Page 39 of Rock the Chardonnay

From her tote bag, Louise pulls out two plastic cups and a bottle of Foster Family Vineyards’ Dumpster Fire Red Blend. My heart sinks lower.

“I’m not that thirsty,” I say. Understatement. I’m starving, desperate, just not for food or drink.

Louise shakes her head. She went to the hairdressers in Chicago, so her hair is now a gorgeous mass of tight curls.

My hair, on the other hand? The pink is growing out, leaving me with bland ashy roots, but I also haven’t been conditioning properly, so it’s brittle and crunchy.

I have no desire to change the situation. It looks fine when it’s up in a bun onstage. And disheveled is a totally rock-and-roll look.

Louise sighs and leans forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. She wears a fitted royal blue sheath dress, but it’s long enough to cover her knees. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Shaking her head, Louise picks up the bottle of wine and unscrews the twist-off cap. “I have to say, I admire Wisconsin wineries. It’s such a pain in the ass to find a corkscrew when you just want a drink. Is cork even environmentally sustainable? Not to mention the ease of re-capping it later. Genius.”

“I suppose.” Her statement doesn’t really seem to require an actual response.

I wait, my hands turning numb on the bridge of my guitar. Over the last two weeks, the only time I’ve felt anything was when I was singing.

Louise finishes pouring, recaps the bottle, and places it back into her tote bag. Then she hands a plastic cup to me. “Spill.”

“There’s nothing to say.” Not knowing what else to do, I sip the wine, but it’s the wrong move. It’s like being transported back to the Fosters’ dinner table, Zoey with a lasagna in her hands, the scent of the hydrangeas outside wafting in through the window. The wine is sweet and full of red fruit, with a pleasant, mellow vanilla taste that lingers.

It reminds me of Declan. His sweetness, his depth. The way he made me feel, cozy and secure.

Fuck it. Everything reminds me of Declan.

Tears collect at the corners of my eyes, but I wipe them away.

Louise sits back in the armchair and crosses her legs. “There’s more to say. You’ve been moping since we left St. Olaf. The songs you’ve been writing haven’t had your edge.” She sips the wine. “Ellery and the Vendetta? They’re worried about you, too.”

“No one needs to worry about me.” I sniff and set the guitar back in its case. “I’ll be fine. I’m sorry if I’ve been off my game.”

Louise holds up a single finger. “Don’t apologize. Own your feelings. As your manager, I will accept nothing less.”

This is why everyone loves Louise.

“Now.” Louise settles back into the armchair, cradling her plastic cup of wine. “Tell me what your mom did. And don’t ask how I know. It’s my job to know.”

It’s a good thing I’m a musician instead of an actress, because apparently I’ve been doing a terrible job of faking being okay. Sipping my wine again, I use the flavors to make me feel stronger. “My mom did nothing except give me her DNA. I’m not sending her more money.”

“Daughtry. You are not your mother. You are driven and talented and passionate. What you do in your free time is your business, but do not think for one second that because your mom was a terrible parent that you are the same as she is.”

“But I am.” My voice cracks and I make a mental note to switch from wine to lemon tea with honey. Otherwise, I’ll never finish my maudlin, moody, Morrissey-inspired album. “I can’t handle responsibility. I go through bed partners at an alarming rate. My feet are constantly in motion.”

Louise finishes her plastic cup of wine. I suspect she put a lot less in her glass than she gave me. “I’m not going to de-program you from a lifetime of maternal gaslighting in one session, and we have an album to start. You need to call her and break up with her. Now.”

“Okay.” She’s right, of course. “I will.” It will be rough but not as difficult as continuing to avoid all these emotions. I’ll be lighter once I tell my mom off once and for all.

“Here’s the deal.” Louise holds up her fingers and starts ticking things off on them. “You haven’t been the same since we left St. Olaf. I’m not blind. Something happened between you and that guy from the wine tasting booth. The hot one with the cool kid who wants to be a Vendetta roadie when he grows up.”

The memory of Declan washes over me, the naughty words he spoke ringing in my ears. This is the dirtiest thing I can imagine. Waking up next to you and making you pancakes on weekends. Tears pool inside me like a tangle of unwritten notes.

“He’s a chemistry teacher,” I say softly, staring into my wine. For a red blend in a plastic cup, it has excellent legs.

“That’s wonderful.” Louise’s tone softens. Despite our minimal age gap, she has a vaguely maternal way about her at times that I find very soothing. Go figure. “What’s his name?”

I pause for a long moment. “Declan. Alex is his son, the one who loves the Vendetta. Nine years old. He’s such a cool kid, and Declan is such a good dad, and his family is just...” There aren’t words really, for how I feel about the Fosters.

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