Page 35 of Grape Juice
Despite my tactless delivery, I want him to know thatI feel equally accosted by this information. “Alec booked the flight—Antoine let him know that we were wrapping up here. I didn’t know until this morning.”
“Well then, what now? What do we do with that?” He wrings his hands, staring at the vines rather than me.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” I can feel my eyes prickle. “I... it would have been easier to leave if you hadn’t... with Charlotte. I just... I thought we’d have a clean break. I don’t know... I don’t know what I thought. I suppose I knew all along that it wasn’t clean.”
He takes a step closer, and I let myself press into him. I rest my forehead against his chest. He smooths his hand down my hair, down my back.
“OK, we both know—have always known—that you were returning to New York. That I’m staying in France no matter what it is that I go back to in Lyon.” His voice grows steadier, more assured as he speaks. “We picked each other in spite of that fact, not because of it—even if you’d argue the opposite. But Alice, we have forty-eight hours... and I think if there’s any unforgivable thing, it’s not leaning in. You’ll be in Paris someday. I’ll be in New York. Or maybe not; maybe this is it. But don’t ruin it now, OK? Let’s not do that.”
I can think of nothing so reckless as lowering my defenses to a person who is so close to disappearing. A person from whom, against my will, I want so much.
Then again, the wanting is louder than everything else.
He reaches for my waist, pulling me into him by the small of my back, and holds my hair back in a fist to kissmy neck, to nuzzle his face into my shoulder. I let out some kind of low-pitched sigh. An exhale that travels across the whole of my body.
“Alice...” he whispers and presses his mouth to the dip between my neck and my collarbone. He says my name as if he’s invented the word, as if no one has stacked those precise syllables, in that very order, until right now. He is right; of course he is right.If not now, if not this, then what?I tell myself.Don’t think your way out of this.
Together, one intertwined being, we slip farther into the vines, drifting into total darkness. I tug the ghostly bodice of my dress over my head, and he unbuttons his shirt slowly, his eyes flashing and never leaving mine.
This time, we’re rough with each other, like we want as much as we can get while we can have it. I tug him out of his pants. He laces his hands through my hair at the roots. I climb on top of him and bite his arm as he thrusts into me. He spreads my thighs as wide as they’ll go, my knees scraping across the dirt. Fucking him feels like being underwater—sound suspended, bodies liberated from the tenets of gravity. When I come, his fingers dancing between my legs with an insistent deftness, I feel my orgasm wash over me like a warm, silken tide.
When we’re finished, he pulls me onto him gently. “Let’s pretend like it’s the real thing, OK? You and me. Just ’til you go,” he whispers, and I nod, collapsed on his chest, too content, too sated to resist. So we lay there, trading affectionate sentiments back and forth. Just before I drift off, I think about the saccharine, dismissive ways weuse the phrasesweet nothings. How sonnets and pop songs have ruined the term. How it is my pursuit to embrace both—the sweetness and the nothingness—for these last two days. Now closer to one.
We fall asleep curled into each other on the ground, pinned in place by an exhaustion so full-bodied, we can’t possibly move.
We wake in the hazy blue light before dawn, the sound of birds above. He yawns, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and runs a hand along my cheek affectionately. I sit up begrudgingly, the cloud of a hangover hovering over my forehead while we search for our clothes.
Once dressed, we intertwine our hands and tiptoe back into the house, parting by our bedroom doors. He kisses me goodnight—or good morning—and I feel the shape of his smile pressed against my mouth. Then I step into my room, shutting the door as quietly as I can. Ruby lets out a sleepy, guttural groan.
“Alice... is that you?”
“C’est moi,” I whisper. “Sorry to wake you.”
She moves to the edge of her twin bed and pats the space next to her without lifting her head. “Get in here, already. It’s not a morning for waking up alone.”
I grin in the dark and crawl in beside her, buoyant with gratitude as she pulls the blanket over me and drapes a heavy, limp arm across my body. “Sweet dreams, honeybee,” she murmurs.
I fall asleep quickly, thinking,My God, how lucky. How lucky, how lucky.
XVII
Since arriving, I haven’t slept past the sun, but this morning, Ruby and I wake around 9:00, wrapped in a tangle of bedsheets and rough blankets. Antoine has let us sleep in—whether for his benefit or ours, I don’t know.
Aligned in our hangovers, Ruby and I brush our teeth in silence, toss on T-shirts and denim shorts, and stumble downstairs to pray at the altar of the espresso machine.
Bea is in the kitchen, preparing enough crepes to feed a midsize village, and the smell of browning butter laced with sugar is so warm and enveloping, I, too, could melt. Out the window, the boys are helping Antoine, his hand bandaged, moving the long tables back to their rightful positions.
We down our acrid coffees, slip on shoes, and head out the front door to scour the property for glass bottles to collect in large black trash bags. There are many, and I’m almost grateful for the bout of manual labor... as if I won’t know my place here without a physical task.
Around 11:00, when the domaine has been returned to something of its former glory, we all sit down to eat. Wedrink more coffee, smother our crepes in sugar and jam, eat in a lazy, cozy silence.
Everyone seems smudged and raw in the aftermath of the party, but Henri’s hand is firm where it rests on mine, our fingers woven together on top of the table. It’s as if he’s reassuring himself that I am still here. Or perhaps it’s me in need of reassurance. Something about the gesture, however small, feels certain. Like we’re playing house, testing the physical boundaries of operating as a unit. We are relishing existing in our liminal space, facing our fragile reality head-on. It tastes like homemade preserves spread over the sour brine of hangover—the antidote to indulgence, an indulgence unto itself.
After we clear the table, Antoine assigns us jobs: picking through a final plot of grapes, de-stemming a lingering barrel, handling pigeage.
“Alice, come with me,” he instructs. “I have a special task for us.”
I change into my work clothes and find Antoine, in his beloved rubber overalls, standing outside the cellar with his hands on his hips.
