So I tell my brain to Shut. The Fuck. Up.
Just for now. Just long enough to really focus on the other people’s stories, the way they did for me.
And my revelation? She did simmer down. For the first time in a long time, my inner voice shut up.
Huh. How about that? Maybe these meetings are working.
Chapter Twenty-two
NAT
I ask this without judgment. Why the hell do people go to the opera?
La Traviata is Italian for “the Fallen Woman.” And that makes sense, since this woman almost fell asleep at least four times before intermission. Everything sounded like a Bugs Bunny cartoon set up. Duh-daaaahhhh, duh, dah, dah, duh-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah what the fuck are they singing? Oh—right—read the subtitles.
Despite the fact that it’s in Italian, it’s about this Frenchwoman named Violetta, who is a courtesan, which technically means she’s an entourage member from the French court, but really I think it means she’s a hooker. Albeit an elegant one, swimming in velvet.
As far as I can tell, Violetta is getting over tuberculosis in Act 1. Usually a deadly and frightfully contagious disease tends to dissuade gentlemen from pursuing a relationship, but not so in Violetta’s case. She must have looked like Beyoncé back in her day, because everyone is in love with her, despite the whole TB bugaboo. One of the doe-eyed suitors, Alfredo, declares his love for her by trying to put her to sleep with his grandiose singing. It certainly put me to sleep.
I suppose she inexplicably likes his singing, because she does go to the countryside to live with him in Act 2. Chaos ensues: He can’t marry her, so they break up. But then he comes back when she’s on her deathbed (again—did TB mean nothing back then?). If I am to understand the subtitles correctly, first the two sing together, then she sings about being revived, then she promptly drops dead in his arms. (Because—hello? I really hate to beat a dead horse here, but the girl has tuberculosis. In the 1800s. No one survives TB in the 1800s. Or do they? I should look that up. Marc would know … Stop thinking about Marc.)
I find myself staring longingly at the prop wineglasses during all of the party scenes. If only I had a drink, maybe this would go faster.
And the opera finally ends. Thank fucking God.
As the lights come up, I have already decided that this date is going nowhere. Yes, Giovanni is a great guy, very sweet, and hotter than a New York sidewalk in August. But clearly we have nothing in common. I don’t like Porsches, opera, or the Boston Red Sox. Plus, on the way over he said he liked “anything by William Faulkner,” so clearly he’s a moron.
The question is, which is more polite? To tell him the date is over now and save him the cost of dinner? Or to go through with the dinner so he won’t feel rejected?
I am debating this when Giovanni gently takes my hand, and we walk up the lush red carpet aisle together. “What did you think?” he asks me.
I’ll admit that his hand feels nice. Soft, warm, kind of comforting. It’s been a long time since I had a man around who would willingly take my hand in public.
“Well,” I begin cautiously, “I found Alfredo to be … a little pitchy?”
Giovanni laughs lightly. “Wow. You’re really on first-date behavior. The guy sounded like he’d had whiskey and cigarettes for breakfast, then broken glass for lunch.”
I exhale a giant breath of relief. “I’m so happy you said that. So that’s not what the men are supposed to sound like?”
“Not at all. Fortunately, Violetta was good.”
If you say so, dude.
“I have tickets to The Barber of Seville in a few weeks. If you’re free, the man playing Figaro has some serious pipes on him.”
Did he just ask me out for a few weeks from now? Like … already? He hasn’t even kissed me yet. How would he know if he wants to see me again at all, much less in a few weeks?
“I’m not sure if I can,” I hedge. “The bar opens this week. I have no idea how busy we’ll be, or what my schedule will be once we get going.”
Giovanni pauses for a second, as though he’s trying to figure out if my hedging is code for something. “Fair enough,” he finally tells me as we walk hand in hand into the grand lobby. “So I’ve made a reservation for us at this amazing steakhouse nearby. There’s a piano bar that goes until one. And I’m told they do a fabulous Chateaubriand for two for one.”
I laugh. “I was kidding about that. Well, kind of.” I stop walking and turn to him. “Have I apologized enough yet for acting like a freak when we met?”
