Nat turns to me. “You’re not by the window waiting for that guy to come home from work and get his mail, are you? Because if so, that’s creepy.”
“Not nearly as creepy as what I’m going to dream about him doing to me tonight,” I confess. “Oh, wait! Here he comes!” I immediately throw myself down on the couch in splayed position so that he can’t see me through the window.
“That does it,” Nat decrees, pushing her chair away from the table and standing up. “This ends today.”
“Sounds like the tagline from a bad action movie,” Jessie says as Nat marches to our front door in determination.
I panic as Nat opens the door. “Wait! What are you going to do?”
But Nat’s out the door before she answers.
I quickly run out the door. “Nat!”
“Holly, I just need to check my mail before we head out on that double date,” she says to me a little too loudly, then she flashes her mail key for me and Hot Neighbor Guy to see.
Oh, my God. He’s right there. He’s standing there, less than five feet from us. Nat, please don’t say anything. Please, please, please …
She does. “Hey. You must be the new neighbor. I’m Nat. This is my roommate Holly.”
Adonis puts out his hand to shake Nat’s hand as I scoot in behind her. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sven.”
Like he couldn’t be more perfect—he has an accent too! It’s … actually I have no idea what it is. I just know it’s hot.
“Sven?” I repeat, mentally filing that information away for Google later. “You seemed more like a … Lars?”
Nat turns her head to me slowly and widens her eyes at me so wide she looks a girl from a Margaret Keane painting.
Sven smiles, clearly not sure what to make of me. “No, it’s Sven. I’m from Sweden.”
“Sweden. See, I would have guessed Norway,” I say.
Nat shakes her head ever so slightly at me to signal: For the love of God, stop talking. Then she turns back to Sven. “Did you grow up in Sweden?”
“Just until I was ten. I was born in Gothenburg,” Sven tells her, pronouncing Gothenburg the way we would pronounce it here.
Nat beams happily as she exclaims, “Yeutebory.”
Sven is visibly surprised. “Du talar Svenska?”
“Nej,” Nat answers, then switches to English. “But I can pronounce pretty much every major city in Europe. I need to for my job.”
“Oh, What do you do?” Sven asks, clearly interested.
“I’m a … was a … game show writer for Million Dollar Genius!”
“Really? I love that show. I used to watch the British version when I lived in London. Is it true that they tell the contestants what types of questions to expect ahead of time?”
“No, no. That was made illegal in the 1960s. Sadly, the guy who knows the name of the dog from GTA really doesn’t have a life.”
“Chop!” I answer proudly.
Sven seems intrigued. “I’m sorry. What?”
“The dog from Grand Theft Auto,” I answer. Then I add, “I don’t really have a life.”
Good, Holly. Tell the man you’re in lust with that you don’t have a life. Really sell it.
Nat takes pity on me and turns to Sven. “She’s kidding. Holly leads an incredible life. Did you ever watch CSI: Seattle?”
“Yeah … a couple times.”
“Holly played Veronica on that show.”
Sven’s face lights up in recognition. “Were you the tattooed computer prodigy?”
“Yes,” I say, my mind bursting with the thought: He knows me. Wheeeeeee!!!!! “But I would never have a tattoo in real life. That would be ugly. Like putting a bumper sticker on a … Unless you have one, in which case I’m sure it looks sexy as fu—”
“Holly…” Nat interrupts me loudly.
I catch myself. “Sorry. Are you a model?”
Sven smiles. And maybe blushes a little? “Um, no. I’m a computer programmer. Well, that’s an oversimplification. I write code for computers that are used both for American as well as European companies. It’s very dull, compared to what you do. So what else would I have seen you in?”
“A bar,” I answer truthfully.
At this, Nat laughs. “She’s kidding,” she tells him as she walks behind me and grabs both of my shoulders. “We own a wine bar that’s opening in Echo Park in a few weeks. Would you like to come to the grand opening? It’s on the twenty-seventh.”
“That sounds fun. I’d love to,” Sven answers sweetly as Nat pulls me away from him and leads me back toward our apartment.
