Page 16 of How to Say I Do
“So.” He scooted in as the song changed, downshifting to something slower and with a lot more croon to the vocals. “You see those three ladies at the corner of the dance floor? The redhead has been eyeing you for the past ten minutes.”
“What?” I did exactly what you're not supposed to do, which was turn and stare like a deranged person. She couldn't be looking at me. She was probably looking at Wyatt. And who could blame her? I was seaweed next to him.
She was dancing with her friends, and they all looked like they were having the time of their lives. All three of them were beautiful. Not in a model way—that vaguely alien, weird-proportions way that looks great on film but a little bit strange in person. These ladies were truly beautiful, and truly happy.
The redhead caught me looking. She smiled.
“You wanna go dance with her? I can head out.” Wyatt was already halfway out of his seat.
“No! No, no, no, don't go. I don't want to— No, I'm not— I don't—”
I didn't know what the fuck I was saying, or even trying to say. I didn't want to go flirt with the redhead, as beautiful and happy and friendly as she looked. That wound was still too fresh.There's no better way to get over someone than to get under someone else,according to the internet and someone famous. Maybe that was true, but I wasn't close to ready. Not at all.
I waved an apology to the redhead and shook my head, and she shrugged with a smile before turning back to her friends.
Wyatt still looked uncertain, though, like he was maybe still wanting to head out.
It took me a minute.Oh.
“Did you want to... Wyatt, if you want to dance, or if you want to head out, or if you want to meet— Look, I'm fine. I'mgreat. If you want to dance, or whatever, go right ahead. Don’t let me hold you back.”
“Nah.” He slumped into his chair, long-limbed and relaxed. He bounced his knee against my thigh. “If you’re good, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? Nine years is a hell of a dry spell…”
Wyatt laughed. “I've had some nights here and there. It hasn’t been all desert.”
You know, I shouldn't be let out in public. Or at least, let out of Manhattan, because in New York, the ridiculous shit I said and my complete lack of tact meant I was just one more Manhattanite asshole. But here—
“Did your dad know you're gay?” Jesus Christ. I buried my face in my hands. “I'm sorry, that wassofucking rude—”
Wyatt’s warm fingers wrapped around my wrists, and he pulled my hands down from my face gently. “Of course he did. He was the first person who knew. When I was twelve, I told him I was scared I was different from everyone else ’cause I didn't think about girls the same way other guys did. He sat me down on his tailgate and talked me through it. He told me I probably liked guys more than girls and that there was nothing wrong with that. He gave me two versions of ‘the birds and the bees’ talk, and I got awholelot to think about. Couple years later, I told him yeah, I was definitely gay. He gave me a big hug. That was that.”
I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse. “I'm so fucking sorry you lost him.”
“Me too,” he whispered.
My thoughts spiderwebbed like broken glass. He watched me like he was searching for something.
“So… that's why wine.” He leaned back, letting go of my wrists. “The vineyard and the winery were Dad's dream. He wanted to keep running the ranch in harmony with the vines, keep everything self-sustainable between the crops and the livestock and the grapes. His dream was to build someplace where people could put their boots up and lay their hats down. He saw so much shit in his career, and all he wanted was to give our little corner of the world some peace. He never dreamed any bigger than the county lines. To him, Manhattan might as well have been the moon.”
“Comparatively, it is the moon.”
He smiled. “Dad wanted to grow the most beautiful Texas grapes the world had ever seen, and I think he would have if he'd had the chance. Growing grapes is so different in Texas. In Europe and California, grapes rest at night. In Texas, nights don’t get as cool, so you need to grow a hardier grape. Most people think that means you get less complex flavors, but that's not true. Every tiny thing you do influences the fruit: what you feed the soil, or how much you prune the vines to let in the sunlight, or when, or even how. Even the direction of the trellises and how the grapes are angled toward the sun matters, or how much the wind blows each day—” His lips clamped shut, and he shrugged, his cheeks pinking as he spun his bottle. “I do what I can to keep his dream alive. I'm trying, at least. I like to think he and I are still doing it together, in a way.”
A roommate's ex-ex-ex girlfriend had left behind some leafy green plant in college, and not only did I kill it, I killed even the weeds that tried to colonize the dirt left behind. I couldn't tell you what direction the wind was coming unless that wind was the downtown express and it was arriving in two minutes. And the sun? It rose out by Long Island and set beyond the Hudson.
Wyatt was so different from anyone I knew. He spoke of other worlds inhabited by other people, people who—with their authenticity and selflessness and generosity—were absolutely foreign to me. I had no idea what to say or what to do or how to act around him. All my markers had been blown away. I was adrift, reeling, overwhelmed.
He was waiting for me to say something, though, and the longer I took, the more his eyes seemed to shutter. He was pulling back, drawing away like he’d said too much, revealed too much.No, don’t go—
“I want to try your wine,” I blurted out.
Light came back to Wyatt’s eyes. “Are you a wine guy?” His smile turned hopeful.
“More of a vodka martini guy.” I hated to disappoint him. “But I want to learn. Teach me everything.”
He bit his bottom lip and sucked it between his teeth. He stared at me, his gray eyes shining, before he pushed his beer away to make room in front of him. “All right, so imagine this is my ranch...” He drew a rectangle with his finger.
