“I notice you didn’t say ‘well done.’”
“Not before the date, no,” I say, sniffing the second Brunello di Montalcino.
Giovanni laughs. “So there’s going to be a date? Will I be cooking for you on this date? Or will you be cooking for me?”
I smile slightly. “I think you should cook for me. I hate cooking.”
“Really? Why?”
I shrug and smile bashfully. “There are just so many more enjoyable activities one can do in a kitchen.”
It’s amazing how easy it is to flirt with someone when you don’t really give a shit.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I hear Jessie mutter from the back. I jump up from my seat and race toward the storage room as I hear her complain, “I practically gave him to you gift wrapped and you—”
And I quickly open and slam the door. “Ow,” Jessie yelps from the other side.
Giovanni’s eyes widen in surprise. “Is she all right?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s a drama queen. Look, I’m sorry. This was fun, but I can’t keep this confident Bond Girl thing going any longer. You’re awesome. But you don’t have to keep flirting with me just to make a few wine sales. Jessie means well. She’s pretty much engaged and wants everyone else to be in a relationship too. I’m sorry. I’ll be good now.”
He looks up at the ceiling in thought, then looks at me. “So, is this the moment where I continue the banter and say, ‘I’d prefer you bad’ or are you really telling me to back off?”
I want to shake my head a bunch of times really fast and say “Wha—?” Instead, I say, “You can continue flirting. I just didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.” Then I sip my wine.
“Once again, you’ve given me the perfect setup.”
I try to suppress my laugh, and wine goes up my nose. Giovanni chuckles. “Sorry.”
“Of course you are. How dare you be funny while I’m drinking?” I tell him mock sternly.
Giovanni laughs a little more. “So … I wouldn’t be able to cook for you, but would you like to go out tomorrow night? I have an extra ticket to the opera if you’re interested. Do you like La Traviata?”
I have no idea. I’ve heard of it but never seen it live. I know it was written by Giuseppe Verdi in the mid-1800s. I also know I hate opera.
But the Universe (or Jessie) has presented me with a good-looking, funny guy who’s easy to talk to. And no, he’s not Marc (whom I kind of miss), but he’s probably better than Marc. “You know what? I’d really like that,” I tell him.
“Great. Are you a night owl? Maybe we can do a drink beforehand and dinner afterward so we’re not rushing through dinner to get to the opening curtain?”
“Sounds perfect,” I say to him.
And it really kind of does.
Then my early thirtysomething woman brain kicks in (damn her), and I start thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t go out on the date.
“I know this sounds like crazy-girl behavior,” I begin awkwardly. “And I’m sorry about that. But I just got out of a rather complicated relationship, so I have to ask up front: You don’t have a girlfriend, do you?”
He smiles. “That’s not crazy. And as of now, no. But I met this really beautiful woman today. So I’ll have let you know after tomorrow.”
I look away from him and smile nervously. Though I can’t see him, I’m positive he’s still looking at me.
Then crazy brain takes over again. I snap my head back at him. “Wait. You mean me, right?”
I seem to amuse him. “Yes. I mean you.”
I grin. “That’s a coincidence. Because I met this really handsome guy today. Like, insanely handsome. Beauty-that-should-not-be-found-in-nature handsome.”
Giovanni nods, turns the corners of his lips down to signal, Not bad. Then he jokes, “Except his hair is too short.”
“Oh, so you saw him too,” I joke.
And we smile at each other.
Okay, he seems nice. And I wouldn’t kick him out of bed and all that. This might be just what I need.
I raise my voice to acknowledge Jessie, whom I see peeking out of the storage room. “We set up a date. You can come back now.”
Jessie charges out to us. “Yay!” she says while quickly taking a seat next to me. “And you’re going to love La Traviata. It’s all in Italian, but the opera company runs subtitles on a lighted board above the stage.”
“I do love Italian things,” I admit to Giovanni as flirtatiously as I can.
Though actually my mind is racing. Subtitles? Crap. I hate subtitles. Why can’t he take me to a Lakers game like a normal guy?
