The maid had tossed all of my belongings into a neat pile on the dresser and desk. It made packing up simple. I dialed Jerry.

“Jerry Evans.”

“Can you get me a flight tonight?”

“What? You and the winery guy want to elope to Cancun or something?”

“No.” Don’t cry, don’t do it, Kate!

I started crying.

“Oh shit,” he said, quietly. “Go to the airport. I’ll text you the details in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said through sobs, and then I hung up.

I stuffed all of my belongings into my tiny suitcase, including the numerous pages of notes and doodling. I drove all the way to San Francisco International Airport with a newfound confidence. I honked at shitty drivers; I even gave the finger a few times. It was only after I began screaming at an elderly woman in a green Chevy Nova that I decided I had a legitimate case of road rage and should probably cool it before I got myself shot.

At the airport desk, I upgraded to a first-class ticket, thinking it would be easier to drown my sorrows with the free, unlimited booze. I tucked myself into my giant seat. The flight attendant brought me a blanket and pillow. I asked for an extra blanket and then I proceeded to wrap myself into a fleece cocoon. I managed to pin my arms against my body inside of the blankets, which was wonderful. If only it didn’t slightly resemble a straitjacket. When we got off the ground, I undid the seat-back table with my teeth and ordered a double scotch on the rocks. I don’t even drink scotch. When my drink came, I leaned over and sucked the entire thing through the straw in three large gulps. It was then that I noticed there was a passenger seated next to me.

She was staring at me with round, giant blue eyes. “How old are you?” I asked.

“Twelve,” she said.

“What’s your name?” I cocked my head to the side as if I were interrogating her, unconcerned that I must have looked ridiculous.

“Aurora. Are you a crazy person or something?”

“Takes one to know one, kid.” Her eyes widened even more. “I’m just kidding. No, I’m not crazy . . . yet. Anyway, crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, so that’s a silly question.” She nodded in agreement, a thoughtful expression on her face. I could tell right away she was one of those kids who are wiser than their years. “The truth is that I just got my heart trampled over. I had a rough day. You know how that is?” I arched my eyebrows for emphasis.

“Yeah,” she said and let out a deep breath. “I know exactly what you mean. This boy in my class, Genesis, told me he liked me and then told everyone else that I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“Genesis? That’s his name? Um, red flag right there. What kind of name is Genesis?” She just shrugged. “Well, I’ll tell you. That is an English New Age rock group from the seventies and eighties. His parents are either really old or they’ve been dropping acid for way too long. My guess is the latter, hence Genesis’s bizarre behavior. Don’t sweat it. Someone else will come along. Unless, of course, you realize now that being alone is better than having your heart broken over and over again. Realize that now, kid, and save yourself the trouble.”

“So being alone is better?” She was looking me right in the eye. Could I really lie to her?

“Are your parents married?”

“Yes, they’ve been married for twenty-two years,” she said with a smile.

“Well, I guess it’s a case-by-case basis. Don’t listen to me. It happens for some people. Maybe you’ll be that person.”

“Maybe you will, too. You just can’t let all that bullshit make you hard.” That, from a twelve-year-old.

“You’re probably right. Hey, do you want to help me? I have to write this article . . .”

After traveling most of the day and scribbling the article down on the back of a couple of flyers I grabbed from the rental car company, I finally made it back to my cold, dark Lincoln Park apartment. I immediately opened my laptop, shot an e-mail off to Jerry, then went to sleep and stayed that way for the next two days.

To: Jerry Evans

From: Kate Corbin

Subject: Fuck it!

This is it, Jerry. I don’t even know what to call it. This is all I have. I’m sure I’m fired or severely demoted. Maybe I can be the coffee cart girl? I know R.J. won’t approve of this, so I feel like I’ve totally let you down. I have some vacation time accrued and I’d like to take next week off if I still have a job. I need to get my head straight. I fucked up, Jerry. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with that guy. I fucked up and I’m sorry. —Kate

UNTITLED ARTICLE ON R. J. LAWSON AND WINERY

So you have two birds. One is long, lean, and powerful, with sheer physical strength on its side. The other is colorful, small, and fast, and prized for its beauty. Who will win? First, you must know that the challenge is the game of business, otherwise known as deception, and the winner of this game will always be the more cunning player, regardless of his physicality. Forget what you’ve seen—looks can be deceiving. You have to search inside the competitor’s heart. You have to detect the rhythm that drives him, what fuels the challenger’s willingness to sacrifice dignity and integrity for money. That’s what it all comes down to in the end. The winner of this game gets a gold, diamond-encrusted cage. But success comes with a price—in this case, the freedom to fly. He may have the promise of admirers, but his majestic wings will never dance across the sky again.

The world wants to know why everything R. J. Lawson touches turns to gold. Well, I’ll tell you: he’s the more cunning bird. He was a genius who peaked at eighteen, made his money, and now proudly waves his wallet at anything that interests him—in this case, wine. I spent one week at R. J. Lawson’s famed Napa Valley winery during the harvest season to learn more about him and his seemingly worthwhile cause. While there, I observed that he spent little time at the winery, but he does take credit for all the work. He described his approach as hands-on, yet I didn’t see him complete a single task during my visit, with the exception of sipping a glass of Pinot.

His image is held together by a few loyal pawns who are willing to do his dirty work. I saw right through it. I saw that R.J. had mastered the game of buying people and buying success. Maybe inside the man there is a boy whose curiosity earned him a great deal of adoration and money, but there is no trace of that exceptional wonder and gift in the man I met.

If R.J. had shown me a modicum of brilliance or even humanity, aside from rapping off the many charities he’s donated to, maybe I could write a nicer article about him, but the truth is this: he acted as though I wasn’t worth his time. He was misogynistic and degrading toward his staff. He was pompous and put out while answering a few questions. From afar, one might envy what R.J. has acquired. It’s no lie that the wine is fantastic and the winery itself is something of a shining gem among the hills of Napa Valley, but that doesn’t mean R.J. is not paying a price for all of that perfection. His shrewd cunning has condemned him to the confines of a cage. He may sit perched above all that beauty, but he’s in that cage alone.

The staff at the winery made a pathetic attempt at hospitality in the wake of my awful experience with R.J. Sadly, I found their strategies to be somewhat elaborate. So, my conclusion is that R. J. Lawson’s big ego was probably responsible for orchestrating all of the backpedaling and ridiculous behavior from the others at the helm. Although the facility seems unmatched in the region, you might be gambling with your happiness by taking a trip to R. J. Lawson. Before you do anything, you have to ask yourself about that bird, the one who is willing to sacrifice the freedom to fly for the material facade. However mesmerized you are by the glittering gold of that cage, the only question you need to ask is: Where does that bird shit?