"Good." He glances around the exhibition, then back to me. "By the way—you have a little something..." He gestures vaguely at my dress.
The wine stain. Right.
"Wine tasting accident," I explain.
"At least it's on-brand for the venue." He chuckles. "Take care, Emma. And think about our offer. Really think about it."
He disappears into the crowd, leaving me standing there with a wine-stained dress, pickle breath, and approximately seven thousand decisions to make by tomorrow.
Miles materializes beside me with another water.
"If you keep bringing me water, people are going to think I have a drinking problem," I say.
"Or a hydration problem." He studies my face. "You want to leave?"
"Yes. But I can't. Brennen needs me here."
"Brennen will survive without you."
"Will he? I spilled his competition wine and told him it was 'wine-y.'"
Miles' lips twitch. "That was memorable."
"That was mortifying."
"Come on." He takes my elbow gently. "Let's get out of here. You've done your sisterly duty for today."
"But—"
"Emma. You're exhausted. You've successfully avoided wine tasting, entertained corporate buyers, and evaluated plant drainage. That's enough for one day."
The kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. I let him guide me toward the door, stopping only to wave at Brennen across the room. He's deep in conversation with a distributor and barely notices.
We make it to Miles' car, and I collapse into the passenger seat like I've run a marathon. My purse falls open, revealing two empty pickle jars, and I don't even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Miles slides into the driver's seat but doesn't start the car. He just sits there, looking at me.
"What?" I ask.
"You have pickle juice on your chin."
I wipe it away. "I gave up on dignity somewhere around the terroir implications."
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound makes something loosen in my chest.
"I can't do this," I hear myself say.
"Can't do what?" His voice is gentle. "The wine disposal methods were actually quite creative."
I want to laugh but I'm too tired. "Everything. All of it. Making decisions. Hiding things. Being the level-headed one who has it together."
"Emma—"
"Everyone thinks I'm so capable. So organized. So on top of everything. But I'm drowning, Miles. I'm drowning and I don't know how to ask for help because asking for help means admitting I'm failing."
The words pour out before I can stop them, and now I'm crying in his car in the Celtic Knot parking lot, still holding empty pickle jars in my purse.
Miles takes my hand. "Emma, whatever it is—the Celtic Knot vote, the Preston offer, anything else—you can tell me. We're a team. You don't have to carry everything alone."
