Page 2 of Love You Too

“I do live life. I’m right here, living life, trying to work againstthe clock to make everyone in my family happy.” She’s not necessarily wrong, but I don’t have time for this now.

“Not what I meant.” When I glare some more, she relents. “At least eat breakfast.”

“I’m not a big breakfast person.” I wait for a pedestrian to cross against the light and fight the urge to honk.

“It’s after two.”

“Guess I’m not a lunch person either.”

We have this exchange daily, as though it’s brand-new information. I act surprised and grateful to hear Julie remind me that food is fuel, knowing I’ll ignore it again the next day. Julie slips me a handful of almonds from her purse so I don’t get cranky, and I eat them to stave off feeling hangry for another hour.

“Thanks,” I say, crunching through a mouthful and steering my green SUV into the parking lot behind the market.

Julie zips her purse and points to an empty spot. At thirty-five, she’s half a decade older than me but worlds away in lifestyle. Each morning, she leaves her tiny blond two-year-old daughter with her husband, who works evenings at the Dark Horse pub in Calistoga. She likes to start early and finish in the afternoon, so her family has time together before the pub shift.

They seem to have everything figured out in a way I can’t fathom. All of my multitasking is directed toward my job. No husband. No cute kid. No real life outside of work. The screen goes blank when I try to think beyond today.

Falling in love isn’t even on my radar. I had my heart smashed to pieces one time, and it was enough to cure me of any urge to date for a long while. Been there, done that. No reason to put myself through it again, so instead, I let my work be my true north.

It’s worked well for me so far. I’m a career woman, and with three brothers, I’ve never felt like male energy was missing from my life. I can’t imagine being with anyone who could understand the time and energy my job requires, and I’m so tired at the endof each day that I can hardly keep my eyes open, let alone have enough energy for an orgasm.

After an hour, I’ve snapped some photos of decorating ideas and sourced a supplier for vintage artwork made from old wine crates. Julie’s husband, Ed, waits for her in the parking lot. I allow myself a thirty-second break to coo at her toddler, who scampers out of her dad’s grasp and runs toward Julie, arms outstretched.

“You need to eat something real,” Julie calls back at me before lifting her daughter to the sky and kissing her belly.

“I will, I will.”

“Except you won’t. You know how you get when you’re obsessed.” She holds her daughter out to me so I can squeeze those fat cheeks. I do so because it’s what’s expected of a woman at child-bearing age, even though my own biological baby clock is on pause while I work on my career. A tiny thought wiggles through the chaos in my brain and tells me that those cute baby cheeks have taken my stress level down a couple of notches. But I can’t think too hard about it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off her daughter, kissing her belly while fumbling through her purse and shoving a granola bar at me. “You make impulsive decisions you regret later on, you blurt things out when you should think first, and you snap at the people you love.”

“I do not!” I snap.

“Just do me a favor and eat something, please. And get fucked, for heaven’s sake,” she whispers, cradling a hand around her daughter’s ears. “That will take the edge off for sure.” She knows my refrigerator at home is empty, and I can’t remember the last time I ate a meal. It’s either snacking on the go or not eating at all. As to the getting laid part, it’s about as likely as having the inn renovated by tomorrow.

“That ain’t gonna happen anytime soon unless you have a man in your purse.”

She laughs. “I’ll work on that.”

An hour later,I’m running on fumes. I fish around in my bag for Julie’s granola bar, but my mission is disrupted when the sales clerk returns with my swatches of fabric. She smiles, tucks her long silver bangs behind her ears, and adjusts her wire-rimmed glasses so they sit higher on her nose. “Here we go. I threw in a few extra color palettes in case you want to try it a different way.” She always stashes away new fabrics she thinks I’ll like before other customers see them.

“Oh, you’re sweet. I’ll probably come back with a whole new color scheme after I try the alternates.”

“Not trying to make it harder,” she sings.

“You’re not. I love options.”

Her smile widens, and she pulls out a bag from beneath the counter. It’s practically big enough to hold the fabric swatchesandher. And the counter. “Sorry. We only have giant bags for some reason.”

“It’s okay. I don’t need a bag.”

I tuck the pile of fabric under one arm and resume the hunt for a snack. The granola bar has somehow slipped into the purse abyss, never to be found amid useless pennies and old lipsticks. Tin of mints? The only one I have contains change for parking meters.

My stomach grinds from the coffee I guzzled on an empty stomach. I don’t think I can wait until I get back to the winery to put something in my system, so I detour to the bakery. As I stare at the glass case filled with golden croissants, berry muffins, and little fruit tarts, the only challenge is to choose just one.

“Blueberry bran muffin and a coffee with cream. To go, please.” I shouldn’t have more coffee, but the muffin will soak some of it up, and I need the energy boost.

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