Page 49 of Bottle Shock
I peek around the corner just as my mom walks in, holding a half-empty bottle of rosé, followed by my dad and what appears to be the entire HOA board. The overlapping chatter sounds like people who’ve clearly already had a few drinks.
“Hi, sweetie! You’re not already going to bed, are you?” Mom asks, her cheeks flushed from too much wine. “We had the meeting at the clubhouse, and everyone wanted to come back here for appetizers and a nightcap. I thought I mentioned we might be doing that.”
She did. Probably. But between my overactive mind and everything that happened today, that detail didn’t exactly stick.
I quickly stand, letting the blanket I was wrapped in slipoff of me, revealing pajama shorts and a faded band T-shirt, while my dad ushers people into the kitchen. I’m standing there like a deer in headlights—barefaced and braless. If there were ever a moment to evaporate into thin air, this would be it.
“Don’t mind us, sweetheart,” My dad says, giving me a sympathetic grin. “We’ll keep it down.”
“Gordon, she was going to bed!” My mom scolds gently, turning back to me. “We can take it next door to the Cruzes’ if you want. It’s no trouble at all. Or you can always sleep in our bed.”
I wave her off. “It’s fine, really. I was just about to…uh…head over to Elyse’s anyway.”
A lie. A harmless one.
Because if there’s one thing worse than trying to fall asleep while your parents host a group of chatty retirees discussing the latest HOA violations, it’s looking like the thirty-year-old who still lives with her parents and can’t get her life together.
My mom gives me a guilty look. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. You guys have fun.”
I grab my keys, shove my feet into sneakers, and escape before anyone can trap me in a conversation about things I don’t care about or care to know.
My parents should absolutely get to enjoy themselves without worrying about me getting in the way. It’s not their fault I’m the one stuck in pause mode while everyone else seems to be moving forward. They deserve to unwind. They’ve earned that.
I sit in my car for a minute, engine off, staring blankly at the last rays of light dipping behind the mountain. I tell myself I should go to Elyse’s. That’s what I said I’d do.
And maybe it’s the exhaustion. Or the loneliness. Or the fact that my parents have a more exciting life than I do—butinstead of heading toward Elyse’s, I turn in the opposite direction.
Toward Gavin’s.
CHAPTER 14
Gavin
SOURDOUGH DADDY
Lily has been singing the “Let It Go” reprise for the past hour, and the words have lodged themselves somewhere deep in my skull like a splinter.
“Brush your teeth, bear,” I call over my shoulder as I wipe down the counter. “With toothpaste this time, please.”
From the hallway, I get a muffled, “I always use toothpaste!” followed by the sound of the stool scraping across the bathroom tile.
I don’t bother arguing. I’ve learned there’s a difference between “always” and “sometimes” in seven-year-old language, and picking that fight would only delay bedtime.
The kitchen reeks of tomato sauce and garlic. I’m too tired to care that the sink’s still full of waterlogged dishes I’ll have to rewash tomorrow. The house is dim except for the under-cabinet lights, casting the kind of warm, homey glow that makes everything look cleaner than it actually is.
I check the clock again. Eight fifteen. Bedtime came and went fifteen minutes ago, but Lily’s still in the bathroom, humming to herself like she’s in her own personal concert.
I lean against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck.My shirt smells like dinner and is stained with it too, and my shoulders ache—a reminder I overextended myself moving barrels around after Scottie and I got back from Wallula Lake.
This is the part of the night I both love and dread: the winding down. The slowing. The long list of tasks that need to get done before I can call it a night.
A minute later, Lily races out of the bathroom in pink pajamas covered in tiny white bows. “Dad, look!” She opens her mouth wide, teeth glistening with leftover bubbles of toothpaste.
I crouch down to her level, and she huffs her breath in my face for proof. “Minty fresh.”
She grins, triumphant. “I did the timer for a whole two minutes.”