Chapter Twenty
JESSIE
Giovanni was perfect for Nat! He likes opera, Jonathan Franzen, Thai food, and Casablanca. (Okay, he admitted he hadn’t seen Casablanca. But how cool would it be for Nat to see that movie with a newbie?) This was definitely going to work out. Good-bye Prick with a c!
Nat had to leave for a dentist’s appointment but gave Giovanni her number and said she was looking forward to their date tomorrow.
That left him all for me. Just as a friend. Obviously, not as a date or anything, since I’m with Kevin. But how cool to find a new friend who likes opera and Thai food.
I was really feeling a connection with him. He laughed at all of my jokes and really listened to me when I talked about all of the problems we were encountering three days before the bar was set to open. He even offered to look at our floor-to-ceiling wine fridge, which we bought used, and which didn’t seem to want to work.
“We have a repairman coming,” I tell Giovanni as he examines the back of the unit. “But he can’t come until tomorrow—and we’re desperately hoping he can fix it and we can get our bottles in there before our soft opening on Thursday.”
As I watch him tug at some silver wiry thingie, he assures me, “This is an older unit, but it’s still in pretty good shape. You just need a new coil back here. If you want to go to Home Depot with me, I can fix this in about an hour.”
He’s asking me out! I think happily.
Where did that come from?
I quickly lambaste myself, No, he’s asking you to join him at a hardware store. So he can impress your best friend. Dork.
But I’m still excited. New friend and all that.
“Let me grab my purse,” I tell Giovanni, then practically bounce out of the room into my office.
As I pull my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk, my Skype beeps that Kevin is calling. I quickly answer. “Hey, I can’t talk right now. We found someone to fix the refrigerator, but I have to go to the hardware store with him.”
“What do you think of this?” Kevin says, holding up a picture of a ring with a large blue sapphire in the center surrounded by diamonds.
Wow. I mean, seriously, yowza.
I put down my purse and stare at the screen. “It’s really pretty. It looks a lot like Duchess Kate’s ring,” I tell Kevin.
“That’s because it is. I looked it up online because I remembered you said you liked it a while back. Kate’s ring is white gold, but we could get you something in platinum. So what do you think? Is a big colored stone maybe something we should be looking at? Then we could afford to go bigger than a diamond, plus it’s not what every cookie cutter bride is wearing.”
“It is really pretty,” I say, intrigued. “But the blue one is so associated with Princess Diana. What do you think about an amethyst instead? Like a super-dark one?”
Giovanni walks up to the doorway silently as Kevin answers me, “That could be cool. I’ll do some research on amethysts.”
I look over at Giovanni and suddenly feel guilty. Which is weird, because I’m not doing anything wrong.
“Sounds awesome,” I manage to sputter out to Kevin while nervously watching Giovanni. “I really have to go, though. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Wait—I have one more to show you. It’s a pink diamond in the shape of a heart.”
I look at the picture and w
ant to scream, “Oh, God no!” But I also don’t want Giovanni to see what a bitch I can be. Jesus, Jessie, snap out of it. How about you don’t want the guy who wants to buy you a diamond to see what a bitch you can be?
I glance over to the doorway to see Giovanni has disappeared. “Um … that’s really not my style,” I tell Kevin awkwardly. “But … can we talk about this later? I really need to get to Home Depot.”
Kevin’s unfazed by my brushoff. “Sure. Call me tonight when you have a minute. Or I’ll call you when I wake up. Maybe I can catch you before bed. I love you.”
“I love you too. Bye,” I tell him, and I wonder if he’s bothered by the rush in my voice.
Huh. I’ve told Kevin I love him a million times. Why did I suddenly not want to say it? Why did it just sound like words coming out of my mouth due to a social contract: like “How are you?” and “Have a nice day”? And did he notice?