“No, you haven’t,” he tells me in all seriousness. Then he leans in and kisses me gently on the lips. “But maybe you can over dinner.”
His lips are soft and warm, and I can’t help but close my eyes and revel in the moment.
He pulls away from me, and I smile and look away shyly. The kiss was very innocent, very respectable here in the land of the well-dressed octogenarians. But it is leaving me wondering what it would be like to have more.
Giovanni smiles back, then the two of us stroll hand in hand outside. Once we get outside, he asks, “So, did I pass the kissing test?”
“The kissing test?” I ask, hoping to God he’s not referring to what I’m absolutely sure he’s referring to, and trying to cover the panic and embarrassment on my face. “What are you talking about?”
“Jessie told me you have three tests for men: the kissing test, the phone test, and the brunch test.”
I’m going to fucking kill her. I close my eyes super tight, hoping this will all go away. “Oh, my God. I’m mortified.”
Giovanni laughs. “Don’t be. I’m looking forward to the brunch test.”
To that, I open my eyes and challenge, “Really? So you think you’ll pass the phone test well enough to get to the brunch test?”
“I have three sisters and a mother. Bring it.”
“Oh, I’ll bring it,” I promise, leaning my head lightly to the left to hint that I would like him to kiss me again. “So do you want to take me home so I can call you?”
“Your home? No,” Giovanni says as he puts his hands around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss so passionate and perfect, my whole body feels like it might melt into goo. I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and wonder what I did to deserve having a man this wonderful come into my life.
And then Marc pops into my head.
Damn it!
Chapter Twenty-three
JESSIE
“So then what happened?” I ask Nat excitedly as we unpack wines into the new (to us) floor-to-ceiling refrigerator.
“Then we went to this really great steak place, which I wouldn’t have thought I would have liked because it’s all dark wood and red leather booths and old guys hanging out. But it was fun, and Giovanni was cool and easy to talk to and…” She shrugs. “I don’t know. It was fun.”
“So did you sleep with him?” Holly asks Nat as she polishes glasses behind the bar. “Get under someone to get over someone and all that?”
I crane my head forward a little, jealously waiting for Nat’s answer.
“No,” Nat snaps, slightly offended. “He kissed me a couple of times before dinner, and we made out for a couple of hours afterward. He was really sweet. Oh, that reminds me…” Nat proceeds to smack me on the arm. Hard. “By the way, thanks a lot for telling him about the kissing test.”
“I was helping you,” I assure her. “It’s weird that you get rid of a guy if he doesn’t kiss you by the middle of the first date.”
“It’s not weird. It’s survival of the fittest. If a guy doesn’t make a move, that means he’s not an alpha male. And I need an alpha male.”
“Yeah, because that’s been working out so well for you,” I point out sarcastically.
“You hush.”
I decide to back off.
Holly takes a moment to put down her polishing cloth and stare into space. “A couple of really sweet kisses, then dinner,” she says, then shakes her head and goes back to work. “M
an, what I wouldn’t give for a night like that. I don’t even remember the last time a guy took me on a real date. I mean, what straight man do you know who’s willing to go to the opera?”
“Your time is coming,” Nat promises. “Sven will be back soon, and this will work. You just need to calm down a little when you’re around him.” Then she quips, “And if he really likes you, he won’t subject you to the opera.”
“How can you say that?” I whine to Nat. “La Traviata is one of the most emotionally stirring, beautiful pieces of all time.”
“A story about a hooker with TB who still has an easier time finding a guy than me,” Holly deadpans. “I’ll admit, that certainly stirs up some emotions.”
“Your time will come,” Nat repeats. “We’re gonna make that happen if I have to use a pound of bacon and a trip wire.”
“So what were the kisses like?” I press, not wanting to hear details at all and yet desperate for them.
Nat shrugs, embarrassed. “They were nice. He’s nice.”
“Why are you being so coy?” I ask in frustration. “You didn’t sleep with him already, did you?”
“I said no!” she exclaims, appalled. “It was our first date.”
“Didn’t you sleep with Marc on your first date?” Holly asks her.
“I most certainly did not,” Nat insists.