“Perfect,” Nat says, continuing to haul me away. “I’ll slip an invitation under your door. You’re in Apartment 6, right? Erikson?”
“Yes. Sven Erikkson. Two k’s—the mailbox is misspelled.”
That’s why I couldn’t Google him! I think to myself as Nat continues to lead me away from my future conquest.
“Great,” Nat tells Sven as she pushes our front door farther open to make our escape. “Should we put you on the list as ‘Erikkson and guest’? Do you have a girlfriend? Or boyfriend?”
Brilliant. I could not love her more right now.
“No. It’s just me. Like I said, I just moved here,” Sven answers. “Do you want me to bring a coworker or something?”
“No, no. Just bring yourself,” I can hear Nat say behind me as she shoves me inside. I escape to the sanctuary of our living room.
“So nice to finally meet you. Have a great evening,” Nat tells Sven cheerfully, then practically slams the door shut, turns around, and falls into the door in exhaustion.
“How’d it go?” Jessie asks.
Nat appears pained as she asks Jessie, “You know how you have certain friends who are absolutely in-fucking-credible, and you have no idea why they’re still single?”
Jessie turns her chin to the left while keeping her eyes on Nat. “Yeeeeah.”
Nat shakes her head pityingly. “Holly’s not one of them.” She turns to me. “Wow.”
“I know…” I whine apologetically, letting my body drop onto the couch.
“I would have guessed Norway?” Nat continues.
“I short-circuited,” I admit in frustration. “What is wrong with me? Why can I not be myself around hot guys? I can be cool…”
“Apparently, you can’t,” Nat counters. “Like, on so many levels.”
I raise my index finger and point to Nat as I tell Jessie, “On the plus side, thanks to my awesome roommate, I now have a sort of date to the grand opening, not to mention a full name to research online: Sven Erikkson, two k’s, from Sweden. And for that, I am eternally grateful.”
Jessie looks up hopefully. “‘Eternally Grapeful’?”
Nat ignores the suggestion to ask me, “How on earth did women date before Google?”
“‘Who’s Drinking Gilbert Grape’?” Jessie presses on.
“I don’t know,” I answer, also ignoring Jessie. “You think they had to, like, listen to what the guy shared with them over dinner or something?”
Jessie, mentally exhausted, begins desperately suggesting names in rapid-fire. “‘Dinner Is Poured,’ ‘Wine Girls, ‘Wine Notes,’ Quit Your Whining,’ ‘Winenot?’ Snickers!”
“Snickers?” Nat repeats. “You want to name our place after a candy bar?”
“No, I’m getting snickers from both of you. If I were to name the bar after a candy, obviously it would be 3 Musketeers.”
Nat opens her mouth, but Jessie shuts her down before she can speak. “And don’t tell me what that’s really about, because no, I’ve never read it, and the only thing I know is the ‘All for Wine and Wine for All!’” And if you tell me they all die at the end, I’m just going to get upset and have to eat some Snickers.”
Nat shakes her head. “Seriously? Next time you get the urge to watch Bravo, promise me you’ll crack a book instead. The line is—”
“Wait,” I tell Nat. “I think Jessie just came up with our name.”
“I did?!” Jessie blurts out happily, her face glowing. “Oh, yay! Good for me! Which one was it? It wasn’t the Gilbert Grape one, was it? Because actually I hate that one.”
“‘All for Wine and Wine for All!’ No matter who you are, and what you like, we will find a wine for everyone.”
And, with that, we finally had our name.
Now all we needed to do was get the sign made, get it out on social media, finish redoing the ladies’ room, move in the rest of the furniture, teach those two how to use a cash register, and pick some wines for opening night.
And I had to Google Sven Erikkson. With two k’s.
Chapter Eighteen
JESSIE
Two weeks later, I am sitting in the back office of the bar, wondering what it was like to date Prince William.
I mean to date the actual guy: the six-foot-three-inch dude who back in college had morning breath, occasionally got the flu, and may very well have left his socks on the floor.
