Page 2 of A Taste of Chardonnay

“No. Too bad he can’t find a job that required drinking a twelve pack and passing out. He’d be the perfect candidate.”

“You can always stay with us. Laurent’s room is free while he’s at college. He wouldn’t care if you moved in for a bit.”

I shook my head. I loved Franc and Laurent like brothers, but I didn’t want their charity. I never wanted them to think I was taking advantage of their friendship or that I was only friends with them for their money. It didn’t matter that we’d known each other since elementary school. Their friendship meant too much to me to jeopardize it.

“He’ll get a job,” I said matter-of-factly. There were no if, ands, or buts. He would get a job even if I had to send off his resume and prop his ass up at an interview.

“Okay.” Silence spread between us, but that was normal. Franc and I never felt the need to fill silence, and that’s probably why we got along so well.

We pulled into the high school parking lot, and Franc parked in the first open spot. We hopped from the truck and made our way inside.

“You have that test in economics today, right?” Franc asked, hitching his backpack onto his shoulder.

“I do.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you third period.” I patted his back, and we went our separate ways like we did every morning. Usually, I’d walk with Char. Her homeroom was next to mine, but today I walked solo, lost in my own thoughts, which was a fucking scary place.

If Dad didn’t get a job, we wouldn’t be completely screwed. I had been putting money into savings for the last two years, but that was my savings, and I didn’t want to have to bail him out again. I had my own dreams. I just had to graduate high school, then I could get the fuck out of here.

I rounded the corner and spotted Chardonnay. Her brown hair hung just above her shoulders—she’d got it cut last week—and she was wearing a fitted, white t-shirt tucked into a jean skirt. My eyes immediately moved down her 5’7 frame to her white sneakers, admiring her bare legs for a moment.

Standing at 6’4 at seventeen, I sometimes felt like an ogre, but Chardonnay always made me feel like I was just the right height. She was with her friends, and I didn’t want to interrupt, so I hung back on the other side of the lockers, hoping I’d get a chance to say good morning to her before homeroom started.

I adjusted my backpack on my shoulder and leaned against the wall. Mentally, I went over my economics notes, trying to remember everything I had studied last night.

Char laughed. “Brady?” she asked, and my attention snapped toward her. I didn’t want to eavesdrop on a private conversation, but I was also curious about what she had to say. “Brady Noah?” She laughed again. “He’s trash.”

Her words slammed into me as if a boulder hit me in my chest. A pain I never experienced gutted me, tearing at my thick skin and prodding at every insecurity I had.

I stumbled backward and quickly switched directions, needing to get as far away from her. But it felt like I wasn’t running from her. I was trying to run from thetruthof her words. I was trash. Always had been, thanks to my old man and his lack of parental skills.

Anyone could have called me trash, and I probably would have agreed with them. But not Char. Not one of the few people who I trusted with the fact my father was a raging alcoholic with a hitting problem.

I hurried down the hallway, having no idea where I was going, but knowing I had to get out of there. The doors I had just walked through not ten minutes ago seemed like the beacon I needed. My pace picked up, and I raced into the parking lot.

Franc’s truck was always open, but what was I supposed to do? Sit there until the end of the day when Chardonnay would be here waiting for a ride home, too? I didn’t stop, passing Franc’s truck and making my way to the street.

Street after street passed by, but I kept walking. Anger and frustration stirred inside me. If Dad would just get his shit together, if he was a better parent, maybe we wouldn’t be the trash of Vine Valley. We’d be decent, community serving people like the Grassos.

But no. Dad had to go to fucking war and turn to the bottle to find any kind of solace. Except that solace wasn’t solace at all. It just fueled the visions he tried to escape from.

I kept walking, lost to the what-could-have-been thoughts I tried to ignore. It was a rabbit hole, and it was dark and ugly, and by the time I resurfaced, hours had passed. The position of the sun told me school had probably dismissed. I changed direction again and headed home.

My house—if you could even call it that—came into view, and I made my way up the battered driveway and into the weathered front door.

I didn’t even cross the threshold before I was yanked by my hair. “Where the fuck have you been?” Dad’s voice boomed, the smell of cheap vodka wafting across my face.

Anger and hatred for the life I was dealt surged through me, but like I always did, I ground my teeth together and accepted my shitty fate.

“Huh?” He yanked harder before shoving me, but he was a withering drunk, and as a solid man who started lifting weights last year, I didn’t budge. It only seemed to anger him more.

“Out,” I spat.

“School called. Said you weren’t there.”

“Something came up.”

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