Love the Wine You're With

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  The moment we are in the storage area, Giovanni turns me to face him. He knits his brows in worry. “Everything okay?”

  “What? Yeah, why?” I stammer.

  He holds up the bottle. “I think you grabbed the wrong bottle. This is a three-hundred-dollar bottle, wholesale, that you guys are selling for twelve hundred. I can’t imagine anyone would order it as their second bottle of the night.”

  I grab the bottle from him and stare at the label. “Shit!” I say, and I can feel the tears mudding up my mascara. “God, I’m a space cadet. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. No harm done. It…”

  Without thinking, I walk right into his arms for a hug. “I broke up with Kevin.”

  “What? When?”

  “A few hours ago.” I look up at him and beg, “Please don’t tell Nat. Don’t tell anyone. I’m not ready to deal with it yet.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Giovanni whispers to me empathetically as he hugs me and rubs my back. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I say, putting my hands around his neck and hugging him harder than I probably should. I can feel his warmth and his heartbeat. It’s nice.

  Eventually, I can feel him wanting to pull away, but hesitating, so I pull away first. “I may be overreacting,” I say, dabbing at my eyes to make sure they’re not wet. “I’m not even sure if this is really it. I just … I don’t know … it feels like it is, though.”

  Giovanni’s eyes crinkle in sympathy. “What can I do?”

  “I don’t know. Set me up with your brother,” I half joke. He tilts his head, confused. “I know, you only have sisters. Maybe you can set me up with one of them for a while. God, that was a bad joke. Never mind. I’m just trying to lighten the mood, and I’m doing it superbly badly.”

  Giovanni pulls me into a soft hug again. Bleu de Chanel mixed with deodorant and the smell of … what?… him, I guess.

  I hear the door open behind us and turn to see Nat carrying a tray of giant glasses, each one half filled with red wine. “Honey, can you also get…”

  I pull away from Giovanni faster than a babysitter’s boyfriend when the car pulls up.

  “Everything okay?” Nat asks. (Suspiciously? Or is that my imagination?)

  “Fine,” I say quickly. “I was just telling Giovanni here that…” How do I explain being in his arms? And, more important, never wanting to leave. For my save, I blurt out instinctively, “Kevin and I broke up.”

  Nat’s jaw drops. “What? Hold on, let me get rid of these.” And she disappears behind the door.

  Giovanni and I share an awkward silence as we wait for her to come back. Neither of us moves. We just stand there, a few feet apart, looking like two awkward middle schoolers at their first dance. Finally I break the silence with an embarrassed, “I’m sorry to emotionally vomit all over you like that.”

  “Don’t be silly. If you can’t talk to your friends, what are we here for?”

  Friends. Right. To add insult to injury, I just told the guy I like that I am now available, and he hasn’t even thought about asking me out. I mean, of course it hasn’t; he’s dating my friend. But damn it! I wish it would cross his mind. Like, if only we lived in another universe … a universe where ice cream was considered health food and the fact that I saw him first meant something.

  The door swings open again and Nat reappears. “Okay, what happened? When did it happen? Do you need to go home?”

  “It happened right before the bar opened tonight, which I don’t think was a coincidence,” I tell her. “Kevin was offered a three-year job in Europe, and he’s taking it. And I think he’s known about it for a long time. It just took until I actually had my own life before he had the motivation to tell me.”

  Nat and Giovanni exchange a quick look. “I’m fine!” I insist. “Really. Actually, I’m better than fine. I’m angry and determined to move on as soon as I can. I just made a mistake and had a weak moment, but Giovanni gave me a hug, and I’m better now.”

  Neither of them looks convinced.

  “Seriously, lock up your sons. I’m back on the market.”

  Nat tilts her head and looks at me quizzically. I shrug my shoulders and mildly shake my head to signal I know the joke was lame.

  “Actually, I have a great guy for you when you’re ready,” Giovanni tells me.

  “Really?” I say, intrigued.

  “She’s not ready. They’ve been broken up for two minutes,” Nat chastises him.

