He was gonna be fine.
Just fine.
forty-nine
David
All right.” Jeri stared at him across the high-top in the corner they’d commandeered. The first real snow of the season had left them with a lighter crowd than usual for Sunday night, and with his test only five days away, he was practicing tasting as often as he could. “You know the drill. Six wines. Twenty-five minutes. Ready whenever you are.”
David stared down the three whites and three reds, lined up like little soldiers, prepared for him to go to war. His spit bucket off to the side, a fresh picture of Reagan’s face at the bottom.
He was ready for this. He was—
His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.
He was going to smash this test.
He grabbed the first wine as Jeri started the timer on her phone. Tuned out the hubbub of Aspire all around him: Kyra’s friendly voice as she seated a regular who lived in the condos across the street, the ringing of Dannon banging out a spoon on the rim of a saucepan.
There was only him and the wines.
Color, clarity, brightness. Body, acidity, tannins. Smells, tastes. Grape, region, producer, vintage. Move on to the next.
All three whites were California. He’d bet money on it. But statistically, that made no sense, right? There were so many wine regions across the globe. Was Jeri trying to fake him out?
The first red—Sonoma Pinot, it had to be, but four California wines in a row?
Was she teasing him about the offer from Rhett? He still hadn’t given Rhett a firm answer. He knew he owed it to Rhett to say one way or another, but he honestly didn’t know. Every night spent hunched over flash cards, every missed social engagement told him to say yes, that this is what his life had been building toward.
But every brunch with his mom, every service spent teasing Kyra, every night curled up with Farzan—it still hurt to remember, but it was the happiest he’d been—all told him to stay. To let himself be happy.
Maybe he was allergic to happiness too.
Shit, how much time was left? He skipped naming number four, reached for number five, but—Napa Cab, Stags Leap for sure, there was nothing else quite like it. So maybe four was Sonoma Pinot after all.
And number six, that was Paso Robles for sure, a Rhône blend, and—
“Fuck. These are all ones you’ve given me before, aren’t they?”
Jeri’s eyebrows raised, but otherwise she kept her face neutral as David went back through the reds, naming them off.
“You sure?” she asked, once he’d named number six—the same Saxum he’d tasted months ago.
“Positive.”
She smirked. “Got them all.”
“That was evil.” David smirked right back. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“You’ve got to be ready for anything they throw at you. Maybe everything will be familiar. Maybe nothing will be. Have confidence in your tasting. Don’t psych yourself out.”
David’s phone buzzed in his pocket again.
“You need to take that?”
“I can clean up first,” David said, standing, but Jeri reached out and took his hand.
“I’m proud of you, you know.”
