She'd been giving the brochure version since June. The rental house, the friends, the kids. The easy answer that fit into small talk.
"Honestly?" She turned her wine glass in her hands. "I'm figuring some things out."
"What kind of things?"
The safe version was on her tongue again. But John was looking at her with that focused attention she'd noticed the first time they'd talked, like he actually wanted to hear the answer, not just fill the silence.
"My marriage ended three years ago," she said. "My ex-husband is getting remarried in a few weeks. To someone who was—around—before things ended. My son is seventeen and angry about all of it, and I'm trying to help him without making it worse. Some days I feel like I'm finally figuring out who I actually am. Other days I feel like I'm just pretending until the next thing falls apart."
The words came out faster than she'd intended. She took a breath.
"Sorry. That was more than you asked for."
"No," John said. "That was exactly what I asked for."
The staff had moved inside now, their voices muffled through the barn doors. The patio was nearly empty except for the two of them, the vineyard stretching dark beyond the tables.
"I understand the figuring-things-out part," John said. "I was married for eighteen years. Divorced for almost ten now. It took me a long time to stop defining myself by the failure of it."
"When did that change?"
"I told you I burned out on corporate life. But I didn't tell you the moment I knew." He traced the rim of his glass with one finger. "I was sitting in a meeting about quarterly projections, and I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd read a book for pleasure. The last time I'd done anything just because I wanted to. That was the day I started planning my exit."
"And everyone thought you were crazy."
"My ex-wife called to tell me I was making a mistake. My kids thought I'd lost my mind." He shrugged. "They've come around. My daughter brought her husband down last summer and spent the whole weekend browsing the shelves and telling me she was proud of me. My son still thinks I should have kept the consulting job, but he also asks for book recommendations now, so I count that as progress."
Someone inside the barn turned off a light, and the patio grew dimmer. The stars were visible now, scattered across the sky in a way they never were back home.
"Can I ask you something?" John said.
"Sure."
"Why did you come tonight? I mean, I'm glad you did. But you could have stayed home, or with your friends. You could have been anywhere."
Lori met his eyes. "Because you invited me," she said. "And I wanted to see you again."
John was quiet. The patio had emptied around them. A breeze stirred the vines.
Then he stood up.
"Come with me," he said.
He led her past the last of the tables, to where a low stone wall separated the flagstones from the vineyard beyond. They walked along the wall for a few yards until they reached a gap, a pathway between the rows of vines.
"The owners don't mind if you walk through," John said. "I've done it a hundred times."
They moved into the vineyard, the vines rising on either side, the leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The path was narrow enough that they had to walk close together. Lori was aware of his shoulder near hers, the sound of his footsteps on the packed earth.
They emerged on the other side into a small clearing, a bench overlooking a pond she hadn't known was there. The water reflected the stars, doubled and scattered across its surface. Fireflies blinked in the grass along the edges.
"I come here sometimes," John said. "When I need to think. Or when I need to stop thinking."
They sat on the bench. The night sounds surrounded them. Crickets, the distant hum of the highway, a bullfrog somewhere near the water.
"I need to say something," John said. "Before I lose my nerve."
Lori looked at him. The starlight caught the silver in his hair, the lines around his eyes, how he was watching her—nervous and hopeful and trying not to show either one.
