Catskill, New York
September 2022
THE SECOND TIME I see Josh is outside Grape Juice, when I’m standing behind the bar, going over the details of an upcoming order before Kyle and I leave for the Catskills. I glanced up by chance, and there he was, with his baseball cap and stubbled chin, peering inside the window. I’m certain it’s the same man from the park—same height, same sandy hair under his baseball cap.
Trish calls after me as I abandon my tablet and dart outside. “June, is everything okay?” But I’m already gone. Our stamp-sized patio is full of lunch patrons; in front of them are pastel-hued orange wines and sparkling pét-nats in glasses, along with the remnants of our locally sourced farm-to-table lunch fare on oversize plates. When I first dreamed up Grape Juice, I’d pictured this very scene: intimate, casual, people enjoying each other’s company and the unadorned beauty of the wines I loved so much, my care flushed into every detail and decision.
But today, I don’t feel the same pride in the scene, in my dream realized. I don’t notice or care that this will probably be one of the last weeks it’s warm enough to sit outside. I don’t want to be here at all.
The street is packed with people. I look in every direction, not knowing which way to run, so I stay put, squeezing my eyes shut and pinching my thighs, hating my brain for this emotional subterfuge. Visualize and reframe. I remind myself that I’m allowed to be happy—I’m supposed to be happy—and that I don’t need to feel guilty for moving on.
Visualize and reframe. Josh isn’t here. Josh isn’t anywhere, and he hasn’t been for a very long time.
The two-and-a-half-hour drive to the Catskills in our rental car goes by quickly, the scenery out my passenger-side window transforming as we get farther away from Brooklyn. I’m grateful for Kyle’s hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, his out-of-tune voice as he attempts to sing along to nineties rock on the radio, the sun glinting off his slightly smudged glasses. I’m grateful for two days of just us and the woods, filled with hikes and the hot tub, touring quaint Catskills wineries, and Kyle cooking us dinner in front of a flickering fire in the adorable four-hundred-square-foot A-frame we’ve been renting on the third weekend of September for the last three years. I rarely want to stray from Grape Juice for longer than a weekend, and the trips Kyle and I take are always carefully planned ahead of time. A lack of spontaneity is something we share in common, leading me to wonder if I was only ever spontaneous with Josh because he was too.
Most of all, I’m grateful for the distance, for the change of place. This cabin is something that feels solely ours, mine and Kyle’s, with no other memories attached. As much as I love New York City, I have nearly twenty years’ worth of memories there, ever since Phoebe and I moved to Williamsburg together after college, where she was an art major and I studied viticulture and enology at Cornell’s College of Agriculture and Life Sciences, imagining myself on a vineyard someday.
The pace and bustle of New York City was a far cry from the Connecticut suburb I was raised in, from the homey Tudor where my parents still reside to this day. I think they assumed I’d go into academia or education, like them—my father taught high school math, and my mother was a professor at Trinity College—but I’d been fascinated by the hospitality industry since high school. As an only child of two self-professed foodies, I’d often tagged along with my parents on their dinner dates, and I loved being at restaurants, with their constant low buzz of chatter and beautiful flatware and clinking glasses. I was drawn to the romanticism of wine, the way it brought people together; the way it felt like the perfect fusion of fantasy and practicality, science and art. My parents had been surprised when I applied to the program at Cornell, but they’d supported me regardless.
I went straight from Cornell to managing wine operations for an upscale Midtown bar, and while there, I became interested in natural wine through a group of coworkers who had become fast friends. It was a movement that was gaining traction worldwide, and although I was dubious about the foggy appearance and unconventional aromas, I immediately loved the taste and how it made me feel, with its absence of additives.
“It’s basically the definition of grape juice,” my friend Miriam had said. “Like, what wine was supposed to be before all the interventions.”
“Grape Juice,” I’d repeated. “That would be a cool name for a bar.”
Two years into my job at the Midtown bar, I met Josh at Miriam’s engagement party. He was cradling a scotch on the rocks in his palm, his eyes never leaving mine. When I got up to get another drink, he followed me and stood behind me at the bar.
“Can I get an orange pinot grigio, please?” I said to the bartender. When I turned around with my drink, Josh was there, fixing me with a sly smile.