  “No, no, of course not yet,” Giovanni tells her quickly. Then he turns to me. “But when you are: He’s an investment adviser, but not like one of those asshole hedge fund guys in New York or anything. Stable, but dabbles in the arts. Very well read, likes to travel. Great sense of humor. I think you guys would really hit it off.”

  I want to ask, “Is he as cute as you?” but am quickly upstaged by Natasha. “A good sense of humor? No woman wants to go out with a guy with a good sense of humor.”

  “I thought every woman wanted to go out with a guy with a good sense of humor,” Giovanni says.

  “Maybe not as my rebound guy,” I admit while Natasha simultaneously declares, “No, he’s gotta be hot. The rest is icing.”

  “Hold on,” Giovanni says, taking out his phone. “He’s an occasional buyer of mine at the private tastings I do. Let me find a picture.” Giovanni swipes his screen a few times, then shows me. “Here.”

  I grab the phone and stare at the screen, “Whoa. Cute. He looks kind of like Justin Trudeau.”

  “The Canadian prime minister?” Giovanni asks, confused.

  “It’s her thing. Let it go,” Nat advises.

  “Guys!” I hear Holly yell, as the door swings open again. “As intriguing as this threeway is, I need help out here. Get back to work.”

  “Jess broke up with Kevin,” Nat tells her.

  Holly grimaces, then tries to read my face. Finally asks me, “Devastated or pissed?”

  “Oh, pissed,” I assure her.

  She points to me. “Great. Use it. Tomorrow morning, we’ll eat cookies and make sure every whipped cream can in the house has beige lipstick around the nozzle. But for now—”

  “Purple,” I interrupt.

  “What?”

  “Purple. I’m wearing purple lipstick.”

  Holly moves in for a closer look of my lips, them beams at me proudly. “That’s my girl.”

  And she turns and heads back to work outside.

  That was Holly/Jessie shorthand for a lengthy conversation that could be summed up in three words: You got this.

  Nat and I exchange a look and a nod: Our shorthand is even quicker. But she doesn’t believe me. “If you want to take some time—” she begins.

  “I’ve given him enough of my time,” I interrupt. Then I head for the door. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Sangiovese to pour.”

  I’m a terrible person. I should say I felt better because my girls made me feel supported and loved, and that I was happy everyone checked up on me. But that wasn’t it.

  The truth was, the second Giovanni hugged me changed everything.

  In that one second, I knew Kevin didn’t matter anymore. He was a placeholder: a frequently nice, kind of funny, solid guy who I had a lot in common with. But in the three years I dated him, I never once felt the way I had just felt in Giovanni’s arms.

  But now what?

  Chapter Thirty-one

  HOLLY

  I first see Joe around nine thirty that night. He is dressed in the L.A. single guy standard uniform: button-up shirt, nice jacket, expensive jeans. He doesn’t seem to be there with anyone, but I don’t give that much thought: It’s a women’s wine bar. Single guys love to find easy ways to be near women.

  “What can I get you?” I ask, after he waits politely for a few moments while I finish a large order.

  “Holly, right?” he asks me, and I notice his cute smile. “I’m Joe. I’m a friend of Karen’s.”

  I return
the smile. “Hey, Joe. Thanks for coming. What can I get you?”

  “How about if you tell me? I like my wine the way I like my women—dark, a little bitter, and totally out of my league.”

  I laugh. “Sounds like you could use an aged Cabernet,” I tell him, describing our eighty-dollar-a-glass Cabernet which Jessie was appalled to learn has notes of cow dung. “But that might be a little steep pricewise.” I hand Joe our one-page “wine by the glass” list. “Tell me what you normally drink and I can find…”

  “No, no. That Cabernet sounds perfect. I’ll take that.”

  “Great. Do you want to start a tab?”

  “I do,” he says, handing me a black AmEx. “And can you get me a glass of whatever Karen is drinking, and then a glass of whatever you’re having at the end of the night? My treat.”

  Hmm, I think. He must be European. I’ve seen Europeans buy their bartenders a drink. Still, a little strange. “That’s very sweet, but I can’t drink while I’m working. But thank you. Really.”

