Before long, the train that wasn’t speeding anyway, slows down even more until it comes to a halt. A voice announces over a loudspeaker. “Domaine Chandon. One-hour stop.”

“Let’s go. Lots to do in an hour,” says Ethan and I follow him off the train.

I’ve been to a couple of East Coast wineries, but this is one of the most impressive estates I’ve seen. Lush gardens, acres of vines, and a mansion-like property in the center of it all.

“Domaine Chandon was the first winery to be established in the United States by the French wine and spirits producer, Moët Hennessy,” says one of the guides, a tall, loud woman.

The rest of our travel companions gather around her. We’re all now standing in a semi-circle, listening to her talk about Chandon’s history. From time to time, I glance at Ethan, and he looks just as ‘entertained’ as I am. It’s not that I’m not into the history of the winery, I am, but—

“Come,” he says and reaches out his hand as if to take mine. I follow, but I keep my hands to myself. “This way,” he says, unfazed by my reaction. “I think.”

Sometimes, if not most of the time lately, there’s this quiet, invisible tension between us. What am I saying? It’s not even subtle or hidden anymore. It’s loud, deafening.

We pass by an expansive lawn where a private event of a few hundred people is in full swing, walk through a clearing and go around a patio that’s blasting Eighties pop songs.

Ethan starts mock dancing and mouthing ‘I’m so excited’ as we walk, and I can’t help but burst out into laughter. He’s such a clown. “About to lose control… I think I like it,” he bellows.

A woman dressed elegantly, who’s dancing on the patio, stops and stares at us and it’s not a friendly stare. She says something to the man she’s with and he takes a step toward us.

“Oops, we’re in trouble,” says Ethan. He grabs my hand and pulls me behind an old oak.

My back against the tree, Ethan inches from me, my hand in his, the exuberance of this adventure takes my breath away. Sparks fly around us. Invisible sparks, but I see them. Does he?

Our eyes meet and he holds my gaze for a second, before stepping back and letting go of my hand. “We’re kind of trespassing on a wedding it seems. But I wanted us to explore this place, not just stand there and listen. Let’s see what’s over there,” he says.

Right behind the trees is a cave. Nobody’s around, but we can still hear the music. There’s a small body of water below it and next to it, stone steps.

“Want to see where they take us?” he asks and points at the stairs.

“Sure.”

It’s a terrace with iron tables, each with two chairs and a bouquet of flowers in the center.