Holly narrows her eyes at her. Nat rolls her eyes in response. “Okay, maybe technically. But we had known each other for months and months. So it was practically, like, a twenty-sixth date or something.”
“So, has he asked you out again yet?” I press.
“Yeeeaaahhh, that was almost a little too alpha. He asked me to see The Barber of Seville with him in a couple of weeks before our date was even half over,” Nat tells me. “Plus I’m going to his place for dinner tonight. And he’s coming to the opening Thursday. I think he was going to ask me out for Saturday night, but obviously I’ll be here, so that won’t work.”
I squelch my urge to exclaim, “I LOVE The Barber of Seville,” but only because I can see that won’t help Giovanni’s case any. Damn, Nat gets to see a glorious opera with an even more glorious man, and she doesn’t even know how lucky she is. I kind of resent her for that.
“The Barber of Seville won’t be so bad,” Holly tells Nat.
“Will there be subtitles?” Nat asks with a tone of dread.
Holly counters with, “Yes. And there will also be a good-looking guy buying you dinner, so who cares? Some women have to go to sporting events that last an entire Sunday afternoon just to get that kind of attention.”
“Fair enough,” Nat concedes. She reads one of the wine bottles. “When did I buy us Sauvignon Blanc from Fresno?” she mutters to herself.
As Holly and Nat start conversing about wine, I can’t help but stare at Nat and fight off a tinge of jealousy. How can she be so nonchalant? She landed the perfect man, and she’s acting like it’s nothing.
And then I start to get a little angry. I have practically gift-wrapped this exquisite present for her, and she seems reluctant to even pull off his first ribbon.
But as Nat said just a few days ago, sometimes you know exactly why your girlfriends are still single. “So, is tonight the night?” I ask her.
Nat seems almost startled. “TMI. But no. With a little luck, I’ll be straddled on top of him on his couch all night, getting all hot and bothered while fully clothed.”
Holly looks up to the ceiling as her shoulders fall, then says wistfully, “Oh, the climbing all over each other like you’re teenagers. The first few dates are always so fun. Like when you make out in the car.”
“That reminds me a little too much of Marc. Since we sometimes snuck out at lunch—”
“No Marc!” Holly and I exclaim to Nat in unison.
“Jinx,” Holly says to me. “You owe me a Coke.”
And suddenly, like a crashing wave, the idea that Nat gets to make out with Giovanni is making me very jealous, and I don’t want to hear any more details. I decide to change the subject by asking her, “So, are you going to wear your red dress on opening night?”
Nat shakes her head. “Nah. That only goes well with a super-spiky pump, and we’ll be running around serving all night. I figure jeans, my purple Converse sneakers, and a black T-shirt that says I DRINK WINE BECAUSE I DON’T LIKE TO KEEP THINGS BOTTLED UP.”
I can feel the wrinkles forming between my brows. “That’s what you’re wearing on opening night? Jeans and sneakers?”
“That’s what I’m wearing every night,” she tells me. “I bought tees with an assortment of phrases: FORGIVE ME FATHER, FOR I HAVE ZINNED. That shirt’s red. HOW MERLOT CAN YOU GO? Obviously, that’s in a Merlot shade of purple…”
“What is wrong with you?” I snap at Nat. “It’s opening night. And there are going to be a ton of men here, including Giovanni.”
She shrugs. “Technically, it’s the third date tomorrow. How much effort do I really have to put in here?”
I want to bite her.
Holly turns to me and says, “My T-shirt is pink and says I LOOK FABULOUS FOR MY VINTAGE in glitter.”
Nat points to Holly. “You know, I think you are the one woman I know who could pull that off.”
“The pink or the glitter?” Holly asks.
“Well, yes,” Nat answers.
“Well, no!” I exclaim. “So am I the only one here who is dressing up? Holly, didn’t you buy a new dress?”
She shrugs. “I did. But without Sven here, it just suddenly seemed kind of pointless.”
“Pointless? By that argument, the only time you’d ever wear nonperiod underwear and a matching bra is when you knew a guy might be spending the night.”
Judging from Holly’s wide-eyed expression in response (imagine her saying, “Duh,” with her eyes), I can’t help but groan. “Gross.”
