Love the Wine You're With

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Then I begin reading his previous posts. He was recently in New York for a wedding, he recently became an uncle for the third time (very cute baby pic), and he is inexplicably a San Francisco 49ers fan. (Not that I don’t like the team, but how did a guy from Sweden become a fan of a football team that doesn’t use a soccer ball?)

  As I am going through his old pictures, I see a message pop up in my in-box.

  From Sve … Get the fuck out of here—no way!

  I click on the message box to read:

  Hey! Was trying to figure out how to e-mail you yesterday. I saw you on TV.

  He saw me on TV? Crap. Doing what? Please not the show where I kill my boyfriend and they only discover it because of my nail polish. That might send a bad message about how I feel about men who work late. And not the one where my little Half Asian self inexplicably has an Irish accent. A baaaaddd Irish accent.

  I bite the bullet and ask,

  One of the CSI ones?

  No. You’re a firefighter, and you’re the girlfriend of that guy who’s now the sexiest man alive.

  St. Louis Fire. Wow, I haven’t thought about that job in years. Okay, that’s not a bad one. I was off dairy for five minutes and kind of looked okay back then.

  Pointed to you on the television at a pub I was at with my friends earlier tonight. I said, “That’s my neighbor!” I haven’t been on Facebook in several days. Glad you caught me.

  Pointed me out at the pub? To whom? Maybe to the girl with the engagement ring? Okay, that’s a good sign, right? I mean, pointing out a girl to an engaged person must mean something.

  So what did your friends think of me

  Michael, who just moved here from London, said if the women in Southern California look like that, he needs to make sure his transfer to America is permanent.

  I grin at the screen. Ahhh … England. An entire nation of men who look and talk like James Bond.

  That’s very sweet. I’m sure he’ll do great here, if for no other reason than his accent is an aphrodisiac.

  Well, that’s why I moved to Los Angeles. There, my accent is an aphrodisiac. (Even if no one seems to know what it is. One woman asked me if I was from Brooklyn!) Maybe I should go to where you’re from. Do you think my accent could be an aphrodisiac?

  It took until after I hit Send to realize how ballsy I was sounding.

  He immediately writes,

  Indeed. The men wouldn’t know what hit them. You would kill it, in London, Sweden, San Francisco …

  I don’t have an accent in San Francisco

  I type back, a little confused.

  You don’t need to. You are the aphrodisiac.

  Okay, that was fantastic. I will be dining out on that in my head for at least a week.

  And then the flirting continued—for five hours.

  Nat has this thing she calls “the phone test.” Basically it just means that if a man really likes you, he’ll want to talk to you on the phone all night. She has this theory about how you should never have sex with anyone unless you’re both so into the other person that you talk until the sun comes up.

  And because I stopped listening to my inner voice long enough to take a risk, Sven and I talk (well, type) until the sun comes up. For hours and hours. we talked about everything and nothing. I learned that he hates vanilla ice cream, and he learned that the first time I tried to golf I accidentally hit myself in the head.

  The evening flew by, and it felt both exciting yet effortless. It was so easy to talk to him. Somehow, just typing (instead of actually talking) allowed me to write whatever I felt like sharing. I didn’t second-guess myself at every turn, because I wasn’t staring at a great-looking guy, stressed out about the outcome. And I listened, really listened, to what he had to say.

  I passed Nat’s phone test.

  You know, I hear a lot these days about how society is wrecked because people aren’t going on real dates anymore, how they aren’t seeing each other face-to-face, and they’re all on their phones at dinner. And that might very well be true.

  But, for tonight at least, it sure was a relief to hide a bit. Because it gave me the courage to be myself. To admit, “Here’s me! I’m weird.”

  Which allowed me to find someone I didn’t want to hide from.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  NAT

  I’m thinking about how sexy you look in that red dress.

  Well, maybe if you weren’t in London, you could see me in it at the opening.

  And now I’m thinking about unzipping you in that red dress.

