12
MITCHELL
Adam Sullivan peers at me through his dark-rimmed glasses from his sleek leather chair across the room. He’s got a notebook on his lap, a pen in the crevice between pages. An open can of Coke sits on the glass coffee table in front of him, though I haven’t seen him take a drink.
Meanwhile, my throat’s parched.
Refreshed and energized from a full night’s sleep and somewhat unsteady from the kiss with Bryn and then finding her with my pictures and pills, I entered his office an hour prior, ready to spill my guts. Despite my being late, Adam still accommodated me, and thank God he did, because I hadn’t realized how much I needed to speak to someone until he said, Tell me why you’re here.
Perched on a thick window sill in one of his front windows—because on his couch, in the middle of the room, I felt examined like an animal in a zoo—I recapped everything about my past. How I’m floundering after moving back home, that my sleep is suffering. How I hesitated about contacting him because we know each other. I even told him about Bryn. Peering down onto the town square, watching locals and tourists alike taking breaks on park benches, with seemingly uncomplicated lives, I recounted the way she looked at me after she saw those pills in my kitchen drawer. What I saw in her eyes was the reflection of the stigma my diagnosis bears: the assumptions, the imaginative heroic story concocted, and the stereotype of the unstable soldier with PTSD.
I’m not the first soldier who’s been plagued with the kind of insomnia that once caused hallucinations, but I thought the worst of it was over. Naively, I made myself believe that coming home would slowly erase the PTSD, that the change in environment would magically repair the broken parts of me that still worried and regretted.
But I don’t really know if there’s a way to win this battle. I’m starting to think a truce might be the best I can manage.
“What do you think, Doc? Do I need to take my meds again?” My voice cracks. I am trying to make light of something I know isn’t. It bounces off the gray walls and black furnishings and the plush rug underneath two short couches and the coffee table.
Adam takes off his glasses and folds them. He looks at me intently through familiar brown eyes. He’d spent many days at Dunford, stood by Levi when my mother, and then father, died. At Levi’s wedding, he was best man. The person who was once a scraggly teenage kid is now a tidied-up, button-downed professional. Before today, we barely said two sentences to one another. Now he knows more about me than my brothers do.
His voice is steady and soothing. “You tell me, Mitch. Because I can’t force those medicines down your throat. You’ve had your medications in your possession all this time, and they’re prescribed to be taken as needed. And yet, you haven’t. So what’s stopping you? And why are you doubting yourself?”
“I don’t know.” Adam’s last sentence jabs at my conscience, and it’s so much of the truth in so many levels that I have to take a second to regroup. “I lulled myself into believing that me not sleeping was just part of the transition of coming home. But now I think maybe there’s more to it. To be honest, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with Dunford, and I think that’s bringing back some of the memories, the worry. And yeah, the doubts. But I don’t want to slide backward.”
“Then I’d say you’ve come so far already by acknowledging this, and that’s a good thing. What else? Can you tell me what steps you want to take? Can we make a plan?” He picks up his pen for the first time and jots something in his notebook.
“I want to see if I can cope without these pills. Not because I don’t believe in them, because I do. But I want to try to get better using the tools I have. I can meditate more—I learned some techniques at my last duty station. Getting my hands dirty will help, too. Talking things out with people. I’d also like to keep coming back here.”
He nods. “These are all good things. Let’s make a deal: come to see me once a week. Practice the things you know work: exercise, being out on the vineyard, the meditation and breathing techniques you mentioned. If you find something else that relaxes you, something new, try it. But keep your meds on the counter. Don’t tuck them out of sight. Take them if you need to. And I promise if I see you’re not coping well, I’ll suggest a different course of action.”
Adam’s watch beeps, and as if it signaled turning to a blank, hopeful page, the room brightens.