I gestured to the bar. “I’m done, if you’re ordering something—”
“I have a drink already,” he said. “I’m not usually a scotch guy, but they don’t have any real wine here. That stuff smells like a barnyard.”
I laughed. “And what exactly is ‘real wine’?”
He put his free hand on mine, his palm cold from the ice at the bottom of his glass. I wasn’t sure what to think: he was cocky, almost too confident, but I couldn’t ignore the electricity that crackled between us. “We could get out of here and I can show you,” he said.
“I happen to like this barnyard wine, actually,” I said.
“You must not have had the good stuff before,” he said slowly.
“Or maybe I need to show you,” I retorted. “When you’re hungover tomorrow morning and feel like garbage, I’ll be up at seven on my way to the gym.”
He nodded, biting his lower lip, his gaze moving across my face. “I’m Josh.”
“June.”
Two drinks later, it felt like we knew all about each other. I learned that Josh was an associate at a family-law firm, working under divorce lawyers, hoping to make partner and one day open his own firm to focus on helping low-income families. His initial cockiness was explained: he’d grown up on a winery, and living in that environment had never fully left him. He was handsome and smart and hung on my every word. I even got him to sip from my glass of orange wine and admit that it wasn’t entirely unredeemable.
To my shock and delight, he pulled me into a corner for a kiss that took my breath away, a kiss that never stopped but continued into a cab, into the tiny walk-up he shared with a roommate who gratefully wasn’t home. I was no stranger to one-night stands, but immediately, this felt different. We fit perfectly together. There was no awkward fumbling, no hesitation, no doubts.
Only later did I find out that Josh had come to the party with another girl but left with me. I never learned her name. It didn’t matter anyway, not in the face of what we had.
The next morning, I called Phoebe and told her I thought I’d just met my husband.
“That sounds a bit crazy,” she said, and I sensed both skepticism and bitterness in her voice. “You don’t need to rush into anything.” I knew she was sensitive to seeing our friends get engaged at a practically alarming frequency, especially since Peter wasn’t showing any signs of being ready to take the next step with her.
But Josh and I felt almost chemical, our connection equally strong in mind as in body. We started spending every night together, and after three months, when his lease was up, he moved his meager belongings into my cramped Bed-Stuy studio. His impromptu proposal, on a random weeknight in that very apartment, was both surprising and not. Phoebe thought we were rushing, but we knew.
“I was thinking we could do Giant Ledge today,” Kyle says, pulling me out of my trance. “There’s still plenty of daylight left.”
“Definitely,” I say. The trail’s five rocky ledges offer spectacular views of the Hudson valley, the treetops scorched a brilliant vermilion. I reach for Kyle’s hand, blinking away the image of Josh in the park, Josh in front of my bar. I push past the thought of telling Kyle about it. Maybe he’d understand—he knows that once upon a time, I’d imagined that the man buying fruit at the bodega across the street was my long-lost husband—but the conversation would taint what’s supposed to be our romantic escape.
Two’s company, and three is a crowd. I force Josh out of my mind, focusing on the relief that here, Kyle and I are exquisitely alone. Here, nobody can find us.
After we’re settled in at the Airbnb, we lace up our hiking boots, pack our day packs with water and snacks, and head out to the starting point for Giant Ledge. The parking area is busy: this is one of the most popular hikes in the Catskills, and for good reason. The climb will take us about four hours there and back. Our shared love of the woods is something Kyle and I bonded over, and hiking became an activity we pursued as a couple, at first seeking out routes closer to home, but also making a bucket list of hikes we wanted to complete together. Giant Ledge is one we love enough to revisit every year.
We pass by other hikers, Kyle letting me take the lead and falling into place behind me. At the first ledge, tents are pitched and people are talking and laughing, an easy hikers’ camaraderie. By the time we make it to the fifth, the sun is an orange solar flare, and we’re the only two people here. Kyle wraps his arms around me and kisses the chilly edge of my ear, then pulls a small bottle of champagne from his backpack for us to share.
“We could have our honeymoon here, you know,” he says as he pops the cork. “It feels like we’re the only two people in the world.”