  Don’t say things like that right before I go on a date.

  What kind of gentleman doesn’t pick you up for a date? I’m telling you, it’s not proper.

  The kind who can invite me to his apartment and not have to worry about his wife answering the door. Gotta go.

  And I click off my phone.

  Well, that was stupid. After my really nice date last night, filled with laughter, good food, and a lot of kissing, Giovanni dropped me off at my house, and in a moment of weakness, I texted Marc.

  I don’t know why I did it.

  Yes, I do. I wanted him to know that I was over him. I wanted him to know that only a few weeks after I became available, someone had snatched me up and taken me out of the rotation. I wanted him to know what a big mistake he had made and that there was no turning back.

  Stupid. I know. But at least the conversation didn’t end in phone sex.

  But Marc and I did text back and forth for an hour. And we’ve been texting off and on until now, right before I leave for my date with Giovanni.

  Which was a huge mistake, and I won’t do it again. Marc has to be treated like an addiction: fun at the time, but absolutely destructive for my life in the long run. And I need to get rid of my addiction. If you’re addicted to heroin, you don’t just text it at two in the morning for a little fix, do you? You stop taking it altogether. Or you go under a doctor’s supervision and get yourself some methadone.

  Giovanni is my methadone, I think to myself as I drive through the winding streets of his hilly neighborhood.

  No, that’s not right. Giovanni’s sexy as fuck … He’s more like crack than heroin. Bad analogy. Crack is bad for you too. No, Giovanni’s more like reading a great book: deliciously distracting and possibly life changing. Yes, much better.

  About twenty minutes later (thank God for Waze, or I never would have found this place), I park my car and take a moment to scrutinize Giovanni’s house. It looks cozy, like a little sanctuary, nestled in the hills high above the Sunset Strip. I like how quiet it is up here—all I can hear are trees rustling with that late summer/fall tease that happens with our Santa Ana winds. I grab the dark purple tulips I bought at Trader Joe’s from the passenger seat, get out of the car, and beep my alarm. It almost echoes in the quiet. I can hear the clicking of my high heels as I walk up to Giovanni’s front door and ring the bell, which sounds melodic and peaceful.

  Everything about this home looks peaceful.

  Giovanni opens the door wearing dark jeans, a long-sleeved shirt with his sleeves rolled up, and a bright red apron with white letters reading MANGIA BENE. He’s all smiles as he greets me, “Welcome!” He kisses me very quickly on the mouth, then backs up, saying quickly, “I’m afraid I’ve had a kitchen mishap. I don’t want to get melted butter on you. Come in.”

  I follow him through his front doorway, which steps down into his living room, clearly done in early to mid-twenty-first-century no-woman-has-helped-decorate bachelor pad. A gray sectional sofa on a white shag rug, thrown over dark hardwood floors. A gas fireplace blazing over glass pebbles glistening with the light of the flames. Against the wall is a vintage record player, which fills the house with a beautiful soulful jazz ballad.

  “Is that Lena Horne?” I ask, utterly charmed by the song, the atmosphere, and the man.

  “Etta James. Are those for me?” Giovanni asks, referring to the purple tulips.

  “Yes,” I say a little nervously a
s I hold them out for him. “I figured bringing wine to a wine rep is a little like bringing cookies to a baker, so I thought I’d come up with a different gift.”

  “Great. Let me see if I can find a vase to put them in.” Giovanni walks into his kitchen, which looks out onto his living room. He points to a barstool on the living room side of the counter separating the two rooms and says, “Have a seat. I’ve already poured you a glass of the Neprica you ordered at dinner last night.”

  He remembered what I ordered last night? Well, of course he did, he’s a wine rep. Nonetheless, I am pleasantly surprised to see a glass of red on the counter waiting for me, along with two cheeses on a cheese board, accompanied by fruit, nuts, and crackers. A happy “Oh” escapes my mouth. “This looks amazing.”

