Prologue ~ Sour Grapes

Grapes.
Huge pain the ass fruits, in my opinion.
They like to play hard to get, make you work for the outcome you so desperately desire and literally, can make or break your entire year.
See, if they don't get enough sun, or if they're watered down too much, they lose their taste and if you're looking for a sweet wine or hell, even a bitter one, suddenly, you're shit outta luck. On the flip side, when the summer is too long, and just too damn hot and the grapes get too much of that sun, or not quite enough thirst quenching water, your crop can come out sour, so to speak.
You've gotta have a sixth sense of sorts for the grapes' needs and a eye for what others just don't see.
In other words, good timing, so to speak, although some might call it talent, others refer to it as just plain old dumb luck.
Either way, something I've struggled with my entire life.
There were times throughout that life that my dad referred to me as a sour grape, when I was bitter and unruly and trying to piss everyone off from Napa to Sonoma.
Frankly, I didn't typically see his point regarding those sour grapes, myself. They were the ones that had all the alcohol in them, after all, and my dad did also used to refer to me, very lovingly, of course, as a drunk, quite often.
I never did have the balls to tell him he was contradicting himself. Mainly because he'd a put a hurtin' on me like I'd never forget.
He wasn't a saint, my father, although, ask him and he'd disagree.
Regardless, in the end, I did the next best thing to telling him about his oxymorons.
As soon as I graduated from high school, I visited the closest US Army base, signed my life away and left the son of a bitch to grow his own goddamn grapes.
How's that for sour?
And as I got on to the bus to leave Napa, without so much as a goodbye for him, carefully avoiding the eyes of the nameless faces that sat in the old torn seats, seeming to hold the same questions swimming around in my own mind, I couldn't help but remember something my grand dad had said to me when I was younger.
"You can't be your own person, if you don't even know who that is yet, Edward."
I'd been in the sand pit at the playground and some jerk, bigger than me but not as smart was trying to take my bucket.
I liked that bucket. It was strong and sturdy and held every ounce of sand and dirt I'd pounded into it without the slightest hint of breaking or bending.
Nobody was taking that bucket.
Especially not Felix, the Great.
His personally chosen nick name, not mine.
I kicked his ass and he went running to his mommy with tears stinging his eyes and a bruise on his keester.
I thought it was pretty funny, but apparently, I was alone in that opinion.
It never did make any sense to me, why my grand dad had said those words that day.
I mean, I knew who I was.
I was Carlisle Cullen's son.
Heir to the Cullen Vineyard.
Friend to few.
Trouble to many.
Breaker of treaties.
A crooked soul, as the church goers liked to put it.
But above all, and most importantly in Napa, these days...I was an arsonist.
Accidents happen but when the accident is caused by someone who was nobody's favorite hell raiser, it didn't really matter what the circumstances were. Facts spoke loudly and when you've been perceived as a liar for most of your life, people just aren't very inclined to listen to what you have to say.
It was a long time ago, but even so, a lot of people would never forget it.
Including me.
My point is, I knew all the things I was known as.
I just didn't know if it all equated to who I was.
Know what I mean?
"Maybe the army will make him into a man," my dad had said, the night before I departed, to some buddy of his over the phone.
Maybe he was right.
Four years later, though, and I was still me.
Still angry and pissed off and not ready to face the demons that had landed me in the US Army in the first place.
Which is why, when I visited my commanding officer to put in my official request to re-up I was caught a little off guard when he flat out told me, "No can do, Cullen."
"What do you mean, no can do?" I asked, irritated that he was so quick to deny me my God given right to serve the United States of America again…and then, the look I received reminded me that this wasn't off hours, it wasn't a bar and it certainly wasn't weekend leave.
I was in his office and he deserved respect, so I straightened up and stood at attention, waiting for the explanation.
Still irritated, though.
"Just got a call from a…" he looked at a note pad he'd written on. "Sonoma Valley Hospital…"
And hearing that name, well, it made my stomach sink a little, not gonna lie.
I didn't move a muscle though, because if there was one thing the army had taught me well, it was, show no fear.
Even if that meant I was about to be told the one thing I didn't want to be told.
Ever.
"It appears, your father's very sick, Sergeant. You're goin' home."
And there it was.
Show no fear.
"Yes, sir."
"Your flight'll be ready by oh nine hundred hours, I expect you on it."
I remained silent as he eyed me for a few minutes, then commanded, "At ease."
I stood at a relaxed attention as he got up and walked over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Edward…"
My eyes stared forward, not meeting his and I cut him off. Not something many do to their commanding officers, but we'd known each other long enough for him to know I wasn't exactly a team player on all sides of the football field.
"It's all good, sir, I'll touch base once I'm settled and can give you a re-up date."
His hand disappeared behind his back with the other and he took a long, deep breath in through his nose before answering me.
"Take your time, we'll talk soon…dismissed."
I nodded and left my and as I walked back to my barracks, I wondered a little bit about what had put my dad into the hospital and even started to question why this was the first I'd heard of it, except, let's face it, I knew why.
"Leaving in ten, Cullen!" one of the guys called out as I got to my bunk and started to pack up but Vegas was just gonna have to wait.
"Count me out," I said, quietly. Defeated a little and almost to myself.
"What? Dude, we can't go without you…we're…"
"Count me out," I said again, more sternly that time…and I could feel the space between my eyes pinch and burn. Whether that was the direct result of trying convincing him, or me, I wasn't sure but it was becoming more and more real to me, what was about to happen.
I was going home.