Page 24 of Kiss My Glass
“Truthfully? No,” I reply. “Every time I come back, I feel like I’m being crushed by the pressure of my family. I know that’s a me-problem, but I haven’t been able to rise above it so far. It’s only when I get away that I can breathe free again.”
Don’t know why I said all that. Frankie doesn’t strike me as someone who welcomes oversharing.
Sure enough, she goes quiet again. I look out at the passing fields, irrigated and green or crispy summer brown, other vineyards, the distant hills. Frankie deftly and courteously overtakes a bunch of cyclists. They look like serious riders, not wine tourists. The lead cyclist waves in appreciation of us not forcing them into the ditch.
“I think you broke a country code, there,” I joke. “Most of the pick-ups round here have stencils of bicycles on the door, like the bombs on the old World War II planes.”
“I’ll lose my job if I get a conviction,” she says. “Plus, I’m not an asshole.”
Another Danny joke crashes and burns. I prepare to sit out the rest of the drive in silence.
Two minutes later, she says, “Shelby says your father’s hard on you. On all of you Durant kids, I mean.”
Okay, so she’s notgiving me the silent treatment. Surprising. Also confusing. I feel like I’m trying to retrace my steps back through a minefield using pure guesswork, where even a toenail in the wrong place spells instant death.
“It’s possible he means well,” I say. “The jury’s still out on that. For me, at least.”
“I’ve always thought it’s one of life’s great rip-offs that we can’t choose our family,” says Frankie. “Think of all the drama and therapy bills we’d save if we could.”
Because Frankie’s keeping her eyes diligently on the road, I can’t tell if she’s lightening the mood or deadly serious.
“Uh, yeah,” is my lame response. Do better, Danny. “Would you choose any of your family?”
“Tricky,” she replies. “Sometimes I’m convinced I’d have been better off as a turtle. Hatching out of an egg buried in sand, then running like hell to the ocean before the birds catch me. No need to worry about family then, only survival.”
“That’s an interesting take,” I say. “But it didn’t answer my question.”
“I know.” I finally see her smile. “I’m a lawyer. We never give a straight answer.”
“I’d pick Mom and Nate,” I tell her. “Izzy and Max are great but they’re too much of a tight unit to be close to me. Dad’s, well … you’ve got the idea. If I was in a real bind, Ava would support me, no hesitation. But until such time, she’ll continue to torment me because she can.”
“Like Chiara,” says Frankie. “She enjoys being a puppet master way too much.”
Does this mean what I think it means? Did Frankieget the Chiara interrogation treatment, too?
“Chiara claims she does it for people’s own good,” I venture. “But then, wheat grass is supposedly good for us and it tastes like garbage.”
I can see a muscle working in Frankie’s jaw.
“Chiara has a theory…”
She’s being cautious, and I think I know why. But I’ll be cautious too, because if I’m wrong, I’ll be hitchhiking home.
“Chiara’s theory,” Frankie continues, “is that you and I have more in common than we think.”
“Yeah. She mentioned.”
Not cautious enough. Frankie flicks me a fierce glance, her eyebrows slanting down in a way that makes her look exactly like an Angry Bird. It’s cute. And I will never tell her because I value my body parts.
“Chiara said the same thing toyou?” she demands.
“Yup. Last night. Ambushed me at Bartons.”
“Bartons? Why were you at Bartons?”
Her tone’s starting to irk me, but I don’t want to start a fight.
“Because I needed a break,” I say. “And apparently a drink with acorns in it.”