  “Crémeux des Citeaux, which is a triple-cream cow’s milk from France and a Saint Agur, which is a blue, also made from cow’s milk. I noticed at the restaurant last night that when we ate the cheese plate, you steered clear of the goat’s milk cheese. Some people shy away from sheep’s milk, so I figured stick with the cow.”

  I spread a bit of the Saint Agur onto a cracker and take a bite. “Mm. This is gorgeous. Thank you.”

  I watch Giovanni’s shirt hike up as he reaches for a vase on a top shelf. From what I can see, he has a very nice back. Makes me want to lift his shirt up more. You know, just to make sure I’m right.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he tells me as he fills the vase with water. “Per your request: I’m doing a filet mignon au poivre, medium rare, potatoes au gratin, and an arugula salad.”

  “Wow. Are you sure you don’t have a wife and kids tucked away somewhere? Or a husband and kids?”

  He smiles, toasts my glass with his, and says, “I’m sure.”

  We spend the next fifteen minutes talking as I happily sip my wine at the counter and watch him putter around the kitchen. Daaammmmnnnnn. It is just occurring to me for the first time: Why do men waste all of that money taking us out to nice restaurants when they could be cooking for us? It would save them money and would be so much closer to the bedroom. I mean, to think of all the times Marc took me to Nobu when he could have …

  Stop it! Don’t think about Marc!

  “So where do you see yourself in ten years?” I ask Giovanni as I try to push Marc out of my subconscious.

  “Ugh. Please tell me you’re not one of those kind of women,” Giovanni says as he throws the filets into a sizzling cast iron pan.

  “One of what kind?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “You mean the reads-the-self-help-books-on-dating kind?”

  “I do,” he says, smiling to himself. “Honestly, why can’t women just live in the moment?” He turns from the steaks and asks me, “Or is that the wrong answer?”

  It is, but I decide it’s too early to hold that against him. “No, I tend to agree with you. How’s this: On what date can a woman sleep with a man and not be considered a slut?”

  “The first.”

  “Not true,” I counter.

  “Absolutely true,” he assures me cheerfully.

  “Can I finish off the Crémeux des Citeux?”

  Giovanni walks over to me and leans in for a kiss. “I love the way you say that.”

  We kiss. “Oh, you do, huh?” I stretch out the words. “Crémeux … des … Citeux.”

  And we kiss again. People on the first few dates are silly.

  We continue to make out for a few minutes. Giovanni pulls away to flip the steaks, giving me one final quick kiss and smile.

  I return to my original mission. “Okay, so, Jessie says I’m terrible about not asking enough questions on the first few dates…”

  “She thinks you’re too busy kissing?” Giovanni teases.

  “Yeah … let’s just say she said ‘kissing.’ Anyway, I’m trying to … sort of … date differently than I usually do. So…” I try to figure out where I’m going with this. “The ten-year plan was Jessie’s question. What do you think is a good second-date question?”

  Giovanni takes a moment to think about that. “What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?”

  I open my mouth.

  “And don’t say ‘Play the lottery,’” Giovanni tells me quickly.

  I close my mouth. Damn, that was a good answer.

  “Hmmm…” I consider, taking a sip of wine. “I just blew my savings and my job to open a wine bar. Does that count?”

  “It can,” Giovanni turns to me. “Was there a particular reason you quit?”

  “My boss didn’t appreciate me,” I say, truthfully.

  “Good reason. So, anything else you’d do?”

  Hmm. I think some more. “Sadly, other than the wine bar thing, I can’t think of anything. What about you?”

  “Come on,” Giovanni prods, “you can’t think of anything?”

  “Okay. Well, I’ve quit writing for now. But I have this screenplay I wanted to write about Elizabeth Cady Stanton. She was the first woman to demand a woman’s right to vote, yet no one’s ever done a movie about her.”

  Giovanni breaks into a huge smile. “That’s awesome. So why haven’t you written it?”

