doing?” Ruby stares at me incredulously.
“Listening.” I press it closer like it’s a seashell.
“To what, you lunatic?”
“Trying to figure out what bubbles sound like.”
