But I don’t say anything. I find a relatively sharp key and dig it into the cork of the bottle with the golden label. It takes a couple of tries to get the bottle open—and, as predicted, the cork is in pieces by the end of the process—but finally I succeed. I lift the bottle to my lips and take a nice long swig.
And almost spit it out.
After all the emotions it churned up, after all the trouble it took to snag it, my precious Le Miel Doré is absolutely disgusting. Seriously. I’ve never been a huge wine fan, but this bottle is sour. I might as well have sucked on a lemon.
I must look pretty ridiculous, trying to fight my gag reflex, because even in the moonlight I can tell Ward’s looking at me like I’m insane.
“Want some?” I say, trying to sound casual.
He takes it but looks down at the bottle without drinking.
“I’m not a big fan of wine,” he tells me.
“Me either. But it’s one of the finest and most expensive of Huntington Manor’s very distinguished collection.”
His eyebrows fly up. “You took this from the cellar?”
“What’s the matter? Afraid we’ll get in trouble?” I grab the bottle back and take another swig.
The second taste isn’t much better, but at least I’m prepared this time.
Beside me, Ward laughs. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
This time he takes the bottle without hesitation and takes a long drink. His face wrinkles up.
“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “That stuff is nasty. It tastes like sweaty gym socks.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” I giggle. Suddenly I’m losing it, and Ward’s laughing, too. We’re so loud that I’m afraid one of the security guards might hear us, but I still can’t manage to choke down my laughter. Finally, I’m forced to take drastic measures. The only way to stifle my hysterics is to grab the bottle and take another sip.
“Can you imagine?” I say when I can breathe again. “This is what fourteen hundred dollars’ worth of sour old grapes tastes like.”
He almost spits out his second sip. “Jesus. Can you imagine having so much money that you’d spend fourteen hundred dollars on this crap?”
Yes, I can. But Addison Thomas wouldn’t be able to.
“Maybe that’s why all rich people are such evil bastards,” I say airily, playing my part. “They go around drinking this bile all the time.”
“Mm.” He takes another drink. “So logically it follows that if we drink a bunch of this crap all the time, we’ll turn into rich evil bastards?”
I guess I can’t get any worse at this point.
“There’s only one way to find out.” I take the bottle back and let another long swig slide down my throat.
For a while we just pass the bottle back and forth. I don’t care if I vomit it all up afterward—I’m not going to let a single drop go to waste. This is my wine. Mine and my father’s. And no Edward Carolson or random tourist is ever going to get a sip. Not that I wouldn’t have loved to watch one of them try to stomach this stuff and pretend it was worth every single dollar.
I bet my father would have liked it, though. He always had interesting tastes, especially when it came to drinks.
“Your father?” Ward says.
It takes me a moment to realize I must have muttered that last bit aloud. My mind scrambles for a quick explanation. I don’t really need one, though. Ward has no reason to suspect anything.
“He just loved wine,” I say.
“Too bad you fucked up that cork,” he says. “We might have sent him the rest of this crap.”
I let my fingers move across the gold design on the label. No reason to hide it—it won’t automatically implicate me.
“He’s dead,” I say.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He sits back, subdued a little.
A somber silence stretches between us. I’m not used to talking about my father. And I’m definitely not used to using the word dead. It’s been more than a year—when does it start to feel real? When does that word become something more than a shadow, a nightmare? My mom died when I was young—far too young to even remember her face or voice. It was simple, in that weird, abstract way, to think of her as dead. But my father… I knew my father as something vibrant. Something alive. I’m still having trouble grasping the fact that he’s gone forever.
“How long has it been?” Ward asks.
I pull at the corner of the wine label. “A year and a half in August.”
“People say it gets easier, but it takes longer than they tell you.” He takes the bottle from me again. “My mom died a couple of years ago.”
I look over at him.
“Cancer,” he continues. “She was sick for a long time before that.” He takes a longer drink than usual. “She raised me on her own, so we only ever had each other, you know?”
My stomach twists. “I’m so sorry.” I twine my fingers in the grass beside me. “My father raised us alone, too. My mom died when I was a baby.”
“Us?”
“Me and C—Calvin. My brother.” Calvin? Geez, that was a close one. I rush on, trying to bury my little stumble. “I just—I guess I always thought I’d be older when it happened. Or that I’d be more, I don’t know… prepared.”
He shakes his head. “It’s supposed to be hard. That pain is what drives us forward.”
Forward? I’m not so sure. But it definitely drove me somewhere—right into Ian’s arms. And then Ward’s. And then Ian’s again. The guilt rises up in my throat, as sour as the wine, to fight with the grief. For a minute I think I’m actually going to be sick, but I fight it down. Then I grab the wine and take an extra-long drink, draining the rest of it.
By the time I’ve swallowed every last drop, my eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness to make out the strange look Ward’s giving me.
“Is that why you’re out here?” he asks finally. “Something remind you of him?”
“What?” I mean, of course. Everything here reminds me of him. But I’m guessing that’s not what he’s talking about. I grab the second bottle and give the cork the key treatment.
He pulls the bottle out of my hand as soon as it’s open. “I mean, most people don’t just randomly steal a fourteen hundred dollar bottle of wine.” He looks at me just a little too long, and goose bumps ripple across my skin. “Or was it something else?”