  I pour him his Cabernet and Karen’s Pinot Gris, start his tab, then focus on my other customers.

  About half an hour later, Joe returns. “Karen says to buy a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and to tell you that before you say that it’s a boring choice, she wants to remind you that she just made you a four-hundred-dollar sale.”

  This is the first time I’ve noticed how good-looking he is. One might say “handsome.” Not my type of handsome: His dark brown hair has a little too much product in it for my taste, and there’s something a little too put together about him. But there’s a light in his clear blue eyes, a passion. And I like his smile. It’s genuine, unforced. “Do you really want a bottle of Dom Pérignon?” I ask.

  “No,” he admits. “But Karen says having a bottle at my table is a good way to meet women.”

  I laugh and nod. “Fair enough. So are you here tonight to meet women?”

  For a split second, I think he gives me a weird look. But then he’s normal. “I’m here to meet a woman, I suppose. What about you? Do you hope to meet a man?” He quickly backpedals. “Or a woman?”

  I pull out the bottle of Dom Pérignon from the white wine fridge (set to forty-five degrees exactly) and give him another smile. “You’re sure you want this?”

  He nods and smiles. “I’m sure.” As I begin the process of unscrewing the cage surrounding the cork, he asks, “So … man? Woman? One of each?”

  I chuckle as I say, “Neither. Truth be told, there was a guy, but I don’t think it’s going to work out. Which is par for my life—no dating has ever worked out. Probably for the best—I’m here to start my new life. I’ve had some stuff go on in the past year that has made me realize that I need to make some changes. The bar is step one.” I reconsider my statement. “Or maybe step seven or eight, I don’t know, I’ve lost count. Point is, I’m making changes. Not dating I guess is either step two or nine.”

  I toss the cage in the trash, put a towel over the cork, turn the bottle, and make everything go pop.

  “What’s gone on in the past year?” Joe asks me.

  “Ah, great question. But I’m swamped. Another time?”

  “I’ll be here until closing,” he says, smiling to me warmly as he takes the bottle and two champagne flutes from me.

  “Thanks. And good luck.”

  He cocks his head. “With what?”

  “Meeting that woman.”

  “Ooohhh,” he says quickly. “Right.” He lifts the bottle slightly and says, “Well, thanks.”

  I wave happily and … I don’t know. Something.

  Something swirls around in my brain. But then I hear, “Can I get a refill?” and I get back to work.

  * * *

  About half an hour after that, Karen trots up to me. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think ordering Dom Pérignon is cliché,” I tell her, as I pour several small glasses of white from southern Italy.

  “Not as cliché as the sommelier criticizing my choices,” she counters. “I meant about Joe.”

  “Your friend? Uh … he’s nice.”

  “Not my friend. Business associate. And what do you mean, ‘nice’?” She flicks her head back toward his direction. “He’s thirty-five, single, successful, and intrigued as hell by you. But he’s not nice.”

  “Three tours of Italy flights, and one rosé flight, table three,” Nat calls out.

  “On it!” I call back as I pull out more small glasses to finish the Italian flights. (One thing I’m good at is predicting who will be needing what in the next few minutes. And the gaggle of thirtysomething women at table five will be tasting flights until their Lyfts get here.) “Karen, I’m flattered. But if you wanted to set me up, maybe a night when I’m not completely overwhelmed with guests…”

  “He’s also the director you told off a few months ago.”

  “What?!” I exclaim, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward me. “Joe is Joseph Chavez?” I whisper. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

  Karen’s face lights up. “There’s that passion I saw when you walked into my office at twenty-two.”

  “Why?” I stammer out. “For all that is good and holy … why?”

  “For the same reason I invited three casting directors and a few network executives: You suddenly weren’t available for auditions. People are intrigued. I’m just trying to build up heat.”

  “I don’t want you to build up heat. I’m taking a break from acting.”

  “And I’m taking a break from Dysport. But we both know neither of us can stay away long.”

