Page 28 of On Tap for the Bear
"I need to go," I say, backing toward the stairs.
"Quinn...”
"Thank you for the tour." The words come out too bright, too brittle. "It was very informative."
I don't wait for his response. I just climb the stairs as fast as I dare, through the kitchen, through the empty tavern, out intothe morning sun that feels too bright after the dimness of the cellar.
My hands are shaking.
I walk back to the Pinecrest on autopilot, Evelyn's cheerful greeting barely registering as I climb the stairs to my room. I need to process what just happened. Need to understand why I'm disappointed that Elididn'tkiss me when relief would make more sense.
I sink onto the bed and pull out my laptop, desperate for distraction. My email loads slowly—the Wi-Fi here is decent but not great—and when it finally populates, one subject line catches my eye immediately.
FWD: Congratulations on your James Beard nomination!
The blood drains from my face.
Someone forwarded it to me. I don't recognize the sender—probably someone from the magazine who thought I'd want to know, not realizing the knife they're twisting. I open it with hands that have started shaking again, but for entirely different reasons.
The original email is there, sent from Mark Ford to Vanessa:
Vanessa,
Just wanted to reach out personally to congratulate you on the nomination! "The Hoppy Revolution: How Northern California's Craft Breweries Are Rewriting the Rules of American Beer" was such a groundbreaking piece—the way you captured the essence of Northern California's craft beer scene was absolutely masterful. The judges were particularly impressed by your tasting notes and the depth of your research.
The awards ceremony is in three weeks. I hope you'll be able to attend—I'd love to introduceyou to some people who are very interested in commissioning more work from you.
Again, congratulations. This is well-deserved.
Best,
Mark Ford
Editor-in-Chief, Epicurean Monthly
I stare at the screen until the words blur.
James Beard nomination.
My article. My words. My work.
Vanessa's name.
I close the laptop carefully, precisely, like it might shatter if I'm not gentle enough. My hands know what to do even when my brain has gone numb. Click. Fold. Set aside on the nightstand where I won't have to look at it.
The ceiling of my room at the Pinecrest has a water stain in the corner shaped vaguely like a bird. Or maybe a hand reaching. I've been staring at it for the past three nights, cataloging its edges, the way the brown fades to yellow at the boundaries. Now I trace it again with my eyes, following the familiar pattern because it's easier than thinking about the email.
Three weeks until the ceremony.
Three weeks for Vanessa to stand on a stage and accept recognition for work she didn't do. Three weeks for her to shake hands and smile for cameras and give interviews about her "process" and her "inspiration." Three weeks for the lie to become truth simply because everyone believes it.
My chest feels tight, like someone's sitting on it. I try to breathe deep but the air won't go all the way down. Just stops somewhere around my ribs and sits there, useless.
The numbness I've been fighting for days crashes over me like a wave. Not the inability to taste—that's still there, except for the food here in Redwood Rise, which now feels like a cruel joke. No, this is a different kind of numbness. The kind thatcomes from realizing that no matter how far you run, the past follows you. The kind that makes your body feel like it belongs to someone else, like you're operating it from a distance, pressing buttons and pulling levers but not reallyfeelingany of it.
I should cry. That's what people do when they get news like this, right? They cry or scream or throw things. They feel something big enough to match the moment.
But I just lie here, dry-eyed, staring at the water stain and breathing those shallow half-breaths that don't quite satisfy.
