When had that happened? When had I decided that my life didn’t matter as much as everyone else’s?
Isaac’s words and Felicity’s conversation swirled together in my head as I went inside. My sister had chosen herself and found happiness—a husband who adored her, a baby on the way, a winery of her own. She’d left and thrived.
What would happen if I chose myself?
The thought was so foreign it almost made me laugh. Choose myself how? I was already doing what I wanted—making this wine, saving the winery. Except was that really what I wanted? Or was it just another version of making myself useful and sacrificing what I needed so everyone else could be okay?
I looked at my phone. It was three-thirty, and Snapper would be here in less than four hours to take me to dinner.Dinner.A real date. Not breakfast at the diner. Something special, he’d said.
I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and stood in front of my closet. Most of what hung in it was practical—jeans and work shirts and jackets that had seen better days. A few dresses for weddings and funerals and the occasional charity event. Nothing special.
Then I saw it, pushed to the back—the green velvet dress. Felicity had given it to me three years ago for my birthday. “You need something beautiful,” she’d said. “Something that makes you feel like the gorgeous woman you are instead of the workhorse you’ve become.”
I’d never worn it. It felt too fancy, too impractical. When would I even wear something like this?
Tonight, apparently.
I took it out of the closet and laid it on my bed, then started the shower. I took my time—shaved my legs, deep-conditioned my hair, and used the expensive body wash I’d been saving for some undefined special occasion. When I got out, I actually blow-dried my hair instead of letting it air-dry into its usual waves.
The dress fit perfectly, hugging my waist before flowing to just above my knees. I put on makeup—not much, but enough. Mascara, a touch of blush, and lip gloss that made my mouth look fuller.
I stood in front of my mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back.
When had I stopped doing this? When had I decided that being invisible was safer than being seen? Somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself that wanting to look pretty was frivolous. That spending time on myself was selfish. That I didn’t deserve nice things or special attention or someone like Snapper looking at me the way he did.
But tonight—tonight, I was choosing to be visible. Choosing to want something just for me. Not because it served a purpose or helped someone else or kept everything from falling apart.
The realization was equally terrifying and exhilarating.
Once downstairs, I poured myself a glass of wine, then changed my mind and dumped it down the sink. I needed to be clearheaded tonight. Enough to tell Snapper the truth about theforeclosure, about why this wine had to be made and had to be made now.
Except what if telling him changed everything? What if he looked at me with pity instead of desire? What if he realized I was just desperate and convenient and not worth all the trouble?
No. I couldn’t think like that. Snapper had said I mattered to him. Had laid everything out there in my kitchen three nights ago when he’d kissed me. He’d even texted, saying he wanted me so much it was hard to breathe.
He meant it. I had to believe he meant it.
But a new fear crept in, one I hadn’t let myself fully examine before.
What if the wine worked? What if it saved us and I got Snapper, and everything I’d been working toward actually happened?
What then?
I’d spent so long defining myself by struggle and sacrifice. By holding everything together through sheer force of will. If I didn’t have to do that anymore—if the winery was safe and my family was okay and I had Snapper and an actual future that included things I wanted instead of just things I needed—who would I be?
The thought was almost more terrifying than losing everything.
Because I knew how to survive loss. I knew how to keep going when things were hard. But I had no idea how to handle being happy without feeling guilty about it.
Headlights swept across the kitchen window.
I checked my phone. Six forty-five. He was early.
I grabbed my wrap from the hook by the door and took one last look in the hall mirror. The woman looking back was beautiful and terrified and hopeful all at once.
I took a deep breath.
Tonight, I’d tell him about everything. I’d trust him the way he’d been asking me to.