Nat unloads the last two bottles and puts them in my row, where there is still room. “Jess, if you want to dress up, no one’s stopping you,” she tells me. “It’s not a big deal either way.”
“But it is a big deal!” I argue/whine. “In about twenty-four hours, all of our lives are going to change. When was the last time that happened? College graduation? When you moved away from home to go to college? Holly: when you had your first opening night? Or Nat: the first time you saw your ‘Written by Natasha Osorio’ credit on TV? We don’t get a lot of moments anymore when we get an eciah, and see our futures suddenly get brighter. Particularly not at our age. I want to celebrate that.”
I give both of my friends my best cocker spaniel don’t-you-want-to-share-that-cupcake? pleading eyes. Holly breaks first. “Fine. If it’s that important to you, I’ll dress up.”
“Thank you!” I say, clapping my hands several times and running over to hug her. Then I set my sights on Nat. She makes a show of sighing, “All right. I’ll wear the red dress. But just on opening night. Then I’m right back to my Chucks and my puns.”
“Yay!” I say, trotting back to pull her into a hug. “I love you! Thank you!”
Without thinking, and still hugging, I give her advice. “And you should not sleep with Giovanni on the third date. It makes you look easy.”
“Yeah, guys hate that,” Nat deadpans.
Chapter Twenty-four
HOLLY
The three of us spent the next few hours setting up for tomorrow night’s “soft opening,” which is sort of like a dress rehearsal for restaurants. We extended our invitations to friends who we’ve supported over the years by going to every insufferable ninety-nine-seat theater play, pseudo-intellectual art gallery opening, book party, and bad movie premiere they had ever done.
Now it’s payback time.
We’re expecting over a hundred people during the course of the night. Plus, the bar will also be open to the public, so I am hopeful we’ll have extra business.
By the time we close up Wednesday, All for Wine and Wine for All! looks like a real bar. The interior’s a lot of exposed brick (and some fake ex
posed brick, Los Angeles being earthquake territory and all), with wood beams and exposed pipes. One wall is the floor-to-ceiling wine refrigerator that Nat’s new boyfriend managed to fix. The wine chandelier Nat found looks like a piece of modern art, bathing the middle of the room with a romantic glow. And scattered throughout the place we have wooden signs in various colors that say things like IT’S WINE O’CLOCK, WINE: THE WAY CLASSY PEOPLE GET TRASHED, and COME. SIP. STAY.
We did it. We actually pulled it off.
I feel like such a grown-up.
And if Jessie’s right, in less than twenty-four hours, the next phase of my life begins.
That’s exciting. Or scary as hell. Either way, the not knowing what’s happening next is rather thrilling. This is the most alive I’ve felt in years.
I hate Pollyannas who say things like that, my brain points out.
Now normally, I would cow down to that inner voice. But just for today, I’m going to listen to Jessie instead.
And that night, armed with my newfound courage to quell my inner voice, I do something I consider very brave: I Facebook Sven Erikkson, with two k’s, and friend request him.
I then reward myself with two cupcakes and a can of pink frosting I find in the back of the pantry. I’m following the unspoken rule every woman knows: A girl can be brave for only so long, and then she needs a treat. Because in this day and age, bravery isn’t about storming out onto the battlefield; most days it’s just about putting yourself out there. And that frequently requires frosting.
I hear my computer ding, and can’t help but run back to it, my arms full of the modern girl’s dating provisions.
Oh, my God! He accepted my friend request! Gorgeous neighbor accepted my friend request.
Within ten minutes!
Paydirt!
I suppress the urge to hide under my desk. Shit just got real.
No. I have my cupcakes and my frosting—I can do this. Time for some recon, Sweden Boy!
I immediately click on his page to discover that his relationship status is single (hallelujah!) and that he really is in San Francisco on business. One of his male friends checked in at a local bar and tagged him. Five guys and a girl—and the girl has her arms around a different guy. I move my head toward the screen to get a closer look at the girl. It looks like she’s wearing … Yes! An engagement ring! Which means she can’t be with him, or he’d have changed his status.
Love the Wine You're With Page 13
