Page 16 of Bottle Shock
I sigh, reaching for the detangling spray. We already battled over her choice of breakfast, and I’m not looking to start round two before seven a.m. “You’re the one who wanted double Dutch braids. The least you can do is stop wiggling.”
Lily grins, milk and cereal crumbs dotting her upper lip. “Sorry, I’ll stop.”
The braid comes together easily; my fingers know what to do by now. Years of practicing on myself, studying online tutorials, and plenty of trial and error have turned me into a reluctant hairstylist.
“Ta-da.” I secure the final section with a pink elasticthat doesn’t match her outfit but that she insists on wearing anyway. “Good?”
She hops off the stool and spins toward the mirror hanging on the fridge door, tilting her head as she admires my handiwork. “They’re a little crooked, but that’s okay.”
This kid. She’s honest, I’ll give her that. Sometimes too honest.
“Dad, we’re gonna be late.”
“I’m aware,” I say, glancing at the clock. We have exactly twelve minutes before camp drop-off, and she’s still needs to run upstairs and brush her teeth. “Shoes. Backpack. Water bottle. Go.”
She takes off like a shot, slippers sliding across the hardwood. I start grabbing whatever’s within reach — keys, wallet, phone, coffee—all while trying to ward off the feeling I’m going to forget something because I live in a constant state of fear I’ve forgotten something important.
Lily reappears in record time, mismatched socks tucked into her sneakers. I don’t bother mentioning it. At least she’s dressed and ready. Can’t win them all.
Most days, I’m barely holding it together. Today is one of those days. I’d like to think I’ve mastered this whole single-parent thing, but really, it’s just a revolving door of one step forward, two steps back. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on things, something comes along to shatter whatever balance I thought I had, and the cycle starts all over again. I guarantee that by the time we finally nail this summer camp morning routine, it’ll be the last week—and then it’s back to school, back to chaos, and back to figuring out how to get out of the house in one piece without losing my mind.
We finally make it out the door. I lock up, juggling coffee and car keys. By the time we’re buckled in, I’m already drained and the day’s only just begun.
On the drive to camp, Lily hums along to the radio, legsswinging in the back seat. She doesn’t stop talking—about unicorns, about how she’s going to teach her friend, Sophie a new dance she learned, about how she’s sure today is going to be “the best day ever.”
I smile to myself, wishing I had even an ounce of her energy.
When we pull up to the camp drop-off zone, Lily unbuckles and leans forward, kissing my cheek.
She’s outgrown a lot in her short lifetime, but I’m happy she hasn’t outgrown this yet.
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you more.”
I watch her run off to join the other kids, her braids bouncing down her back. For a second, I just sit there—tired, wired, and already thinking about the day ahead.Between harvest prep, staffing meetings, and the looming task of starting the vacation house hunt, I’m running on fumes.
But seeing her happy makes it all worth it.
I take a long sip of coffee, start the engine, and glance at my phone on the dash.
I’m going to be late for work. I’m always late.
I wouldn’t describe myself as a nerd, but I’m fairly certain I get more excited about yeast than most of the population.
There’s just something about the way it behaves—it’s temperamental, picky, and refuses to do what you want unless the conditions are just right. Yeast doesn’t lie. It tells you exactly how the fruit’s doing, whether your temperature’s off, whether you’ve pushed too far or not far enough. It’ll test your patience but the results are always worth the wait.
I jot down the morning’s readings—Brix, pH, temperature—on my clipboard, the numbers already mapping themselves into patterns in my head. There’s a rhythm to it all, a quiet precision I find peaceful. When everything else feels out of control, I come here to get my mind right.
People love to romanticize winemaking, but there’s nothing sexy about a cold, sterile lab. For me, it’s all about the science—the variables, the precision. One degree, one gram, and everything changes.
The air in the lab smells slightly of crushed berries and stainless steel, and the soft hum of the cooling system fills the silence. I pull on my gloves, grab a pipette, and start checking samples. The liquid stains my fingertips a faint shade of violet. I should probably wear thicker gloves, but part of me likes seeing the proof of my work on my skin.
A knock sounds, and I glance up to see Ethan striding in. He looks energized. There’s a pep in his step that screamsI got laid. That, or he’s discovered a hell of an energy drink. But I’ve yet to find one that puts that kind of sparkle in your eyes—or that stupid grin on your face.
“Morning,” he says, way too chipper for a guy who usually looks like someone shit in his Cheerios.
I eye him warily. “You’re in a suspiciously good mood.”
