“Welcome, everyone. Mr. Paul,” the sommelier says with a heavy French accent. Banks and Sterling are already sitting at the table, slices of warm bread halfway to their mouth. “We will start with some light appetizers, followed by a distillery tour, a walk of the vineyard, and finally, a wine tasting. How does that sound?”
Jack’s smile grows as he takes the seat at the head of the table and nods. The sommelier exits, and a few seconds later,a handful of servers appear with what looks like soup and additional plates of cured meats and cheeses. I see a sliced pear and grapes on one plate and berries on another.
Sterling is already halfway through pouring himself a glass before the cork is even set down on the table next to the bottle. Jack raises his eyebrows but says nothing, instead reaching for the bread while egging his buddy on.
It takes me a second to register what’s been nagging at me since we sat down: the girls aren’t here. Elle mentioned earlier that they’d opted out of this excursion in favor of a cooking class, and now the absence feels almost too quiet. I catch myself wondering what Manuela’s doing right now—if she’s rolling out pasta dough with flour on her fingers, humming to herself without realizing it.
I pick up the wine but don’t drink right away. The glass is cold in my hand, and it immediately makes me think about last night—how the chilly night breeze enveloped us by the pool, her sounds, the way she tasted after coming on my fingers. The look in her eyes like we were standing on the edge of this thing we decided to do just for the heck of it.
“Athena would love this,” Banks says, mouth stuffed full of a cheese that tastes like flowers. “I’m surprised she let you come on the trip without her.”
I pause with the rim of the glass halfway to my mouth. Keep my expression easy, neutral. “Yeah. She’s got… a lot going on right now.”
It’s vague enough to pass, and it does. They nod like they half expected that answer, already reaching for more food. I don’t add anything else. Not here, not with this group who still thinks of her as one of them.
And maybe they suspect the truth. I’m sure Athena has told some of their girlfriends what happened, but I’m not ready to let them name it out loud.
Sterling gives a low whistle. “Guess some people just don’t know how to prioritize.” He grins like he’s joking, but the comment lands heavier than I want it to.
Normally I’d let it slide. They all work the same brutal hours I do—if anyone should understand, it’s them. But with Athena gone, it feels less like a shared truth and more like a reminder: she would’ve shown up. She always did.
Jack jumps in to talk about the vineyard’s awards, and I let the conversation slide off me, focusing instead on the way the rain-darkened vines stretch down towards the lake. At some point, the owner of the winery comes to talk to us, telling us about how September is harvest season in Switzerland and a lot of the vineyards open their doors to locals to support the yield.
Eventually, the owner and the sommelier lead us into the distillery, all cool stone and the sweet tang of fermenting grapes. My friends are eating it up, asking questions about yield and barrel aging. I hang back, trailing my fingers along one of the massive casks, thinking about how Manuela would probably ask, low and only for me, if they let people taste right from the tap and if Banks would be the first to volunteer as tribute.
When the tour shifts outside, the chatter swells again, everyone buzzing about the “harvest experience.” Shears are handed out, baskets passed down the row, instructions given. I’m there, moving with the group, but my head’s somewhere else. The grapes are cool and slick in my palm, their skins so taut they almost snap, and I catch myself wondering what Manuela is doing right now—if she’s still lounging in that robe, if she’s telling the girls some joke about me, or if she’s simply observing like usual.
By the time we’re seated back inside for the formal tasting, the sky has cleared to a pale gold. Five small courses arrive in order, each paired with a different wine. I go through the motions: smell, swirl, sip. But my attention keeps drifting. Therosé that is paired with a creamy tomato tart reminds me of the flush on her cheeks last night as she?—
“And finally,” Cash says, looking around and focusing his gaze on Jack. “To the groom!” Everyone around the table lifts their glasses, and I’m lost in what is happening, having been so focused on dirty thoughts of Manuela that I missed what was being said around me.
Dessert is poached pears over cream, served with a late-harvest wine that’s so sweet it sticks to my teeth. Jack is talking about shipping bottles home, Banks and Sterling are arguing over which pairing was best, and I’m nodding at all of it while thinking about the drive back to the house later. About whether she’ll be there in the kitchen or by the pool. And if her eyes will still have that look.
19
CONNOR
FRIDAY
“You’re staring again.”
I look up from the coffee table to find Manuela watching me, head tilted, one eyebrow raised like she’s caught me red-handed. A blush threatens to form on my cheeks, as if I were caught staring ather.
“I’m strategizing,” I say, even though my last play earned me a measly eight points and no one is buying that excuse; it’s extremely obvious I suck at this game.
Elle snorts from where she’s curled into the corner of the massive sectional, a blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. “You’re losing because you’re too busy trying to figure out how to beat her without making it obvious you’re trying to beat her.”
“Not true,” I say with a laugh, though she’s not wrong.
The rain’s been coming down steadily since lunch, the kind that distorts the view beyond the glass doors until the lake and the mountains are just smudges of gray and green. The sliding doors are shut, but the sound of it—soft, constant—fills the quiet spaces between words. The living room smells faintly of the espresso that was served earlier post lunch, a dark roast that Jack insisted was “better in this weather,” and there’s aplate of tiny butter cookies between us that’s already down to crumbs. Our whitewater rafting excursion got cancelled due to the weather, so instead we are enjoying a lazy day inside.
Jack is sprawled out in the armchair, one arm stretched, hand curling around Elle’s foot as he massages the arch. He’s watching the game like he’s a sports commentator. “You’re doomed, bud. She’s been killing us since round one.”
Manuela smiles without looking up from her tiles. “Big talk from someone who just played ‘cat’ for six points.”
“I was setting up for my next turn,” Jack says, and Elle snorts in response.
“Sure you were, babe,” Elle says, tossing a stray cookie crumb at him.
