This damn second-hand car is a big part of the reason I haven’t yet found an apartment.

I’ve never been a crackerjack with math, but over the past few years I’ve learned a thing or two about basic budgeting. I got damn good at figuring how much I needed to take care of Dad, make the mortgage payments, and still have just enough left over for basic groceries and one-ply toilet paper.

I’d figured out how much I’d need to make it on my own in Sonoma down to the penny.

I just hadn’t figured buying a new car into the equation. I’d been counting on having Horny. The piece of shit wasn’t just supposed to get me across the country; it was also supposed to get me to and from my new apartment and my new job.

Instead, the morning after I left Lucy’s place, I’d taken a chunk out of my savings, driven to a used-car lot, and bought the cheapest and most functional truck I could.

I’d given the kid on the lot twenty bucks to follow me in the new car to Lucy’s place, where I’d left Horny parked outside.

My motives were only partially good. We hadn’t talked about what the two of us would do for transportation once we’d parted ways, and I hadn’t wanted her stranded on her first day in Napa.

But giving her Horny was a little selfish too. After the two weeks that had just passed, I also hadn’t wanted to see that car again. Not for a long while. Maybe not ever. Too many memories of how good it had felt to look across the car and see Lucy sitting there, chattering about the use of complementary colors on wine bottles, or singing along to a horrid country song, or just smiling back at me.

Yeah, I hadn’t wanted any of that.

So here I am, poor as shit and on the verge of being homeless.

My stomach growls, and I realize I haven’t eaten since before I left for work a good ten hours ago. The apartment I’d just toured is next door to a sandwich shop, so instead of starting the car, I climb back out, hoping that the faded sign on the door of the shop means that their prices aren’t as astronomical as some of the fancier places around here.

The whole damn area is expensive. Gorgeous. Breathtaking, even, if you love the business of grapes like I do. But expensive.

It’s time to lower my living standards, obviously. All chances of getting my own place, no matter how crappy, are out. I’ll need a roommate, and not one whose apartment smells of weed like the first place I’d visited today. I’m too old for that shit. And not one whose girlfriend laughs like an angry Chihuahua like the second guy I met.

I ignore the part of my subconscious that tells me I’m delaying finding a place to live so I’ll have something other than Lucy to occupy my thoughts.

As I wait for the bored-looking girl behind the counter to make my ham and Swiss on white, I wander over to the bulletin board to see if there are any promising leads on somewhere to rent.

Like I said. Anything to occupy my thoughts.

And no. I haven’t talked to her since I walked out on her. Haven’t returned a single text.

And go ahead, tell me I’m an ass.

But you didn’t have to read page after page in her stupid journal about how I was a summer fling and that two weeks of stupid with me might be just the thing before she started her real life. You didn’t have to read about how she wishes she could instill some sort of drive in me, make me care about something—anything.

Joke’s on you, Lucy. I care. I care too fucking much about you.

Correction. Cared.

Ridding my brain of her feels impossible, especially given that she won’t stop texting and calling, asking what’s wrong.

What’s wrong is that I want to hear that she misses me like I miss her. I want to hear that she can’t sleep like I can’t sleep, and that every time her phone buzzes she hopes it’s me, like I hope it’s her.

I want to hear that she doesn’t care about the distant past, because what happened in the recent past trumps it.

I want to hear that she misses me so much she sometimes wakes up thinking the loneliness will kill her.

I want to hear that she wants to try again, and this time she won’t leave, and that…

I force myself to focus on my meandering, pathetic thoughts. My gaze falls on a Napa Academy flyer.

I look away from it with a snarl. I know wine. I got hired without a degree, and unlike Princess Lucy, I don’t need a fancy piece of paper to tell me that I’m qualified.

What’s your endgame?

Just remembering her chipper question sets my teeth on edge, and my gaze goes back to the purple flyer.

The girl calls out my sandwich order, but I don’t turn, my eyes are locked on the bulletin board.

What’s your endgame?

For the first time in a long time, I let myself think about it. What do I want?

I’ve spent so long feeling older than my age, trying to just make it one day to the next, that it hits me that I’m twenty-five. In my prime.

I can do anything.

I like working with grapes, yes. I like making wine, definitely. I’m damn good at it. I could also be better. With a little time, effort, and energy, I could be the best.

What’s your endgame?

My endgame’s always been the same.

Lucy Hawkins is my endgame.

I reach out to pull the flyer off the bulletin board, and then I remember that her being my everything does not make me hers.

Idiot.

My arm drops, and I turn back to the counter to get the sandwich.

The girl’s watching me as I approach, leaning forward onto the counter as I reach for the bag. “Looking for something?” she asks, nodding her head in the direction of the bulletin board.