I soak it in: his arms around me, the rolling red-topped hills below us, the slight sway of the trees in the breeze. It does feel like we’re the only two people in the world, and the urge is there—to move on, to keep forming new memories together.
But on the hike back, my brain begins to self-sabotage, the visuals of Josh at the park, Josh in front of the bar, running through it like ticker tape. I can’t stop picturing Josh in the trees, baseball cap obscuring his face. It doesn’t even make sense. Josh never wore baseball caps: I’d joked with him, when his face became ruddy with sunburn in the California heat, that he’d look like a leather suitcase unless he started taking better care of himself.
You need to take care of me, he’d teased, and somehow it was the sexiest thing imaginable, Josh leaving himself in my care.
But I didn’t take care of him. I never really had the chance to.
After dinner—creamy parmesan risotto with shiitake mushrooms, accompanied by a bottle of col fondo prosecco—we settle down next to the crackling fireplace, my feet tucked underneath Kyle’s legs, both of us with our laptops out. When we were getting to know each other, we bonded over our mutual ambition, Kyle on a partner track at his private equity firm and me with Grape Juice, which was still in its tenuous first year of operations.
“I’ll be about half an hour,” Kyle says, stroking my ankle with his thumb. “Then I’m all yours.”
My cheeks are warm from the alcohol and the fire. Truthfully, I’m supposed to be doing work right now—I should be tracking the numbers for last week, or checking in on the online rostering system Kyle set me up with to monitor the profit situation, and there are a few vendors I need to follow up with. But I find myself opening a new tab on Google and typing in romantic honeymoon destinations, not wanting Kyle to linger on the idea of honeymooning here in the Catskills—as much as I love it here, I want to do something new for us as a couple.
We fall into a comfortable silence. Kyle’s thumb works in a circular motion around my ankle as I add Napa to my search and click through wineries, taking in pictures of happy couples strolling through green rows of vines.
I’ve been to Napa several times before for work, but there are so many wineries. Most of the ones I’ve been to specialize in natural wine, and we stock some of their products in the bar. Looking back, I got into natural wine at exactly the right time. The natural wine movement was hitting New York with a practically cultish force. Everyone suddenly cared about pollution—in the environment, in their own bodies. They wanted less interference, fewer ingredients, to know where their drinks were coming from. And I liked the immediacy of natural wine, the lack of pretension. It doesn’t need to be aged: it’s meant to be enjoyed right away, something Josh and I disagreed on. As impulsive as he was in life, he was traditional when it came to wine.
Josh and I didn’t make it to Napa together. We were supposed to go—we were freshly married, and it was his idea to go there so I could get inspiration for the bar he was sure I would open someday. He wanted to show me where he’d grown up, even though the vineyard had long since been sold. But we made it only as far as San Francisco. That little Airbnb was the final place I would ever see him.
I cast off the thought of Josh. This is about me and Kyle, our first time in Napa together. It makes sense for us as a destination, as wine lovers. Generally, any vacation spot involving wine and hiking is a win for us. Just as we connected over our mutual love of the woods, we found out early in our relationship that we were both passionate about wine. The first time Kyle ever cooked for me, there had been an array of natural wine bottles on his countertop.
“I didn’t know which kind, so I got them all,” he’d said timidly. “I hope one of them goes with this casserole…”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I’d said, although I was touched by the gesture. “I don’t just drink natural wines. I still like regular wine too.”
“I have to be honest, I didn’t even know what natural wine was before we met,” he’d admitted. “I mean, I’d heard of it, but not what it really was. I googled it, but I got confused.”
I loved talking about natural wine, educating people who were new to it. I told Kyle the same things I’d told so many curious new customers at Grape Juice. That what they were drinking was essentially fermented grape juice. That the grapes are grown without pesticides, with no additives, and with very minimal intervention during fermentation. That it is often unfiltered, leading to its sometimes cloudy appearance, and that its taste can be more volatile than conventional wine. That while more homogenized wine has become the standard, natural wine is technically the traditional way to make wine, dating back thousands of years.
Kyle had listened intently, and we’d taste-tested each bottle. The next morning, when he was clearheaded and hangover-free, he called himself a convert.