“That’s time for us,” he says with a smile. “I’m glad you came, Mitch. I understand your initial reservations about coming to me because we were childhood acquaintances. However, I’m committed to providing you the best support I can. I hope you’ll keep coming back, but I understand if you decide to seek care elsewhere.”
I push my hands on my knees to stand, and to my surprise, I feel lighter. I approach him and shake his hand. “Thank you for saying that, but I think I’m good.” I smile. “I’ll be back in a few days.”
“I have a call service if you need me anytime in between.” He opens his door.
I nod, taking the steps down to the main floor two at a time, with my first semblance of relief since moving back home. Like I’ve finished up a marathon: spent, hungry, and having accomplished something monumental.
I turn on my phone as I walk back to Dunford. It blows up with notifications from texts since I dropped off Bryn’s things a couple of hours ago. From Granny:
1:42 pm: This is your granny. This is twice now I’ve seen you on my little phone.
1:55 p.m.: Mitchell David Dunford, you had better call your grandmother back.
2:07 pm: Mitchie? Call your granny back, or you will be in trouble, mister.
I scroll through a text from Levi:
Funny story: Ruby was watching this live stream on her phone, a new food show on her favorite channel. The house looks exactly like Lavenderhill. And the shirt the woman was wearing looked so much like your Berkeley T-shirt. You know, the one you stole from me when you left for school.
No, you didn’t, Mitch. No, you didn’t.
And a text from Cody:
It’s your turn to get in trouble. Tag, you’re it!
I scrub down my face with a hand, feeling the stubble on my chin. What a mess. Bryn has officially turned Dunford upside down. And yet this fascinating woman gave me ten glorious hours of darkness, without a blip of interruption. No dreams, no sudden lurches. I didn’t wake up in a river of sweat, heart at running speed. I didn’t have to talk myself down from an anxiety attack that took an hour’s worth of energy, bringing on an exhaustion that peaked before lunchtime.
Sure, it could have been the wine. I drank the equivalent of a bottle, easily. But alcohol usually doesn’t do anything for me but land my ass on the couch to stare off into the distance. At most, it puts me to bed, but doesn’t keep me there. The only possible answer is Bryn.
Logic tells me to disassociate myself from her, to cut off this live stream pronto, and focus on Dunford solely. My body, however, needs more nights with this woman. For the sleep, for the kisses, for the banter. To make me feel like I did this morning.
Alive.
Which makes this relationship highly complicated.
I crest the hill of Mountainridge. A stranger is at the front door, finger hovering over the doorbell. It’s a woman in dark glasses, dressed in a white shirt, slacks, and shiny high heels.
“Ma’am? How can I help you?”
Seeing me, the woman pushes her glasses up to the crown of her head. “Mr. Dunford.”
King Lear appears at my side, body flush against my leg. The woman glances down and visibly tenses, losing her words. At the slight snarl on her lips, I joke, “Don’t worry, he won’t bite.”
The woman’s expression doesn’t change, but she takes half a step backward. “I’m allergic to cats.”
King Lear lies down at my feet, staking his claim, and the two begin a silent staring contest that has me reeling in disbelief and impatience.
I clear my throat. “How can I help you?”
Her eyes hike up to mine, as if remembering why she’s there. She thrusts a hand between us. “Laurel Han of Food Right Now. I wanted to reach out about Paradise in the Making.”
I already don’t like the sound of her eager singsong voice. “You’re who’s streaming Bryn’s renovation.”
“Bingo.” My projected enthusiasm must be lacking because her smile falters. “I’m here to offer you a business opportunity with the show.”
I shake my head and snicker. This is unbelievable. This woman has the gall to trudge up here and pitch her show, after the fact. “I can tell you right now—I’m not interested. Your presence is a total breach of privacy, and it should have never been approved. I wouldn’t have agreed had I been informed. You’ll have to excuse me now, I have a vineyard calling for me. You’ll hear from my lawyer.” I head to the front door.
