“Christ, that hurt my soul to watch.” His free hand comes up to stop me. Fingers pressing against my throat. “Slower. Let me feel you swallow.”
I nearly choke. “Excuse me?”
“You’re drinking it like water. Wine needs time on your palate.” His fingers stay on my throat, and when I swallow reflexively, I feel him track the movement. “Again. Smaller sip.”
This time, I barely let the wine touch my lips. All of my powers of concentration are focused on the points where his fingers touch my skin.
I knew that hand was dangerous.
He’s proving me very, very right.
“Better. Now, hold it in your mouth for a moment. Let it warm slightly. Let it tease you.”
I do as instructed. The flavor of the wine simmers and spreads across my tongue.
“What do you taste?” He’s still behind me, still close enough that I can feel his body heat.
“Cherries? Which is to say, it tastes like my lip gloss from sixth grade, and that tasted like cherries, so I’m gonna say, ‘cherries.’”
“What else?”
“I don’t know. Dirt?”
“That’s earth. Terroir. What else?”
“Something… sharp? Dry?”
“Tannins.” He reaches around me for his own glass. “They create structure. Without them, wine is just grape juice with ambition.”
“Title of my autobiography,” I joke weakly.
Bastian doesn’t laugh. I feel his eyes boring into the side of my face instead. He’s quiet for a moment, then steps away. The loss of his warmth makes me shiver. “Again. This time, aerate it first.”
“How?”
He demonstrates, drawing air through the wine with a subtle slurping sound that should be gross but somehow isn’t when he does it. Everything Bastian does has this infuriating elegance to it.
Me, on the other hand? I try to copy him and end up spluttering as wine goes down the wrong pipe.
“Classy,” he says dryly. “Try again. Less air.”
“Why do you care if I’m good at this?” I finally ask, setting down my glass before I do something stupid like knock it back purely for the liquid courage.
He looks at me for a long moment. “I don’t. But if you’re going blind, I figure you’d better develop the senses you’ll have left.”
At first, I think to myself,That’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard.It’s like he’s pronouncing my death sentence. Not that he’s the one doing it to me, but when he says it like that, it feels like hell, maybe he is.
But then the initial sting passes and a different sort of reaction starts to blossom. It’s almost… nice, how few fucks he gives. He doesn’t care if I like him or if anyone on this planet does. He doesn’t give a shit about politeness or feelings. It’s so freeing, in the strangest way, to meet someone who can afford not to waste heartache on trying to make the people around him happy.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to make Mama happy, and I still can’t. The thought of simply letting that burden float off my shoulders and away is… It’s something. Not somethingpossible, not for me, but still… something.
“That’s… ” I swallow hard. “That’s actually good advice.”
“I have my moments.”
His eyes fix on mine. Another beat passes of him looking at me and me looking at him and the rest of the world receding into meaninglessness and nothingness. Then…
“Well,” he sighs, “class is dismissed.”
