Page 111 of Bitter Rival

I shift so my back is against the arm and bring my knees to my chest. “What kind of startup?”

“It’s still in the infancy stage. But rest assured that I’ll be using every dime from the sale of this vineyard.”

As if there was any doubt of that. Nothing has changed so I’m not sure why I’m disappointed that his plans and goals don’t include this vineyard. Or me.

“How about you?” he asks. “What’s next?”

Travel, travel, and more travel. “I’m doing photo shoots in Madrid and Barcelona and Paris in October, and when I get back, I have a solo exhibition in New York.”

“Yeah? What’s the theme?”

“It’s called God is a Woman. I did a series of portraits of older women. Marginalized women. Women living on the street or in homeless shelters. And women who have been incarcerated because of their beliefs. I’ve been working on it for five years.”

Beckett shakes his head. “You are a wonder, aren’t you?” His voice is soft and he’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before.

I reach for my glass of water on the table and take a sip to clear the lump in my throat. Compliments from Beckett always catch me off guard. They’re rare but all the more genuine for it and I’m never quite sure how to respond so I go with my default. “Not a wonder. Just a girl with a camera.”

“Don’t minimize it,” he says, wrapping his hand around the back of my calf and giving it a little squeeze.

“Fine. I’m a wonder,” I say with a smile.

“I’d like to see those photos.”

“You would?”

He nods. “Mmhmm. Maybe I’ll swing by New York and check them out.”

Hope stirs inside me and my heart beats a little faster. It’s the first time he’s ever alluded to the future. “I’d like that.”

“I’m not making any promises,” he says, backpedaling. “But it sounds interesting.”

And just like that, I deflate.

I have a bad feeling I’ll never see him again once this is over.

Our lives are so completely different that I can’t imagine our paths ever crossing. “It’s not until November. You’ll probably have forgotten all about me by then.”

“I’ll be reminded of you every time I get a stabbing pain in my eye,” he jokes.

I hold up an imaginary dart and throw it with a flick of my wrist. “Gotcha.”

He smiles, amused, but I can’t even muster a smile.

The correct answer would have been: You won’t be so easy to forget.

But I hide my disappointment by gathering up our empty containers and carrying them into the kitchen.

After refilling the pitcher with ice and water, I put Neil Young on the record player and return to the terrace.

Beckett is scrolling on his phone, so I set the pitcher on the table and return to my seat. Leaning my head against the back of the sofa, I let my thoughts drift.

The first time I ever met Beckett, I was six and he was eleven.

I ran down to the creek but just before I reached it I saw a boy up ahead and hid behind a tree to watch him.

His hair went every which way and he still had a skinny boy’s body. Long, coltish legs and thin arms.

He was picking blackberries from the bushes. I only saw him eat one berry out of the whole bunch and the rest were dutifully added to the bucket.

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