“Mr. Dunford, I’m not here for my own benefit. Your brother Levi contacted me this morning with a proposition I must say is genius. I happened to be on the road and thought to come by in person to discuss it with your entire partnership. In fact, I’ve set up an appointment for all of us to be on the call.”
My head spins at Laurel’s energetic speech, and a roar threatens to burst out of me. Levi’s still trying to fucking micromanage me from nearly three thousand miles away. I look up at the sky and silently scream at the clouds passing overhead, at my father for trusting his sons’ ability to share Dunford’s ownership equally. Why didn’t he simply split up Dunford into equal thirds? Why can’t my brother leave me the hell alone?
“Mr. Dunford?”
Laurel’s voice pulls me back down to earth. Though my heart’s still pounding, I’m now calm enough to motion for her to follow me, although reluctantly. I fiddle with the lock and turn the brass knob of the front door.
She steps in after me, and says when she crosses the threshold, “Wow, this is beautiful. I’ve got to admit the outside is slightly dour in comparison.”
“The rustic exterior is part of the charm.”
“And I see a gorgeous kitchen over there. Nice.” She heads to the living room. “Oh my, the view!”
“Everyone gets stuck right at that exact spot.” I shake my head, the small talk about as distracting as mosquitos. “Can we get on with this?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I can put everyone on Skype. You okay with that?”
“Perfect.”
I press a few buttons on the TV remote control, and the ring of the other line echoes through the house.
“Finally.” Levi’s face appears on the television, and his voice booms against the wood and glass. I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Hold on for Cody.” I create a three-way call, and hear Cody’s line ringing, but he doesn’t answer. I sigh, then motion Laurel to the camera’s view. “I have Laurel Han here, Levi. She tells me you two have talked.” I settle onto the couch, knowing I’ll need to sit for the rest of this call.
“Ah. Hello, Laurel.”
“Levi, you’ve put me in a pretty awkward situation here. By the way your brother’s looking at me, I get the feeling you didn’t talk to him about your proposal this morning.” She frowns. “And quite honestly, I don’t appreciate it.”
Inwardly, I laugh. It’s nice for someone else to bust my big brother’s balls.
“I’m sorry, Laurel. But I had my reasons. One, the guy wouldn’t have listened to me at all. And two, he’s the kind of gentleman who wouldn’t be rude to you if you showed up in person. Isn’t that right?”
I sigh.
“Okay, then. Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, brother. Seeing as you decided on your own to take on a lease without discussing it with us, I took it upon myself to fix this precarious situation you put us all in. Laurel?”
I glance at Laurel, and she avoids my eyes. A prickly heat crawls up my neck.
She clears her throat and starts to pace as she speaks, heels clicking on the cement. “We noticed a spike in the ratings, a massive one, yesterday afternoon, when Bryn had some issues with the garden and someone stepped in and helped her. In the chaos, we couldn’t tell much about that person except that it was a man, wearing shorts, who had shaggy hair, but the viewers were highly interested in the interaction. The comments on the feed—which is one way we gauge viewership—increased significantly.”
I keep my face still, not wanting to give myself away. I was in front of the camera for maybe a few minutes before Bryn informed me of their presence.
“And today . . . today when the camera caught a quick glimpse of you when you came down from your place and dropped off Bryn’s stuff, we—me, your brother, and my boss, and the viewers—put it all together that yesterday’s mystery guy was you.” Her eyes flick upward. “Your hair was a giveaway.”
I brush the comment off, though I don’t like the eagerness in her tone. “And?”
“The jump in viewership and the comments this morning was undeniable proof. There’s a lot of interest in you. And specifically, you and Bryn. Together.”
“I don’t understand where this is going.”
She sighs. “There was a great reluctance to doing this live stream program because video content is sometimes too raw. Unedited content can at times be boring. But the viewers aren’t bored now. The avalanche of views and comments this morning was confirmation of our suspicions from yesterday.”
