Page 14 of A Vintage of Regret
Then his mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile, but not quite neutral either.
"Riley," he said as she approached, her boots crunching against the concrete.
"Hey," she replied, the word catching in her throat. She couldn't form any more of a response.
They stood awkwardly, memories swarming between them like ghosts. There had been a time when they wouldn't have hesitated—when she would've flung her arms around himwithout thinking, when he would've pulled her in close and whispered something to make her laugh.
Her father would’ve hated this—seeing them like strangers when they’d once been everything to each other. Her dad had always believed they’d eventually find their way back to one another. But now, her dad was gone, and she was standing here drowning in grief while the one person who might’ve been able to comfort her felt like a memory from another life.
"Your flight was early," he said, stepping forward to take her bag. Their fingers brushed, and the contact sent a jolt up her arm.
"I had to fly out of Santiago at the crack of dawn but had no real problems." She tried a smile. It didn't quite hold. "Thanks for picking me up."
"You're welcome." He glanced at her again. "You look... different."
"Twelve years will do that to a person."
Bryson chuckled and opened the passenger door. She climbed in, the familiar scent of leather and cedarwood hit her hard—he’d always smelled like that. A sudden, sharp ache flared in her chest. God, she wasn’t ready for this. Not for how easily twelve years could collapse into nothing with just a scent, a sound, the simple act of him opening the door. Quickly, she faced forward and stared out the windshield as he walked around to the driver's side.
They pulled away from the curb, and the silence inside the truck cab stretched between them like a thick fog. When they'd been kids, sitting in quiet spaces with him had been easy. Back then, they hadn’t needed words. They could just be.
As adults, it was uncomfortable as hell.
The hum of the engine was the only sound between them for miles. Riley kept her hands folded in her lap, watching the scenery shift from the outskirts of the city into the rolling goldsand greens of Northern California wine country. The hills were the same. The roads hadn't changed.
But she had.
"How was Patagonia?" he asked, finally breaking the quiet. Thank God it was a question she could answer. A question about the present. Something simple. Nothing that would bring up all the ugliness that she'd left behind.
"Cold. Rugged. Beautiful." She glanced sideways. "Unforgiving, but in the best ways. I loved it there. But honestly, I was getting ready to move on to the next spot." She sputtered, as she often did when discussing her travels, but her usual excitement over it all had somehow vanished. It was as if she'd left it on the plane. As if coming back had taken that away.
Or maybe she was just tired.
"Sounds like you."
She smiled faintly. "That sounds like a compliment."
"It is."
Silence again, but this time it wasn't so stifling. As if the small talk had cut through some of the invisible barrier that years of absence had built.
"I heard you've made a real name for yourself," he added. "Guiding climbs, trekking remote places. Living the dream."
"I've done exactly what I've always said I wanted to do," she said, allowing herself a slight smile. She was proud of her life. She'd lived and seen more than most. But if she was being honest, being a nomad had become less of a thrill and more of a challenge, and not necessarily in a good way. The last time she’d been back in the States, she’d met her father in Denver and confessed that she’d been thinking about settling down somewhere—maybe not permanently—but at least having a home base. He’d listened without judgment, the way he always had, and told her that growing tired of wandering didn’t mean she was giving up on her dreams, just that her dreams wereevolving. She wished she could have that conversation with him now. "Most nights I sleep in a tent or a hammock. Shower when I find a spring. It's not a life for everyone. It's certainly not always easy."
Bryson chuckled softly. "Yeah. Still sounds like you."
She looked over at him, her voice gentler. "You haven't changed that much, either. Or at least that was the report I got back from my dad."
His hands tightened slightly on the wheel. "Some things don't change. Others..." He shrugged.
They fell into silence again. Not quite comfortable but not entirely strained either. It was like trying to wear clothes you'd outgrown—still familiar, still recognizable, but loose in some places and tight in others. Misaligned.
"Your dad used to come by the vineyard in the mornings before either going to the tasting bar or working in the office," Bryson said after a while. "He'd wander the rows like he was looking for something he'd lost."
Riley's throat tightened. "He was probably just clearing his head. He always loved being there. I remember when he called me to tell me he’d taken the job. How much it felt like going home. I was genuinely happy for him."
"He was an asset to the business. But lately, I'd find him talking to himself. Swearing at the grapes about nothing. Sometimes, he'd sit out by the fermentation shed and eat those god-awful peanut butter crackers he kept stashed in his glove box."