Most women grew up knowing who the future king was. And probably, at least on one occasion, they fantasized about going out on a date with him, either because they were dreaming of getting photographed by the paparazzi, or dreamt of being a princess, or maybe simply because the guy wasn’t always going bald—at one point he was a cute blond. Point is, millions of women around the world had an idea of what going out with William would be like. And most of them were probably dead wrong.
Because you can’t know what a relationship is really like unless you’re one of the two people in it.
And I would like to think that there is at least one woman out there who, while dating the guy that every girl wanted, finally tired of him leaving his dirty socks on the floor, or not proposing, or wasting every Sunday watching football or rugby or whatever, and thought, “Fuck it. I can do better.”
Maybe not. But I’d like to think so. I would like to think that no matter how perfect the guy is to the outside world, there is at least one moment in every relationship when his girlfriend thinks, “Screw this. I’m out.”
At least that’s what I’m feeling like right now, sitting by myself in the back office of the empty bar, Skyping on my computer with Kevin and wondering how Cinderella would deal with her Prince Charming if they dated in this day and age. Would she swipe left?
“You hate it,” Kevin tries to get me to admit.
“I don’t hate it,” I counter.
“Why can’t you just admit that you hate it?”
“Kevin, whatever ring you want to get me is fine. You could put a Band-Aid on my finger and I’d still say yes.”
“No. No, no. Don’t do that. I know you, and if the ring isn’t perfect, you’re going to spend the rest of your life staring at your hand, obsessing over the symbolism of my not getting you exactly what you wanted.”
I sigh. Loudly. Then I scratch my head. “Fine. The truth is, I would prefer platinum to white gold.”
“So why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” Kevin asks in exasperation.
Why didn’t I say that in the first place? My God, men can’t really be that dense. What I want to tell him is that I didn’t say it because I just want to get married. I want to tell him that I hate the fact that just getting engaged is this much work. And that I hate feeling like I haven’t even heard the starting pistol for this marathon, and I’m already exhausted.
Instead, I lie and say, “I just don’t want you to spend so much money.”
“Compared to the cost of a house, this is nothing,” Kevin jokes.
I must have flinched, because he immediately backtracks. “That came out wrong. I just meant, in terms of our long-term goals, this one isn’t very expensive.”
We then have one of those awkward pauses in conversation that can be bad in person but deadly half a world away. Eventually, Kevin changes the subject. “So, did you find a pink chandelier you like?”
I’m still inwardly flinching, but I try to get the conversation back on track by saying enthusiastically, “Actually, Nat found this really cool chandelier at the Brewery Art Walk near downtown. It’s made out of hanging glass wine bottles. The artist hung wine bottles around an iron chandelier she welded, then put a low-energy light bulb inside each bottle. They’re from a bunch of different wineries, so you have clear ones, green ones, even a few purple ones.” I catch Kevin glancing at his phone but decide to ignore the intrusion. “It’s neat. Really works with the brick and exposed pipe.” Kevin can’t help but focus on his text, and I’ve lost him completely. Nonetheless, I plod on. “It’s like … even though I had a great fantasy in my head of what everything would look like when I started, the reality looks even better.”
I wait for a response—nothing. He’s immersed in the text now. “Is that work again?” I ask, trying not to sound irritated.
“I’m sorry,” Kevin says, popping his eyes back up to me. “This is the problem with working for an American company in Germany. I get calls from nine to five my time, and nine to five their time.” He sighs loudly. “I’ve got to send them a quick e-mail in response. I’m really sorry. Can I call you back in five?”
“You know what? It’s okay,” I say. “Get your e-mail done and try to get some sleep. I have a million things to do here before we open Thursday anyway.”
“Are you sure?” Kevin asks.
“Yeah. I love you.”
“I love you too. And I miss you. And I’m sorry I can’t be there opening night. Send me a picture of that chandelier?”
“Will do,” I promise, smiling.
“Okay.” He flashes me his patented adorable smile. “Phone sex tomorrow?”