I interrupt. “This is ridiculous. Can we get to the point—”
Laurel looks at me, and it shuts me up. “Viewers want to see more on the screen. They want to see Bryn with someone.” She throws her hands up, exasperated. “Okay, dammit, Mitchell. The viewers, whoever they are, are playing cupid and you are their target. They love Bryn because she’s got her own way of doing life, but they love it more when she’s interacting with you. I mean, look at you, man.”
I’m stunned.
“I say that in the most professional way. I personally don’t go for that cocky-on-the-outside-but-brooding-on-the-inside kind of persona.”
I cough out a laugh. “I’m brooding on the inside?”
“As if you don’t know. Yes, you are.”
“She’s right, brother,” Levi says.
“Eff you, Levi.”
Laurel rolls her eyes. “The viewers’ comments are pretty straightforward. They want to see if you and Bryn can be a thing. We’re afraid if you don’t keep showing up in the stream, our viewers will lose interest altogether. You’ve upped the ante. Getting you on board doesn’t just spice things up, it also guarantees the viewers keep coming.”
I cross my arms. “On board? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means doing the live stream with Bryn . . . and . . . maybe purposely hanging out with her. Maybe flirt with her. Get her to like you back.”
My eyes widen as I realize what she’s asking me to do. “Oh, hell no.”
“We had about five minutes of footage of both of you yesterday, and thirty seconds this morning. The camera was mostly on Bryn, but her reaction toward you made it pretty clear you’re like hot oil and drops of cold water. You sizzle on-screen.”
My brother laughs. “Sizzle-shmizzle, because once you hear what Laurel can offer us, Mitch, you’ll be turned on enough to fake it if you have to.”
Laurel sinks into the couch, nose wrinkling at Levi’s comment. She turns to me. “There are pros to this. The name of your vineyard will be all over the stream. The camera, with your permission, can track Bryn both outside and inside of your house, and everyone will get to see your gorgeous, historic property. And there’s the financial benefit, a generous compensation rate adjusted to the number of viewers. If the viewers double consistently like they did for us yesterday, I can informally guarantee it will be worth your time.”
The air gusts out of me. Money. We can plant more vines, or reconfigure the business as we need. I can propose returning Dunford into the winery it once was because I can hire the experts I need.
But the privacy, the lying.
Levi’s voice refocuses me. “Brother, this is exactly what we need, and you know it. You wanted income, and here it is on a platter.”
I direct my next question to Laurel. “Does she know about this?” She, as in Bryn. I can’t imagine her agreeing to this.
Laurel looks away. “No. I thought to have this discussion with you prior to talking to her. I was thinking . . . maybe we shouldn’t. She’s only wanted authenticity on air, and she might not do well knowing what we’re planning.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do this behind her back.”
Levi’s voice shakes impatiently. “We’re not saying you should lie. You can just go with the flow with her, you know? From the looks of it this morning, you’re already a step in the door—”
“You’re out of line, Levi.”
“You’ve seen our books. You know how much it takes for Dunford to run. Don’t tell me that your sense of righteousness is going to be the thing that keeps us from saving our home.”
My brother’s words are a punch to the gut, rendering me speechless. Am I being selfish? Or am I to be a soldier again, and give up my notion of self for the greater good of family and home?
Had I not found out about the live stream, Bryn would have continued to lie to me and felt justified. Why can’t I do the same thing? And didn’t I want to spend more time with Bryn anyway? Truth is, I wouldn’t have to fake it. I do want to get to know her more, see if the kiss we had was a fluke, a grateful moment. And I’m curious as hell to see if we can re-create more nights of sleep for me.
This whole arrangement feels wrong even if the deal has the potential to be lucrative for both Paraiso and Dunford. Even if, in the end, this deal could be the difference between Dunford surviving or failing. But under the pressure of my older brother on the screen—the guy who I leaned into, looked up to when we lost both parents—I swallow my doubts. “Fine. I’m in.”