Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to update some of Lorna’s indoor displays. Have the floor buffed. That line of people might be there because of the deal on the business cards he’d handed out, but what about a long-term plan? For Corked and Vos Vineyard? Instead of working on Wexler’s book this morning, he’d had a meeting with the bookkeeper and, with Corinne’s approval, had shifted some of their financial priorities. This year would be less about producing stock and more about selling what was already on shelves. Once they had the revenue in place, they could make the necessary improvements to come back better than ever.
Julian was busy making calculations in his head when he ran past the stump.
He stopped so quickly, dirt kicked up in the air.
A new letter?
His immediate instinct was to keep jogging. Don’t pick it up. Don’t open it. Hallie was not on the other end of these notes. After last night, they seemed to be at even more distinct odds than before. Just two people who’d traded heavy personal secrets in a vineyard. Two people who’d completely lost their minds one night and pleasured themselves together in his kitchen. Who couldn’t seem to stop colliding. He would almost certainly return to Stanford with the sense that he’d left behind unfinished business, but that couldn’t be helped, could it?
He’d have to simply . . . live with it.
How?
They would never again have a conversation like the one they’d had the night of the storm. Or while picking grapes on his family’s land. Exchanges he continued to replay over and over in his head, trying to make sense out of them being so different while finding it so easy to understand each other. So much so that when he’d written his letter back to the secret admirer, his words were almost a period on the end of his conversations with Hallie. It was hard not to crave a response to that, even if it wasn’t coming from her.
The letter was in his hand before he realized he’d picked it up.
“Fuck.”
Julian started running again, through the cool, twisting haze escaping down off the mountain. The sun broke through the mist in fragments and cracks, a rolling spotlight over different sections of the vines. Beneath his feet, the earth was solid, and Julian was grateful for that, because holding the letter caused anticipation and dread to war in his middle all the way back to the house. On the off chance Natalie was awake before two p.m. on a weekend, he tucked the envelope into his pocket on the way to his bedroom, making it there without incident.
After closing the door behind him, he stripped off his sweaty shirt and placed it in the hamper. Toed off his running shoes and paced the floor beside the king-size bed. Finally, he couldn’t stand the unknown anymore. He took the letter out of his pocket and broke the seal.
Dear Julian,
There was one part of your response that stuck out to me. That there are events or people in our lives that force us to become the next version of ourselves. Are we all constantly fighting that change to something new and unfamiliar? Is that why, no matter what we do in our personal or professional lives, somehow it’s never done with full confidence? There’s always the fear of being wrong. Or maybe we’re afraid to be right and make progress, because that means change. And moving forward is hard, like you said. Scary. Lately, I think moving forward as an adult means accepting that bad things happen and there’s not always something you can do to avoid or fix it. Is having that knowledge the final change? If so, what is beyond that bitter pill? No wonder we’re digging in our heels.
As I’m writing this, I’m starting to wonder if the longer we fight change in ourselves, the less time we have to live as better people. Or at least more self-aware people.
I propose that we both do something that scares us this week.
Secretly Yours
“Fuck,” Julian said again, finding himself on the edge of the bed, without remembering exactly when he’d sat down. Once again, he was completely and utterly intrigued by this person’s letter, and yet, he wanted to tear it up and burn it in the fireplace. Not only because he alternated between hearing the words in Hallie’s voice and feeling immense guilt for reading it in the first place. But more so because the letter challenged him. He hadn’t accepted or denied the challenge yet. Still, his veins felt like they’d been pumped full of static.
Something that scares us.
Julian left the letter on his bed, but mentally carried it into the shower. Then into his office, where he once again sat in front of the blinking cursor for hours. At some point, he heard Natalie stumble out of her room for sustenance, before going straight back in. Finally, he gave up attempting to concentrate on anything else and returned to his bedroom, picking up the letter and trying to find some sort of clue in the handwriting, something about the basic stationery and ink color that might identify the author. Maybe if he could just meet this person face-to-face, he could confirm whether or not that attraction ran both ways. For some reason, he hoped it wouldn’t. But nonetheless, they could be friends, right?