I decide I’m overthinking, quickly click off Skype, grab my purse, and head out of the office. Giovanni is waiting for me by the front door, holding it open for me. Oh, my God, he’s so cute AND he’s a gentleman. Where was this guy when I was surfing match.com and wondering if I’d ever find anyone? Nat is so fucking lucky. “Thank you so much for doing this,” I tell him. “I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“Not a problem. Maybe it will win me points with your friend Nat. So, was that your boyfriend?”
I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel a twinge of nausea. “Yes. He’s in Frankfurt right now for work.”
“Ahhhh, nice this time of year,” Giovanni says, not showing any trace of disappointment that I have a boyfriend. “For how long?”
“Four months. Although now they’re saying maybe five.”
“Have you visited him yet?”
“No,” I answer uneasily, feeling a wave of guilt come over me again. “I should have by now. I just got so busy getting ready to open the bar. Plus, it’s expensive.”
Giovanni doesn’t answer. Instead he silently follows me out of the bar and onto the street. “I will, though,” I continue. “He said if I came we could also spend a few days in France. I’d really like to see the Louvre. Plus, of course, the Paris Opera House.” I close the front door and lock it. “Speaking of opera, how did you get to be such a fan?”
Giovanni smiles, leans in to me, and whispers, “Can I let you in on a little secret?”
He smells delicious. It that woodsy or more citrusy? I turn to him, and for a brief moment I think about kissing his neck. “Sure.”
“I originally bought tickets to impress women. Particularly on third dates. But then, the older I got, the more I started to enjoy it.”
“What are you wearing?” I ask him out of the blue.
“Excuse me?”
I shake my head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I meant your cologne. What is that?”
“Oh. Chanel for Men.”
“Really? Which scent?”
“Bleu de Chanel,” he rattles off in perfect French. “An old girlfriend got it for me back in college, and I just kind of stayed with it. What do you think?”
“You smell fantastic. I should definitely get some for Kevin.”
Good save, Jessie.
“Glad you like it,” Giovanni tells me easily. He beeps his car unlocked, then opens the passenger door for me. “I’ll be sure to wear it tomorrow night.”
Tomorrow night?
Oh, yeah. Right. His date with Nat.
Chapter Twenty-one
HOLLY
That Tuesday, two days before our big opening night, I return from yet another introductory yoga class to see a letter taped to our front door. I untape the letter from the door and examine it. There’s no address or postage, just a handwritten “Nat and Holly” chicken-scratched in black ink on the front of the envelope. I open the letter and read.
Hi, guys,
I’m so sorry. I got your invitation, but I have to miss your opening night. I have been called to San Francisco on business. I was very much looking forward to seeing you both again and supporting you in your oenophilic endeavors.
I have the address and plan to come by as soon as I get home. Please accept my apologies. And good luck Thursday!
Best,
Sven
Damn it! I’ve been waiting for almost two weeks to see him again, specifically keeping my distance so that I could make a great impression this Thursday. Since the disastrous first encounter at the mailbox, I’ve been rehearsing what I would say to him and coming up with lots of questions to ask him about Sweden, and computer code, and Cambridge (which is where he went to school, even though I’m not supposed to know that, because Google stalking is a little creepy). I bought a new dress. Got new perfume. Went to the Mac counter to try to find the perfect lipstick.
All that effort, just to get rejected.
Damn it. There’s that familiar anvil feeling in my gut again. Why can’t just one thing in my life go the way I planned?
I shouldn’t have asked, because my brain immediately starts blasting me with all of the usual insults: He doesn’t like you, you know that. If he did, he would have called. Suddenly had to go to San Francisco for business? What does he think? You’re an idiot? You’ve watched Marc and Nat long enough to know that Sven obviously has a girlfriend there. Men like that don’t go for girls like you. You’re an actress. You’re never going to be smart enough for him, and let’s face it, you’re not twenty-two anymore: You can’t con a guy into liking you just because he thinks you’re hot. That was twentysomething Holly, the idiot who didn’t know all the good men would be picked off by the time she was twenty-five.
You should have gotten married when you had the chance. You’re going to die alone.
