Cream of the Crop
Page 84

“Your mother was nice. Your father, too. But the rest of those people?” He tossed back the rest of his scotch. “They were all assholes.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, fire creeping into my face.
“I’m sorry, too. Your little social circle is filled with jerk-offs.”
“You don’t even know them. How can you make judgments about people you just met?” I asked. “I’ve known some of these people for years. Maybe they’re not close friends, but I’ve spent time with them. We see each other at all the same parties, all the same restaurants, all the same events. Maybe they’re a little snooty at times, and a bit judgmental, but . . .”
Huh. Some of them were assholes, actually. But still, they were my assholes. Wait, that sounded terrible.
I changed course. “Oscar, I know you like to say what you want, when you want, at the exact second you have a thought. But sometimes you have to take a minute and think about what you’re saying, and if it’s necessary, and are you hurting anyone when you say it!”
“It hasn’t been a problem yet,” he answered.
I slammed my hand down on the counter. “It is a problem if I can’t take you out without worrying if you’re going to be an asshole!”
“Ahhhh,” he said, setting his drink down and taking a few steps closer. “That’s what this is about: not knowing how the guy from the sticks is going to behave at one of your bullshit cocktail parties.”
“Is that what you really think of me?” I whispered, feeling tears spring to my eyes.
“Why’d you talk to Brannigan’s about me? Tell the truth, now.”
“I already told you: because I wanted to help you! They’re one of the fastest-growing brands in the country, and they can put your product on shelves in cities all over the place. Why wouldn’t you want that?”
He slammed his hand on the counter. “Because I don’t need that! I don’t need to be on everyone’s shelves, I don’t need to be ‘in,’ and I don’t need some rich girl in Chicago to tell me that my cheese is good. I know it’s fucking good. Why does Bailey Falls Creamery need to be a household name?”
I blinked, surprised by his vehemence. “What’s wrong with being a household name?”
“I was supposed to be a household name! Me!” he yelled, pounding his chest. “And I didn’t want it! I didn’t want it then, and I don’t want it now. What the hell is wrong with everyone these days? Everything has to be bigger and brighter and better—when is it enough?”
“No one is saying that it has to be that, Oscar. I only thought that—”
“All my father wanted from me was to be a famous football player. Always number one; coming in second wasn’t an option. I got drafted for the National Football League, Natalie—and the first thing he said when it didn’t happen until the second round was that he hoped when it was my younger brother’s turn, he’d go in the first round.” He paced around the kitchen, getting wound tighter and tighter. “Do you have any idea how proud I am of what I’m doing now? I love what I do. We’re making some money, sure, but people love that fucking cheese. It’s really good, and that’s saying something.”
“It is really good, and you know how much I love it, too. But for God’s sake, Oscar, sometimes it’s okay to let someone help you. I can put your product on shelves across the country: why wouldn’t you want that?”
“Because I don’t. And that should be enough for you.”
I dug my hands into my hair, closing my eyes in frustration, trying to understand.
“And if that’s not enough for you, then maybe I’m not enough for you.”
What? My eyes snapped open, not sure what I’d heard. “What are you saying?”
“Come on, Natalie—where is this going? Huh?”
I felt punched in the gut. “Wait, hold on. We’re deciding this now? What do you mean, where is this going? We’re having fun, we’re enjoying each other—what’s wrong with that?”
He nodded, crossing the kitchen toward me, reaching out with one hand. “Yeah, we are, and it’s great. But come on, you live in the city; I don’t. I’m not moving here. For me, everything is in Bailey Falls.”
“Sure,” I nodded dully, feeling nothing now except the warmth of his hand. “Sure, you’ve got the cows.”
“I’ve got my life,” he corrected, “and you’ve got yours. Unless you’d consider . . .” He trailed off, his eyes hopeful.
“Unless?”
“You’d consider moving upstate.”
And there it was.
Move upstate, giving up everything else, uproot everything I know and love and worked my ass off to get—sacrifice it all, for a man.
Tears spilled over, sudden and hot, and then there I was, hands shaking, taking him into my arms and telling him no, no, I can’t do that.
Because no matter what, that was the one thing I’d never, ever do again.
And then he’s kissing me, kissing my tears away and telling me he understands, and then he’s picking me up and wrapping his arms around me and taking me back to the bedroom and he’s loving me, and he’s loving my body and he’s peeling off my dress and he’s making me naked and warm and his hands are running all over my perfectly imperfect body, and he’s so warm and he’s so tender and he’s so gentle and his body is so incredibly strong, and maybe it’s strong enough and maybe he’s strong enough and maybe he’s strong enough for both of us, and maybe I could just consider that maybe, possibly, I could think about this some more . . . But then no, no, no I can’t do that because I can be strong, too, and I can be strong on my own and for myself, and oh yes, oh no, and now he’s loving me so hard because he knows I can take it, and so sweet because he knows that I need that, too, and it’s too much and not enough all over again . . .