  “How are you coming with those flights?” Nat asks as she pours a large Australian Shiraz into a goblet and puts it on her tray.

  “Give me a second,” I say, pulling a Rosato from the Veneto region out of the wine fridge below me and quickly pouring it into three glasses. “Seriously, Karen, I cannot handle this stress tonight. Please make him go home.”

  She rolls her eyes, then assures me, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Meaning she’ll do nothing. Argh …

  I so do not need this tonight.

  I place Nat’s flights on a tray, trying not to look over at Karen and Joe in the corner. (Meaning, of course, I’m looking over at Joe in the corner.)

  Okay, yes, he’s good-looking. Kind of has a baby face, which would be annoying at twenty but works on a guy in his midthirties. And he’s smiling as Karen tells a story with her customary wild gesturing and theatrics. Nice shoulders. I have a thing about shoulders.

  “Can I get another glass of this Pinot when you have a chance?” a woman sitting at the bar asks me pleasantly.

  “Absolutely,” I tell her, and get back to work.

  A minute or two later, Joe returns to the bar. “I have been told that I must close my tab.”

  I place my palms together in a prayer and apologize, “I am so sorry for telling you off at my audition. You did not deserve my unloading on you like that. I was going through a lot, my dad had recently—”

  “Stop. I was the asshole,” Joe interrupts. “I was on the phone dealing with … you know what, it doesn’t matter. Just please accept my apology. I had my casting director call your agent to bring you back the following week, and she said you were on a break. We’ve been asking about your availability for months. I’m a fan of your work. What can I do to get you to come in and read for me?”

  One of the hottest commercial directors in town wants me to come in and read. I should be thrilled. But instead I hedge. “It’s just not the right time,” I tell him. “I can’t work on any other characters right now. I’m taking time to work on myself. But thank you.”

  One of the double-edged swords in acting training is if you are really paying attention, you can tell exactly what the other person is feeling. And despite him nodding pleasantly and saying, “Cool. Cool. I get it,” I can tell that my very minute rejection broke a tiny part of his heart. “Can I close out?”

  I have to force a smile as I say, “Sure.” Then
I run his card, bring it back, and wait for him to sign.

  “I see you guys close at one,” Joe says. “Want to grab some breakfast with me afterward?” Before I can answer, he quickly says, “I know you’re not dating. I’m not asking you out. I just … I don’t know. I just want to get to know you better.”

  “It’s opening night I kind of have to hang with my girls after we close.”

  “I get it. Of course,” Joe says immediately. “How about tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t get off until two or two fifteen in the morning,” I tell him apologetically.

  “And I can name five places that are open that late. What will you be more in the mood for? Deli? Coffee shop? Diner? Thai food?”

  So this is why this guy is such a successful director—he’s tenacious.

  Yet I think I’m blushing. Why am I blushing? I surprise myself by answering, “You know that coffee shop in Silverlake? I’ll meet you there at two thirty.”

  “It’s a nondate,” he confirms, then pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?”

  “323…” then I give him my cell number.

  He types it in. “Perfect. Texting you now…”

  My phone beeps. I check and read the text …

  Idiot #7 to hit on you opening night.

  I chuckle. “Were you hitting on me?”

  “I might have been. But not anymore. Nondate.”

  I hold up my phone. “But should I put Idiot #7 as your contact information?”

  “I would.”

  I smile, kind of tickled, and type in “Idiot #7.”

  Tickled. That’s actually how I’m feeling right now. Maybe this guy’s not so bad.

  We say good-bye, and he heads back to Karen’s table.

  As I head to the register, I open the check to see he left an outrageous tip. Out. Ra. Geous. So much so that the credit card company probably won’t allow it.

  Hm. Maybe I should have let him stay later.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  NAT

  The second I saw the delivery man come through our front door with the explosion of white and purple roses, my heart dropped into my stomach.

  Well played, Marc. The bouquet must have set him back at least five hundred dollars. There are at least a hundred white, lavender, and dark purple roses nestled among other smaller flowers in a Waterford crystal vase.