“You don’t talk about your family much,” I venture.
Touché. I take another sip of wine. It’s warming me from the inside out. The evening air has cooled, but it’s still rich with the scent of grapes and earth.
“There’s not much to tell,” I say. “Not much that you don’t already know, at least.” I eye him, but when he says nothing and looks not the least bit ashamed, I shrug and fill in the blanks, just in case. “Parents died when I was nineteen. Brother’s in rehab. I work too much and sleep too little. The end.”
“That’s not the end.” His gray eyes catch the candlelight. “That’s barely the beginning.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you’re still here.” He sets his glass down. “Most people would have run by now.”
“Most people didn’t get bought at auction for five million dollars.”
I