Isn’t it amazing what our brains are constantly telling us? If I had a roommate who started in on me like that before I’d even had a chance to get my coffee in the morning, I’d have her stuff out on the curb by noon. If a boyfriend said such horrible things, I’d be out the door and have his Facebook blocked within the hour.
But my inner voice? She knows exactly what to tell me to make me want to get back on those pills. And my inner voice has been way louder since I got off the meds.
Right now I desperately want to run to the drugstore and pick up a refill. I need to feel better.
So I do what addicts have done for years.
I head to a meeting.
* * *
“Hi. I’m Holly,” I begin cautiously. I take a deep breath and (finally) admit to the group, “And I’m a drug addict.”
Because that’s what my antidepressants were for me. They were drugs. Like most drugs, they could do good or harm. Penicillin: good. Heroin: harm. Vicodin: somewhere in between. Usually necessary, but can be abused. My pills? Probably (for me at least) closer to Vicodin than the other two.
“Hi, Holly,” the rest of the group responds in soothing voices.
I look around the room at the twelve or so people here at the Narcotics Anonymous meeting. “I’m sure some of you recognize me. I’ve been to a few of these meetings and I … um … I never talk because I don’t know what to say.”
I make eye contact with a sixtysomething woman. She is this week’s group leader (people take turns) and has dyed jet-black hair and kind brown eyes. I decide to talk to her.
“I’m addicted to painkillers,” I begin, having decided before I started coming to these meetings that that’s what antidepressants should ideally be: painkillers. “It’s nothing you get high from—trust me. But they are addictive, and in the long run, they were hurting me, and I knew they had to go. I’ve been off of them for a couple of months. And even though I know they might kill me, I don’t think I’m going to be able to stay off of them.”
I turn my attention to a twentysomething redhead, wearing jeans and a bright white T-shirt. He too, has kind eyes. “The thing is, since my dad died, I’ve tried really hard to do the things that will be good for me, and to avoid things that I know will hurt me. I’ve stopped audit
ioning for TV roles, because it’s just not making me happy anymore. I’m trying to take up yoga. Although, frankly, I don’t get the appeal: It leaves me way too much time alone with my thoughts. I’m opening a business with my two best friends in the world, both of whom are amazingly loving and supportive and always wish the best for me.” I stare down at my fingernails and nervously pick at a cuticle. “I’m actually surrounding myself with love and support all the time. Not just from them, but from old acting buddies, college friends, from anyone who I know is good to me and wishes me well.”
I take another breath and continue. “But even with all of this love in my life, I’m still hurting. And I don’t know how to fix it. And there was this guy … half the time it’s a guy, right?… I don’t know him well, but I wanted him to like me, and when he didn’t, all my brain could tell me over and over again was, ‘That’s because he saw the real you. And ick. Who would want that?’” I flit my eyes over to a middle-aged man wearing a suit. “I’m so tired of my inner voice. She’s mean, and she never cuts me any slack. And the only thing that ever shut her up were the painkillers. So how do I keep her quiet without them? How do I make her like me?”
I look around the room, hoping for an answer. The problem with these meetings is that no one’s supposed to answer you—they’re just supposed to let you talk. I nod knowingly. “So I guess that’s why I’m here. I need to learn how to quiet down the mean girl of my inner voice without going back to the painkillers. Thanks for letting me share.”
Well, that didn’t help at all. But I suppose it bought me three extra minutes without popping a pill.
I spend the next half hour listening to stories from people whose drug addictions sound so much harder to fight than mine and wondering why I dared to come at all. Seriously, how dare I? Who do I think I am to consider myself in the same group as a person battling a heroin or cocaine addiction? I don’t belong here. No one ever divorced me over my crutch. I never lost my job or my kids. I have this minor problem that I am clearly blowing way out of proportion …
And suddenly I realize: There she is, my inner voice, telling me yet again that I’m not worthy. Nobody here thinks I don’t belong—that is all coming from me and my thoughts.
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