I laugh. “Not on your life.”
“Eh, it was worth a shot. Same time tomorrow?”
“Unless I call you first,” I say lightly.
Kevin smiles again. “I miss you, you know.”
“I miss you too.”
“No, I mean … I really miss you. I can’t wait for you to walk along the Danube with me. It’s like I keep seeing all these things here and thinking, ‘Jessie would love this. Jessie would think this was cool. Jessie would think this was fun.’ It’s weird to think I’m not going to hang out with you for almost two more months.”
The way he says that last sentence does sort of melt my heart. “I miss you like that too,” I assure him. “I wish you could see everything we’ve done here. I think you’d be pretty proud of me.”
“I’m always proud of you,” Kevin tells me.
But before I can bask in the glow of his praise, he’s back to his phone. “Crap, this is getting worse. I gotta go. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
And he’s gone.
I look around my new office and sigh.
Why are relationships such hard work? Why can’t anything be easy?
I mean, I love Kevin, I really do. But there’s a part of me that wishes it could all be effortless. That I wasn’t the first one to lean in for the first kiss. And lean in for the first date. And lean in for the ring.
There’s a part of me that wishes guys would be more assertive these days. More sure of who they are and what they want. Less likely to keep checking their phones for the latest call, text, or ESPN alert, desperate for the distraction of what else is out there.
I get up to refill my coffee cup, sit back down to focus on my computer, and try to concentrate on ordering glassware.
While Nat picked and ordered five different shapes of glasses for wine (out of more than one hundred styles sold by the bar supply distributor—yikes!), she completely forgot about water glasses. Turns out there are over fifty types of water glasses. Who knew there were so many ways to serve water?
Fifty. And I have to look at a picture of each one. Talk about a distraction from what’s important in life.
I’m not only tired of stressing over each decision we have to make, I wonder how many of them our customers will even notice. It reminds me of a wedding my coworker planned for almost two years. For months on end, I’d hear her in
her office next to mine fretting: “Should the party favors include candy? Do we want lilies on the tables, or roses? Salmon or filet mignon?” Two years of her life, and for what? I’ll bet the main thing her guests remember is whether or not they got laid that night.
Shit. Now I’m thinking about weddings. Which is making me think about Kevin’s and my possible wedding.
I’m saying “possible” because I don’t want to jinx it. But I’ll admit, this last month has been nothing short of amazing. The guy went from refusing to buy a house with me to obsessing over my perfect ring. Maybe there really will be a wedding. Maybe all those relationship gurus are right—if you focus on yourself and what you want, the perfect man will follow.
Speaking of perfect … is a curvy water glass perfect if it looks sexy, or is a sturdy solid water glass with a heavy base more to a girl’s liking? Probably depends on the girl. Our All for Wine and Wine for All! philosophy of finding the perfect wine for each woman could probably also apply to water glasses. Everyone likes something different—half the battle is figuring out what you really want.
I set my sights on choice number twenty-eight. It looks perfect. But, then again, what is perfect? And how do I know when to quit looking, click the “buy” button, and get on with my life?
“Good afternoon,” I hear a deep voice say from my office doorway. “Can you tell me where I can find Natasha?”
I look up to see the Roman god Bacchus, in all his perfect-bodied glory, standing in my doorway.
Ho-lee crap.
Tan skin that’s so flawless, it’s like someone Photoshopped him. Glittery brown eyes with long black eyelashes. Wavy dark hair that’s a little too long, a little unkempt, but just enough to make a girl think about keeping this guy in bed for two weeks straight.
Bacchus is wearing dark blue jeans, a white button-up shirt, dark jacket, and black Italian loafers. He holds a pile of glossy brochures in one hand and wheels a small suitcase with the other. If he were a character in a foreign film, it would inspire me to read subtitles. (Who am I kidding? It would inspire me to pay eighteen bucks for the movie to just stare at him and not read a damn thing.)
I think the elastic in my underwear just melted a bit. “Natasha’s not in yet,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice from catching. “Can I help you with something?”
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