Page 12 of Love You Always

The bartender pushes fresh pints of beer across the bar top to us. I didn’t order them, but Carson nods as though there wassome unspoken conversation between them. The cold glass feels good in my palm, and it’s not until I rub my hand over the hot back of my neck that I realize I’m sweating just thinking about Ella.

“So what, then?” Carson asks.

I think about how to articulate it after four years of idly letting the incident fester in my brain. “I’d just gotten to LA with big ideas about how I was going to change the world with the app I’d created and the start-up ideas I had. Even though Silicon Valley was right here in my backyard, I was going bigger and bolder, venturing to Los Angeles to live out some sort of dream.”

“And get out from under your dad’s thumb.” Carson tilts his head, assessing my reaction to his blunt statement. I’ve never admitted as much to him, but maybe in not ever admitting anything, it was as good as laying it out at his feet.

I nod. “What better way to do that than to jet out of town and start my own business?”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Yeah, fucker, here I am. My dad’s health started declining and I came back here, the ever-obedient son, ready to do the job I never wanted.”

“A little dramatic, no?”

I shrug, annoyed. “Just calling it what it is.”

“Spare me the self-pity. You get a lot of juice from being the head of a family wine dynasty, even if you bitch about it.”

A rueful smile creeps across my face, and I use my pint glass to shield it from Carson. He still sees it. The best thing about him is that he doesn’t gloat when he’s right about something.

“Uh-huh, don’t think I won’t call you on your bullshit when it’s warranted,” he says, wagging a finger.

I nod. “Fair enough. I don’t hate it all the time. And I love the vineyards and the art of making good wine. But the less I hate it and the longer I’m here, the more that start-up dream fades away, you know? That’s tough to take.”

“Yeah, I feel you. My job isn’t glamorous, but it’s all mine and it’s what I’d rather be doing than anything else.”

He’s never flat out said that about construction, but it heartens me to know he’s doing what he likes.

We sip our beers in silence for a moment and I take the opportunity to look at the TVs over the bar. One of them has an Oakland Otters game on and I watch Trix’s husband, Ren, narrowly miss scoring a goal. He skates behind the goal and gets back into position, moving faster than I ever have in our league games.

“So what does any of this have to do with Ella Fieldstone?” Carson asks, nudging me with an elbow.

I huff a laugh, acknowledging that the guy never loses track of a conversation. “Oh, that.”

“Exactly. That.”

Thinking back to the night I had my one brush with Ella, I let the mortification come rolling back. I’ve done my best to block it, but seeing her again has been a grim reminder of my shortcomings.

“I’d only been in LA for a few months, so the bloom was very much still on the rose.”

“Meaning?” Carson levels me with a no-nonsense stare.

“I loved it there. I’d lucked into a rent-controlled sublet a few blocks from the beach. Every day, I’d walk down to Ocean Avenue and watch the sunset, all the things that could possibly bother me were behind me, literally. I felt free back then, and LA felt like possibilities.”

Carson lets out a long sigh. “Are you going to wax poetic about sunsets or are you gonna get to the good shit? Tell me about Ella.”

“Fine. All that’s to say I thought I was going to get everything I ever wanted in LA. I had meetings set up with venture capital firms and private investors, and they were all clambering to invest in my start-up.” I pause, thinking back to one day in particularand wondering if I’d do things differently if I could rewind the clock. “Until they didn’t.”

Carson sips his beer and waits patiently for me to continue, not seeming at all shocked that the investors lost interest. “From what I read, investors are fickle. They like the flavor of the month and they back ten of them, hoping one will hit it big and pay for all the losers.”

The wordloserfeels like a sucker punch to the gut. It’s the idea I’ve fought against in the years since I moved back to Napa with my tail between my legs. A failure. A loser.

“I guess I was the last to know how the world really works.” I grab the hem of my hoodie and hoist it over my head, suddenly feeling ten degrees hotter in here. “Anyhow, the day my last funding source fell through, I went to a party at the friend of a friend’s house. Big Hollywood thing with celebs and Maroon 5 playing a private gig in the yard. At least I could enjoy the flashy side of my life in LA, drown my sorrows in expensive vodka next to an infinity pool with a view, hook up with someone beautiful.”

I shake my head. It all feels so silly now—those clichés that I thought were actual dreams.

“Lemme guess, the beautiful people in LA gave you the cold shoulder too.”

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