The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(73)

Heath pulled out his phone, tapped something in and handed it to Poppy. “Here. Read this.”

Poppy’s body stiffened like a corpse.

Heath knew her impediment better than anyone. How could he put her on the spot like this? Surely everyone could see the panic on her face.

You’re not stupid, she told herself firmly. But her shame at being dyslexic was still paralyzing sometimes, especially when she had to read out loud, in public. And not being able to control her shame made her feel guilty. Inadequacy, shame, guilt. A vicious cycle.

For once, Heath held her gaze. “Poppy,” he said evenly. “You’ve got this.”

She felt his strength seep into her, igniting a warmth that stole through her body. Gingerly, she reached for the phone and bowed her head over the screen. The letters of the alphabet swam and shifted before coalescing into a pattern of rune-like shapes.

“Deep breath,” Red said gently.

Dutifully, she inhaled. “Clarkston High School Ten Year Reunion. Saturday, December 15, 8 pm,” she read haltingly. “The Radish Rose. Dinner and dancing. RSVP to Demi Barnes, Reunion Committee Chairman.”

“So, who’s in?” asked Red.

“I am,” sang Keval with a wave of his fingers.

Of course Keval would go to the reunion. Reunions were made for people like him. Following four years of exceptionally awkward adolescence, Keval was a walking “it gets better” ad.

“It’ll be good for business,” said Junie. “I don’t get out enough as it is, what with running both the vineyard and the winery.”

Red looked at Poppy. “What about you?”

“Think I’ll pass.” She handed Heath’s phone back and attempted to bolt, but Red stopped her with a hand on her forearm.

“Aw, come on. It’ll be fun! Dancing, seeing people you haven’t seen in forever . . .”

“That’s after Poppy’s test. She might be chillin’ in some Portland penthouse overlooking the river by then,” said Keval.

Maybe not a penthouse, but she’d better have some place in her sights. Because if she didn’t, that would mean she had flunked the test and failed to get the sommelier position. And that Demi had been right about her all along.

“She can come back for it,” said Red. “It’s only an hour’s drive.”

Still perched on the edge of the booth, Poppy asked Heath, “Are you going?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

Heath had come a long way since his own senior superlative: Most likely to blow something up. On the watch list of the Clarkston F.D. since sixth grade, when his attempt to build a geyser with a pack of Mentos, a liter of soda, and duct tape worked a little too well.

Poppy smiled to herself, forgetting her own problems for a moment. Heath had always been somewhat of an enigma.

Their teachers murmured to each other that he was a science prodigy. Who could forget his Edible Skin Layers Cake made from Fruit Roll-Ups (epidermis), Jell-o (dermis), and mini marshmallows (hypodermis)? Rumor was, he’d aced his college boards. Yet he’d tossed out all those scholarship letters without opening them. And now beer drinkers all over the Pacific Northwest couldn’t get enough of his ales with names like Newberg Neutral and Ribbon Ridge Red.

But when it came to social skills, there was a sweet innocence about Heath that made him hard to get close to.

Junie didn’t waste her breath pressuring Heath to go to the reunion. Everyone knew he’d rather face an angry rattlesnake than make chitchat at a party. Instead she focused on persuading Poppy. “Don’t you want to see all the people we went to school with?”

“I’ve never stopped seeing most of them,” replied Poppy. Even during the four years she worked in Portland, she’d still lived with her parents. “For everyone else, there’s Facebook.”

“A lot has happened over the last decade. Some people went away, some got married, had kids, got divorced, won and lost jobs . . .” mused Red. “People change.”

“Exactly. That part of my life is behind me. I don’t feel the need to see how I’m measuring up.”

“But how can it hurt?” pleaded Keval. “Come on, Poppykins. It won’t be any fun without you.”

She set her jaw. Finally, she said to Heath, “Hand me that yearbook.”

Rain pelted the windows, and there was the rumble of distant thunder.

Poppy thumbed through the pages until she found what she was looking for. She laid the open book in the middle of the table and pressed her index finger to the passage that had never stopped haunting her.

Red, Junie and Keval tipped their heads and read silently, while Heath looked around the room like he’d rather be anywhere else than there.

Most likely to still be a Clarkston waitress at our tenth class reunion: Poppy Springer. Poppy’s most endearing talent is writing her name backwards. She is a true golden retriever at heart, as evidenced by her blond mane and a mind refreshingly free of deep thoughts. Poppy’s hobbies are organizing individually wrapped tea bags and leaving a trail of smiley faces wherever she goes. Why change?

Following a brief pause, everyone started talking at once.

“Are you serious? Who cares about an old senior superlative?”

“That doesn’t define you.”

“Who’s going to remember that? It was the freaking Stone Age.”