“There’s one thing I aim for both in my wines and in my life,” she said. “Honesty.”
“I think you’ve achieved it,” I said, even though I was beginning to wonder if I would ever be able to achieve honesty on my YouTube channel.
The next day, Vine Friends provided a final breakfast. Larry, Curly, and Moe were being unusually nice. Luisa and Lorena smiled in my direction. Venzia shared a table with me, and I learned she was from New Jersey and usually specialized in writing about fancy food but occasionally would do a series on wine pairings. I should’ve been hanging out with her from the start.
We gathered a last time in the courtyard, the weather too gorgeous to believe, in that sweet spot in the seventies. The whole experience had been surreal, but I had a lot of thinking to do on my way home.
“Well, thank you everyone for joining us,” Donna said. “I look forward to all your videos and stories. As a parting gift, we’ll be sending select bottles to you from among those you sampled. You can also purchase as many as you’d like for half off—just send me an email before midnight.”
Yeah, many of those wines were a hundred dollars a bottle but didn’t really taste like it. I’d need more than half off to make Donna’s day with an order.
Not that I had minded paying full price for Marisol’s Lit Wines.
When I thanked Donna for the experience, she held my hand a little longer than necessary, adding, “I know I can expect a video and some Instagram pictures from you as a way of saying thank-you for this trip.”
Her smile never wavered. Neither did mine.
I’d do what I had agreed to do, even if her attempts to manipulate me made me want to run in the opposite direction. Once I’d made my Vine Friends video, then I would edit Marisol’s video and put it up. If Vine Friends didn’t like that, then so be it.
At first I’d been excited just to be noticed—kinda like that night at the frat party so long ago—but now I was beginning to see who really cared about me and who wanted to piggyback off my unexpected fame. If I were going to really make something of my YouTube channel, then it would have to be on my terms from here on out.
If flying west had been invigorating, flying east brought nothing but exhaustion. Instead of arriving with daylight to spare, I arrived after it was dark, barely able to hold my eyes open. Even so, I made it home thanks to loud sing-along music and rolling the windows down. As I pulled into the driveway, I spied a glint of something green on the front porch thanks to the headlights.
My heart stopped, and I jerked the van into park way too quickly before jumping out and running to the porch to find an irate Lucky. She yowled in indignation, filthy and no doubt flea-bitten. I picked her up anyway and hugged her close. She rewarded me with an impatient purr and sharp claws that pierced my shoulder.
As I walked to the open garage door, she began to wriggle.
“No, ma’am. You are not going to run off from me again.”
I made sure the garage door closed behind me before I gently set her down on the floor. I tried to look her over for any injuries, but she demanded food. I gave her just a little bit for starters and got fresh water, which she lapped at as though she’d been lost in the Sahara instead of suburbia.
Then, and only then, did she allow me to pick her up and inspect her.
There I sat on the floor in the hallway, crisscross applesauce in spite of my skirt, looking over my cat with her matted fur. She suffered my inquiry with ears laid back. Best I could tell, she was fine underneath the dirt and the fleas.
With an unladylike grunt, I clambered to my feet while still holding the cat. As we passed through the bedroom on the way to the primary bath, she wiggled in the direction of the bed. “Oh, no. You’re not sleeping with me until I bathe you.”
She laid both ears back at the word “bathe.”
With one hand on the cat, I carefully ran a lukewarm bath with dishwashing soap in the garden tub. Lucky eyed me warily.
“Look, I haven’t had time to enjoy this tub in at least five years. Think of it as self-care, but for cats.”
Then I gave the cat a bath.
Neither of us enjoyed the tub or the experience.
Only a few scratches later, I had a shiny, fluffy cat who smelled of Dawn. I only wish I’d had someone there to record it, because the Cat Bath Badge had been a struggle—especially the part where I had to get all the mats out of her fur. She hadn’t been happy. I hadn’t been happy.Neither of us had anyone to complain to but each other, and we had. Vociferously.
Once I’d toweled up all the excess water and rinsed out the tub, I let her sleep with me on the bed. She first curled up on the pillow that had once belonged to Mitch. At some point later, she nestled beside me, her purrs comforting me.
Chapter 34
The next morning I sipped my coffee and drummed my fingers on the tabletop. I looked at my phone, wanting to text my mother to tell her that Lucky had returned safely. But I didn’t want her to ignore my text, and that’s what I was afraid she would do.
She had at least texted to let me know she’d made it safely to her destination.
Parker had checked in, too. Coolly, casually, noncommittally.
