Blame it on the Vodka (Blame it on the Alcohol)

I trusted Austin, and that did crazy things to the intensity behind all our fucking. We were almost desperate, falling on each other every chance we got. Which had me intrigued about how we would be this weekend at his grandparents.

“Yup. And apples.”

“Austin the apple-picker.”

“And cow-milker.”

“No wonder you’re so good with breasts,” I teased.

His dirty smile created havoc between my legs. It always did, and each time it blew me away that I never knew Austin was so capable of that kind of smile.

Actually, in the last few hours, I’d realized how little I knew about him. How had I missed so much? Despite both of us apologizing for our hurtful words in Vegas that morning, sometimes it still crept back in. Sometimes, it made me doubt.

Maybe there was some truth behind them. He called me selfish, and here I was with my best friend, and I didn’t even know he grew up picking apples and milking cows.

“What’s your favorite apple,” I asked, determined to know everything there was.

“Granny Smith or McIntosh.”

“Ohmygaaaaahd,” I groaned. “Granny Smith is so good. Especially when it’s with—”

“Peanut butter,” Austin finished.

“Exactly.”

“My grandpa will love you.”

“I mean, who wouldn’t?” I flipped my hair and batted my lashes.

“So modest,” he said, laughing.

“Okay, so your grandma and grandpa ran the farm, but your grandma went to college and was the accountant?”

“Yup. He said she was the brains to keep it all going.”

“Most women are,” I said with a wink before scrolling my mind for any more facts I should know. “I know all the basics. You were the high school football star, worked on the yearbook staff, and were voted most popular. Wait,” I gasped. “Were you prom king?”

“Runner up.”

I gasped again with my hand to my chest. “Those fools.”

“I know. Assholes.”

“So, is there anything else I should know?”

“Rae, you’ve known me for years. We’ll be fine. Don’t stress.

It was easy for him to say. He knew everything about me because he was an unselfish friend that listened to me ramble on and on about myself and gave in to my whims of facials and shows I liked.

“Besides, we’re here.” The crunch of the tires against gravel pulled me out of my self-loathing and doubt.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I’d lived most of my life in the city and traveled the world, but the knowledge I had about a farm came from movies at best.

The small house in front of me didn’t disappoint. It was a two-story farmhouse, all white, with the cutest front porch and swing. It was worn but well-loved and adorned with the most beautiful pink flowers hanging in pots. What I hadn’t seen in movies or expected was the rolling hills behind the house with a few mountains rising up in the distance.

“This is beautiful,” I breathed.

“It’s home.”

Austin parked the car, but neither of us moved. We sat there, taking in the house and all the land beyond it.

“It was my great-great—probably few more greats—grandpa’s home. It’d only been a cattle farm for years until my grandma came along and suggested apples.”

“Smart woman.”

“Yeah, it sure kept them afloat.”

“What do you mean?”

He heaved a sigh. “Until recently, I wasn’t sure they’d be able to keep it.”

“What? Why?”

“My grandpa had heart issues a few years back, and they needed to take out a loan to cover the costs. At the same time, they expanded the loan to cover repairs. They used the house as collateral, which is totally normal, except their loan got sold to someone who wanted to use the land for commercial use and tried to push them out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped.” Again, guilt that I hadn’t known—that he’d carried the stress alone—pricked at my conscience. Had I been so self-absorbed that I missed it?

“I guess it just never came up. But it doesn’t matter because it’s paid in full now.”

“Good, but next time, tell me these things.”

“What could you have done, Rae?”

“I could have been there for you. I’m your friend.”

He faced me for the first time since we parked, his eyes both bright and dark at the same time. I sat taller under the intensity of his gaze.

“You’re my wife.”

He wasn’t wrong, but the words still managed to compress in on my chest. He said them with so much confidence and determination that I almost nodded, wanting them to be true.

But they weren’t, I mean, they were, but they also weren’t. We were married, but that was different from being a wife.

I was about to correct him when the screen door to the porch slammed, pulling my attention to the house. An older couple stood on the porch until Austin stood from the car, and then the woman quickly made her way over to envelope him in a hug.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she said, pulling his hulking height down into her hug.