Chapter 1

In the back of his sock drawer, behind a Ziploc bag of beer caps he can’t bring himself to throw away, sits an old Nike shoebox. Another thing he can’t throw away. He’s wrapped the edges and lid in duct tape three separate times, but several patches are already wearing soft and silvery-white. He tries not to touch it too often. That makes it worse. Thanks to a dying art, it’s easier than it used to be to resist the urge.

But he still does it. That box is just like the beer caps. A talisman of memories.

Sometimes, he has no choice but to pull it out. It has a purpose, after all. A smart man would leave it at that, but as soon as he sees that first envelope, the draw to read it—again—sinks its hooks into his heart and squeezes until he must succumb.

* * * *

January 17, 1997

Dear Tim,

Greetings from wet and wild Seattle! Well, not so wild. The only person I know here is Kristina, and I only see her in passing when she gets home from work. I’ve been going out at night to all the local places I can find that play live music, trying to meet new people, but she’s dead to the world by the time I get home.

The wet part is definitely true, though. I haven’t seen the sun once in the two weeks I’ve been here. I always thought all those stories were bogus, but nope, I was wrong. Kristina says it doesn’t count as rain, that a little drizzle never hurt anyone, but seriously, if I go outside and moisture comes out of the air and gets me wet, it’s rain. It makes me miss Napa even more than I already do. I’d come home in a second if it didn’t mean I’d see you every day. Of course, if you were to tell me you’d changed your mind about us, wild horses couldn’t keep me away.

I know that’s wishful thinking. You made it pretty clear nothing was going to happen. I still think you’re wrong, though, and the second you realize that, I am getting on a plane and coming home. I’m right about us. You’ll see.

I’m looking for work, but I still have enough money to be picky about where I apply. I’d rather find something in a music store or a studio or something like that, but the problem with coming to a place like Seattle for my music is that I’m not the only one looking for those jobs. Do me a favor, and don’t tell Dad or Pat that I’m still unemployed, okay? You know how much they hate that I’m doing this. At least when I dropped out, I was home so they could pretend they were getting their way. I’m waiting to write them until I’ve got some music news to share. Then it won’t matter that I don’t have what they think is a real job.

I’m not expecting us to become pen pals where you have to answer every letter I send you, but it’d be nice if you dropped me a line every once in a while. Before I opened my big mouth, we were friends, good friends, and it’s stupid to throw that away. I don’t want to lose that. Didn’t I prove that by leaving?

I hope everything’s good for you.

All my best,

Devin

* * * *

The voices drifting from the living room are new. All of them are here by invitation, but his jumpy nerves mean they offer noise, not comfort. It would be different if they were at work. At the Mayer vineyards, people surround him, family, friends, coworkers. Everywhere he turns, someone is there with a smile or a word, unknowing anchors in the life he deliberately set out to create for himself. The first time he’d met Devin, for instance, he’d thought he was simply another pin in the pantheon.

But Devin is the perfect example of chaos theory in motion. If Tim had bothered to believe the stories he’d heard about the younger Mayer son when he was hired, he might have figured that out before it was too late.

Someone knocks at his door, and he shoves the box back into the drawer a fraction too hard. “Who is it?”

“Heidi. The water’s boiling on the stove. You want me to take care of it?”

“Yes, please.”

He remains frozen for several seconds, waiting for another query or commentary about what’s taking so long. Heidi means well—they all mean well—but he’s too on edge to face them yet. He’s not sure what could possibly go wrong, but he feels like a sapling caught in the middle of a wind tunnel. Only the irresponsible would plant something so fragile in the threat of destruction.

Call me irresponsible.

His fingers tighten on the drawer handle. No backing out. He’s already made that promise. He doesn’t have the desire to break it, except in the rare instance like this one where everything he thinks he’s known seems like a distant dream. He’s always been so careful. Meticulous, Mr. Mayer said after his first week of work. Pat had been less flattering when he took over, though it hadn’t been out of malice. Besides, even Tim can’t take a man seriously who uses the word “persnickety” without any sense of irony.

For Devin, he was the embodiment of heart and soul, but when Tim protested both the romantic connotation and the intent behind it, Devin refused to budge.