Page 21 of Before We Say Goodbye
Her words came as sweet relief. “Yes, of course. For a moment there, I thought you were—”
“Don’t even say it out loud. I have never been surer of us. We won’t be that far from each other. Under an hour with the Richmond Bridge.”
“I don’t care if we’re separated by a hundred hours and fifty bridges.”
She laughed despite her tears. “Me either.”
He couldn’t let it go, though. “But they’re not healthy, Bec. You don’t owe them anything.”
“This isn’t up for discussion. Maybe I don’t owe them anything, but they’re family. As screwed up as they are, they’re still my family.”
Otis bit his tongue. How could he argue? He had to support her. “Okay, then. Well, I might have some business up there before too long anyway.”
Her brow furrowed. “Business?”
“What if I told you I think I’ve found what I want to do.” He couldn’t stop his lips from curling into a smile.
“What?”
“Take a guess. Nothing to do with writing.”
She scrunched her forehead. “A car mechanic then?”
“Um, no.”
Her eyes darted around, seeking another guess. “A chef?”
“Wine,” he said, feeling it in his bones, hearing the call of the grapes.
“What do you know about wine?”
“Exactly nothing, but ... I had some sort of awakening earlier. I think I know what I want to do with the rest of my life.” He gleefully shared the details, about meeting Sparrow and Paul, and stomping grapes.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” It was the first time she’d really smiled in two days.
“I can’t even describe, Bec, what happened to me up there. The only thing missing was you.”
“What about your journalism degree?”
“I don’t know! Why would I need it? I might have to transfer to UC Davis. Or drop out.”
Her mouth straightened. “You’re not dropping out.”
“It’s your fault.” Otis changed to the slow lane. “A purple bus, a pretty girl, and the whole world shifts from black and white to Technicolor.”
He leaned over her and kissed her, tasting their lives together, tasting exactly what courage and faith and partnership could do to a man.
He helped Rebecca move to Santa Rosa three days later, and as he left, something told him he better not make saying goodbye a habit. She could disappear as easily as she’d come into his life.
Thankfully, he’d always been good with money and had saved every dime his aunt had paid him for working on the farm. First thing he did was buy a black-and-bronze Honda motorcycle that had some good life left in it. The bike allowed him to see her every chance he got, but it didn’t take care of the bigger problem: He no longer wanted to write for a living.
The first draft lottery took place on December 1, and though Otis wasn’t eligible due to his age, watching it with the barbecue guys wrenched a deep pit in his stomach. If he dropped out of Berkeley, he’d soon become eligible, but Berkeley had become a slog. He made it through the first semester with mostly A’s, though he’d barely squeaked out a B in physics. Decent grades or not, Otis could not have cared less about getting a degree. He would close his eyes in class and see grape clusters dangling from vines.
At home for Christmas, his father had given him an earful for the lone B and his lack of extracurriculars. What about the debate team, the school newspaper? Good grades aren’t enough these days.Yeah, Otis thought,wait till I tell you what’s really going on, Dad.
Otis didn’t mention Rebecca or his newfound love of wine, but back in the city in the first couple of months of 1970, he couldn’t stop imagining a different scenario.
Still, his father’s voice rang in his ear, warning him off chasing daydreams. Voices echoed from his family tree, telling him the same.
