Chateau Ste. Michelle

March 2, 2026 • min read

Unlatched

I heard the dog’s nails clattering across the floor. Then, she came barreling down the narrow hallway, tongue out and tail high.

“There’s my girl!” I said, squatting down to greet her.

I let my bag slip from my shoulder. The zipper pulls rattled as the bag plopped to the floor. Something thudded. Probably my laptop.

I braced myself for dog impact as she slid across the floor like a four-legged curling stone. She collided with my shins, then spun into a frenzy. Her body wiggled from tail to snout as she pressed all fifty pounds into me, and I ran my hands through her thick coat.

She needs a nail trim.

I dropped my keys on the console table and kicked my shoes toward the growing pile of footwear in front of the closet door. I followed the smell of pizza down the hall. The dog trotted by my side, licking my fingertips.

The five-year-old, hypnotized by Mickey Mouse Funhouse, didn’t look over as I entered the room. Behind him, the cat was perched on the back of the couch. Eyes closed, head high, she looked like a tiny, gray sphinx.

Two stemmed glasses of wine sat pre-poured on the kitchen island beside a smudged handwriting worksheet and a half-empty, uncapped bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle. It was wet with condensation.

Joel collected the wine glasses as he rounded the island, offering me the fuller one. I took it, then I stepped into his hug. I sighed and pressed my forehead into his chest.

“How was work?” His chin bounced off my head.

“Good,” I said, my face in his t-shirt.

When I unlatched myself, I took my first sip of the evening.

Out of Sync

I was sitting upright in bed when I reached the bottom of the bottle.

Shit. Already?

I recapped it and tossed it onto the unoccupied side of the bed. The empty bottle hit the sheets with a gentle thud, landing beside the overturned wine chiller.

The dog glanced over her shoulder sharply. Then, spotting the bottle, she curled back up at my feet.

Ghislaine Maxwell: Filthy Rich was playing on TV. Photographs of a young Maxwell flashed across the screen. The volume was too low to hear the narrator. The subtitles had fallen out of sync.

I grabbed the stemmed glass by the bulb. My ring clanked against it. I took a long gulp. Then, I slipped off the ring and placed it on the nightstand.

It came off easily tonight.

This is stupid.

Footsteps crept through the hallway. I paused, listening closely. My grip tightened on the wine glass.

Down the hall, the guest bedroom door opened and closed.

I emptied the glass with a final sip and increased the volume from twelve to thirteen.

Ghislaine maintained her innocence.

Top Me, Big Boy

I had just started the next episode of The Hunting Party when I reached the bottom of my wine glass.

It was lights-off in the living room as the jail-broken serial killer encased an innocent partygoer in cured resin. The dishwasher hummed behind me, muffling the victim’s pleas for mercy. I grabbed the remote to turn up the volume. Subtitles echoed his words as the number climbed from fourteen to sixteen.

Odd numbers freak me out.

The dog was asleep — half in her dog bed, half sprawled across the living room floor. Clearly, daycare had worn her out. I ran my foot through her coarse fur, feeling her inhale and exhale once.

Mandatory “is my dog still alive?” check — complete.

In the kitchen, Joel’s ring clinked against the frosted bottle as he went to pour himself another drink. I extended my empty glass toward him.

“Top me, big boy.”

The cheeky comment earned an eye roll, but he crossed the room without protest, Chateau Ste. Michelle in hand. The bottle glugged louder than the television as he poured.

“Jesus,” I said, trying not to spill the top-heavy glass. “You trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me or something?”

Another eye roll as he returned the bottle to the countertop wine chiller, but his half-smile gave away his cool.

I gave the yellow wine a big swirl, then sniffed.

Apples? Peaches? Fuck if I know.

Joel grabbed a handful of peanut butter pretzels from the pantry. The doors squeaked as he closed them, waking the dog. She lazily lifted her head, surveyed the room with half-open eyes, and licked my foot twice. She then collapsed back into her bed, asleep before her face hit the cushion.

Joel tapped my propped-up feet as he went to sit back down — our wordless signal to “move your ass.” I pushed myself upright, pulled a knit blanket over my lap, and took a sip of the fresh glass.

The cold wine slid over my tongue. I propped my feet up on Joel’s quads. The cat made herself comfy on his chest. The dog barked her sleep.