  “Because there’s no point. No one watches historical films. Plus, who has the time? I get paid to write game shows. If I’m going to go back to writing, I should be paid for it.”

  “Are you passionate about game shows?”

  “God, no,” I blurt out. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. The people I work with are amazing, and the money is great. It’s not a bad life. At. All. I was very lucky to get that job.”

  Giovanni watches me as I try to think of some other way to justify what I’ve been doing for the last seven years of my life. But instead, I just nervously sip my wine.

  “Write the script,” he tells me.

  “And what if I waste six months on it, and no one ever sees it?” I counter.

  Giovanni raises his shoulders slightly and puts up the palms of his hands. “Then you’ll be the exact same age as you would have been if you hadn’t done it. But you’ll have created something you care about.”

  Huh. He’s right—he’s totally right. Why don’t I write something just because? Why does there have to be a paycheck at the end of it? I have a new job that won’t drain me intellectually, I don’t have kids or a boyfriend right now to distract me. The roadblocks aren’t there. Why not go for it?

  “You know what? I think I might,” I say. I put my arms around him and kiss him on the cheek. “This time next week, I’ll try to have the first five pages.”

  “You mean you will have five pages,” Giovanni encourages. “And I can’t wait to read them.”

  And we make out again. This guy is seriously cool. I think I could get used to him.

  Giovanni breaks away from me to take the steaks off the pan. As he puts them on a platter to rest and throws some aluminum foil on top, I ask, “So, what about you? What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?”

  He smiles mischievously. “I’d kiss a beautiful woman I’ve had my eye on.”

  Well, obviously that leads to a mini make-out session.

  When we pull away, I press on. “At the risk of calling myself a beautiful woman, you’ve already done that. So what else do you want to do?”

  Giovanni takes a moment before confessing, “Actually, I would go to dinner.”

  I’m confused. “Wait. What? Aren’t we having dinner?”

  “No. It’s a particular dinner. A twelve-course tasting menu served on the beach. You know what? It’s not important.”

  Whoa, I hit a nerve with dinner? “It sounds important. So why don’t you go?”

  He shrugs. “First of all, it’s really expensive. Like, insanely. Mostly…” He sort of stumbles over the rest of his sentence. “It’s nothing. It’s just … I want to go with the right person. And it’s something I’ve fantasized about for years, and what if my date didn’t appreciate it or the food wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be? Plus I’d have to drive all the way to Santa Barbar
a and get a hotel…”

  “Are you passionate about…”

  Giovanni wraps his arms around my waist, smiles, and rubs the small of my back. “Silenzio, mio bella.” Then he kisses me to accomplish his goal.

  But when we finally stop kissing, I narrow my eyes and joke, “Just so you know, that’ll work six … seven years tops.”

  Giovanni chuckles, then turns to make the sauce. He pours some brandy into the pan, then tilts the pan down to the gas flame, igniting the brandy into the most amazing flambé. The flames die down, and Giovanni adds cream.

  Seriously—is there anything sexier than a man who knows how to cook?

  “Wow.”

  Giovanni whisks the cream sauce until it bubbles. “So, do they serve steak during this twelve-course meal?”

  “Yes. A Kobe beef short rib,” he tells me as puts the steaks back in the pan and coats them with the decadent sauce.

  He answered me easily and without hedging, but I still can’t read him. I decide to change the subject. “Well, maybe if the bar does well, I can go and take you as my arm candy.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “Ready to eat?”

  “Always,” I deadpan. “And this looks amazing.”

  He carries the platter of meat in one hand and his wine in the other. I grab the potatoes au gratin and my wine and say, “Just to warn you, I’m not nearly as good of a cook.”

  “Yes, I believe you were quite candid about excelling in other rooms.” He sets down the platter in the middle of the table and holds out my chair. “So what are you reading these days?”

  For the rest of the night, the conversation flowed as easily as the wine. We talked about books, movies, synthetic CDOs (all right, I’ll admit he mostly talked about those), women’s shoes, and politics.