Page 84 of Sweet Escape

“You mean Theo?”

Vivian sighs. “Theo, yeah. But also me. It’s like ... I’ve changed, somehow,” she says, her voice wistful and almost unsure. “And maybe it’s about Theo. But also, maybe it’s not.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I’m not sure if that’s the right question, but I want to be someone shecantalk to.

She looks at me for a long moment, considering. But then she shakes her head. “I appreciate it, but let’s just enjoy the evening,” she says, giving me a regretful smile, before her fingers begin to move again.

I can’t begrudge her for not sharing. She’s leaving tomorrow. Should she really be pouring her heart out to some guy? And why fill what little time we have left with conversation about things that are hard or emotional or frustrating?

But in the same breath, I can’t help the little bit of disappointment that she doesn’t want to confide in me. That she doesn’t want to share whatever it is that’s causing this bit of melancholy when she thinks about going back to LA. We’ve talked about some pretty important things, and I’d like to think I’m someone she can confide in.

Even if I amsome guy.

I let it go, deciding that for now, the two of us need to just enjoy our final moments together. As horrible as that sounds.

Our conversation takes on a lighter tone after that. Vivian sets her guitar aside and pulls out her phone, taking a few pictures of the sunset and the vines stretched out before us. We stay out on the patio enjoying each other’s company until long after the very last hues from the sun have disappeared and the sky is truly dark.

Then we go inside and back to my room.

“Bathroom’s right there if you want to change or brush your teeth or whatever,” I tell her, leaning back against the door and watching her casually study my belongings.

I wonder what she’s noticing. What picture she’s getting of me that she didn’t have before. I try to follow her gaze to assess what it is that she’s seeing and how she’s seeing it.

The queen bed with simple dark-blue sheets and comforter. The solid wood nightstand and matching dresser that I’ve had since I was in high school. The bookshelf in the corner with pictures from high school and books I’ve wanted to read but haven’t made the time to do so.

Suddenly, I’m concerned that my life might seem too small. Too basic. Too unimportant for a woman like her, who has the world at her fingertips.

Not that there’s anything I can do to change any of that.

Not that I’d necessarily even want to change it.

But I want it to be enough, all the same.

“I’m just gonna go make sure the house is locked up. I’ll be back,” I tell her, slipping into the hallway and giving myself a bit of a distraction.

Vivian doesn’t seem like a judgmental person, by any measure. But it isn’t hard to see that she lives a more affluent life than I do, and probably has a different idea about what a thirty-one-year-old man’s bedroom should look like.

Everything has always been tight around here, even back when we were kids and the vineyard was doing well. My grandmother did a great job making this house warm and welcoming all the way up until she passed away when I was in my early twenties, but our clothes and our furniture were thrifted. Our food was bought in bulk. Our family never went on vacation.

The things that make up this home and the life I’ve lived are humble and unassuming and probably a lot less luxurious than Vivian is accustomed to. So even though she might not notice or care, I’m suddenly a lot more self-conscious about it all than I expected.

The house is quiet as I flip off the lights and make sure all the doors are latched. Most everyone retires to bed after dinner to get in some sleep before the two a.m. harvest time. When I slip back into my bedroom, the light underneath the closed door to the bathroom and the sound of running water is plenty for me to know that Vivian’s getting ready for bed.

I strip down to my boxers and climb into bed, and just a few minutes later, Vivian slips out of the bathroom.

Her hair is up in a messy bun, exposing her long neck. She’s wearing an oversize shirt that falls off one shoulder.

And, god, she’s gorgeous.

She leans up against the doorjamb, and with the expression on her face, I don’t doubt for a second that she knows exactly how sexy she looks right now.

“I’m ready for bed,” she tells me, her voice a husky thing, filled with flirtatious energy, before she rounds to the other side and crawls in.

I flip the light switch and plunge us into darkness, just the moon outside casting a bit of glow across the room. Then I turn, each of us lying with our heads on our pillows, watching each other.

I reach out, tuck some of her loose hair behind her ear and stroke down her cheek, along her jawline.

Then I lean forward, pressing my lips against hers. Soft and gentle and searching.

---