“Maybe I shouldn’t work at the winery,” she said. “Maybe that’s just making it harder for us.”

“No—no, don’t stay away.” Then I’d never see her—a thought I couldn’t bear. “I’m sorry I said anything.”

“Okay.”

I heard a sniffle. Was she crying? My chest felt ready to break open at the thought that I’d made her sad. What the fuck was wrong with me?

“Goodnight, Henry,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Goodnight.” I ended the call and tossed my phone aside, frustrated at the way the universe was fucking with me.

At the thought of going to bed alone every night for the rest of my life and wishing she was beside me.

At the gut feeling, deep in my bones, that I’d fallen in love with Sylvia without even trying.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

22. Sylvia

Twenty-Two

Sylvia

On Thursday morning, as soon as I’d gotten the kids to school, I threw on all my warmest winter gear and raced over to the winery. It was a sunny day, but freezing cold, with air that stung the inside of your nose and bit at your lungs when you inhaled. Still, my body warmed with anticipation as I counted down the last few minutes before I’d see Henry again.

His truck was in the lot, and my heart pounded harder at the sight of it. I’d missed him so much when I was away. I’d struggled with the decision to call him while I was gone—part of me knew I should just let the guy be—but in the end, I’d so longed to hear the sound of his voice that I’d broken down and reached out. He had this way of calming even the worst chaos in my head, of helping me keep things in perspective, of reminding me what really mattered. He knew how to make me laugh too, even at the most difficult times. I always felt understood with Henry. Accepted for who I was, faults and all. I never would have gotten through the last six weeks without his friendship.

When I’d gone to see him in the vineyard that first time after New Year’s, I’d been stunned when he told me he was still willing to coach me. I thought once I told him there couldn’t be anything romantic between us, he might get angry. Resentful. Bitter.

But he hadn’t. He’d been sweet and understanding. Undeniably disappointed, but without making me feel bad about things I couldn’t change. He’d comforted me. He’d taken me in his arms and reassured me that I wasn’t a terrible person—I was human, I was doing the right thing, and I was forgiven.