I smile at the memory, clicking through each winery that comes up on my screen. None of them feel quite right. As I keep scrolling, a timeline snakes through my mind. We’ll go on the honeymoon directly after our wedding, and hopefully soon after, I’ll be pregnant. I’ve downloaded a fertility tracking app on my phone. The idea that I could become a mother within the next year is both exciting and terrifying. But I’m ready. We both are.
I try to look at each potential location as a newlywed, rather than a wine bar owner. I’m looking for something romantic and special. Not necessarily anything for the bar. I scan the search results, seeing many wineries I’ve heard of but also plenty that are new to me. I click the next one on the list, the Backyard Winery, and notice the photos of the beautiful inn and spa on-site, immediately connecting to the intimacy and attention to detail, the way everything looks small yet perfectly maintained.
I navigate to the About Us section. We’re family owned, and anyone who visits will feel like part of that family. Our winery was founded on the idea that wine should be accessible to all, and being here, we hope you feel as at home as you do in your own backyard. These rolling forty-five acres are meticulously harvested with our own hands, which produce the wines that come from this land and reflect its special terroir. Come for a guided tasting with Sadie and Andrew Smith, and you’ll never want to leave. The photos show lush columns of vines, with metallic foothills rising in the distance.
I’m about to abandon the Backyard’s photo carousel and place it on my list of potential destinations when the next image appears: a man and woman standing in front of a wall of wine barrels, presumably giving a tour. They must be the owners, the husband-and-wife team, Sadie and Andrew Smith. Sadie is petite and blonde, wearing jeans tucked into rain boots, smiling widely. It’s the husband’s face I notice second, the slideshow moving quickly enough that I almost don’t see him at all. He’s in his late thirties or early forties, handsome and angular, hair graying at the temples under his blue baseball cap, eyes creased with the effort of his smile.
I close my eyes, reopen them. No. There’s no way. It’s my brain playing games again.
The carousel moves on to a new photo, but I frantically click back and freeze the image on my screen, pausing on his double-dimpled smile. If he frowns—but he rarely ever did—the crow’s feet would still be there. Those lines are my doing, according to him. It’s your fault I already have wrinkles, he’d said, his fingers mapping my cheekbones, thumbing the bow of my top lip. I can’t stop smiling when I’m with you.
Over my keyboard, my hand goes numb. My vision starts to blacken at the edges, my breath coming in quick, uneasy waves. I’ve had so many panic attacks over the last decade that my body has found its own efficient way to process them: silently, with almost no physical evidence of the mental turmoil bubbling under my skin. Kyle is still rubbing my ankle absentmindedly, his attention focused on his own laptop. He has no idea that not even inches away from him, I’m about to drown.
Drown: the same way Josh did, almost exactly ten years ago.
His body was never found, so there was nothing to bury, nothing left behind but his wallet and cell phone and keys for the rental car, sitting neatly inside his well-worn Chuck Taylors.
His mother, Bev, hadn’t even been able to look at me during the funeral, her face a messy watercolor of tears and runny mascara. She didn’t believe my theory about the last text I received from Josh. None of them did. There was nothing to suggest foul play, nothing to suggest anything other than my husband deciding to take a swim on a balmy morning at Mile Rock Beach. A few witnesses had spotted him at the beach, pacing back and forth, staring at his phone. But no one saw him enter the water.
Eventually, I had to admit to myself that it wouldn’t have been the most out-of-character thing for him to take a swim. Josh loved doing things spur-of-the-moment. Was our recent elopement and road-trip honeymoon not proof of that? Maybe he’d accidentally clicked the heart emoji or had spontaneously decided to add it.
Over time, I looked back on the day of the funeral, mortified by my behavior, and I accepted that I had to move on. That I’d been through the kind of tragedy people aren’t built to endure. My husband, the love of my life, was dead, drowned, his body lost, and I had to accept that.
But it’s his face I’m staring at on my computer screen. It’s his image I frantically attempt to enlarge, his features blurred by pixelation. Not the Josh I married, thirty and lanky, still endearingly baby-faced, but an older version, the man he would have grown into, the one I would have had children and a home and Christmas traditions with.
My husband passed, I got used to saying, absorbing the I’m so sorrys from strangers without even hearing them. My husband is dead. A statement I had finally accepted. But here he is, with a different woman, with a different name.
Here he is, undeniably alive.