I think I’m going to be sick as I watch the delivery man walk up to Holly at the bar. I quickly excuse myself from table three and race over to greet him as I hear him ask Holly, “Natasha Osorio?”
“That’s me,” I tell him, grabbing the vase from him as I say to Holly, “Can you sign for these and give him a tip? I’ll pay you back.” Then I scurry into Jessie’s office in the back to hide the flowers (and, more important, the card).
I walk into her office, practically slam the door, put the flowers on her desk, grab the envelope, and rip it open. Inside the card merely reads, “Congratulations on your newest endeavor! Wishing you all the success in the world. (And if you ever decide to go back to writing, remember London is calling!) Much Love, Marc.”
Crap. That was actually very sweet. Now I miss him again.
Damn it.
I look at the bouquet and feel a tinge of yearning for my old life. Purple is absolutely my favorite color, and the floral design is exquisite. I feel positively spoiled as I lean in to sniff the buds. The aroma is decadent.
Marc does love me in his own way, maybe even as much as he is capable of. And in many ways, he tries to give me everything. And maybe if I just waited a little longer, he might actually leave. I mean, clearly he still misses me.
I pull my phone from my apron pocket and am about to click on to text him a thank-you when I am interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in!” I say, shoving my phone back into my apron.
Giovanni pops his head in. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Perfect. Why?”
Giovanni walks in. “Most women don’t react to flowers by racing away and hiding.”
“Huh? Oh, no. It’s just … roses are so fragrant, you don’t really want them near wine. Messes up the bouquet, no pun intended.” I nervously hold up the card. “Just reading the card. They’re from my old boss at Genius!”
I show Giovanni the card. After he reads it, his face seems to relax. “Well, that was nice of him. What’s in London?”
“A new game show’s he producing there,” I say quickly, the lie of omission just gliding off my tongue. “He actually offered me the head writing job on it before we opened the bar. Obviously, I turned it down, but I guess it’s still available if I want it.”
“Are you rethinking your decision?” Giovanni asks me.
“Not at all!” I assure him. “I mean, yes, the offer’s very tempting. And I’m sure lots of women would kill for that opportunity. But it’s not a healthy…”
At that moment, I almost slip and tell Giovanni the truth. What’s it going to hurt? We’ve just started dating, and I’m going to have to tell him about Marc at some point.
I look at the flowers again. It’s painful to me how beautiful they are. And how much I miss Marc.
I chicken out. “It just wouldn’t be a good fit for me anymore. People change, people grow. What was great a year ago isn’t where I am supposed to be now. You know what I mean?”
I try to read his reaction. He nods. “Sure. But I also know that it can be hard to say good-bye to your past. It’s normal to wonder, ‘What if?’”
“Really?” I ask, grateful for his understanding. “So you don’t think it’s weird that the flowers are bittersweet for me?”
“Not at all,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “It’s actually good to want to revisit your past every once in a while. It means, for the most part, you’ve led a happy life.”
And that is exactly what I need to hear. That is beyond a glass-half-full way of looking at it. Who is this guy? And how did I get so lucky? I hug him back, hard. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I just wish I had thought to buy you flowers. Now I feel like a jerk.”
I shake my head. “You are so not a jerk. You are, by far, the least jerky guy I’ve ever dated.”
He kisses me, and we begin making out. He is such a good kisser. I wonder if we have enough time for …
“Are you kidding me?” I hear Holly exclaim from the doorway.
“Sorry,” I apologize, pulling away from Giovanni, grabbing his hand, and heading out. “Back to work. I know.”
As we pass Holly, she mutters/jokes, “I was more referring to the fact that you got flowers and get to make out with a great-looking guy. Honestly, God may sometimes give with both hands, but never to me.”
Chapter Thirty-three
HOLLY
Around eleven thirty, Sven walks in. He’s dressed casually in jeans, a light blue button-up shirt, and a puka shell necklace. Huh. Who wears…? Must be a Swedish thing.
“Oh, my God! You’re here!” I exclaim, shocked. I immediately walk out from behind the bar to give him a big hug. When he hugs me back, he smells of … what is that? Pot? Patchouli? What does patchouli smell like? You know, besides awful.
What am I saying? He looks gorgeous, with freshly washed hair, still wet, and glowing skin. Half the women in the bar have already snuck a glance, and the other half are staring at him with their eyes almost popping like Roger Rabbit when he sees his wife, Jessica.
“I finished the work I needed to do early and literally took the last plane out for the night. I couldn’t miss your opening,” he tells me as we hug. Then he pulls away and looks around. “This is amazing.”
“Thank you,” I say bashfully. “What can I get you to drink?”
“What are you having?” he asks. (Not such an odd question: In Europe the bartender frequently has a drink with their customers.)
“Nothing yet,” I say as I return behind the bar and he grabs a free barstool. “We might have a glass of champagne to celebrate the end of the night, but that’s not until one.”
“Well, hopefully you’ll allow me to stay until one, then,” he says, smiling brightly at me.
I return the smile, and my insides get a little gooey. “Of course you can.”
“You made it!” Nat says cheerfully to Sven, giving him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You rock.” As she heads behind the bar, she asks. “What are you drinking?”
“I don’t know yet,” he tells her, while staring at me with those clear blue eyes. “Holly is going to help me decide. And she’s invited me to join you in a celebratory drink after closing.”
“Perfect,” Nat says, quickly filling two glasses with something red. She points to him. “Closing time. You. Me. It’s happening.”
And she gives him an easy wink, then walks away to serve other guests.
Why is it so easy to talk to men when you don’t care?
“So,” I ask with a catch in my voice, “what type of wine do you like? Red? White? Do you have a favorite country?”
He shrugs. “I’m pretty easy-going. What would you choose for me?”
Before I can answer, an obnoxious twentysomething stumbles over to Sven. “Oh, my God! Did anyone ever tell you that you look EXACTLY like Chris Hemsworth?”
She’s too cute. Go away, go away, go away …
Sven smiles pleasantly. “That is very sweet, thank you.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, my God!” she yells like a sorority girl as she places her hand on his forearm and begins rubbing. “I loooovvveee your accent. Where are you from?”
“Pittsburgh,” he answers without missing a beat.
I suppress a laugh as the girl’s friend appears behind her, places a hand on each of her arms, and twirls her back to their table. “Sorry about my friend. I dared her to come talk to you,” she tells Sven, then says to her friend in a tone of voice we reserve for preschoolers and drunks, “Okay, say good-bye to the good-looking Thor.”
Drunk cute girl makes a show of waving, “Bye, good-looking Thor.”
“Bye,” Sven says, still smiling. When they’re out of hearing range, he asks me, “Why do American women keep comparing me to Thor? I don’t look anything like Thor.”
“So you’re upset that you’re being compared to a god?” I ask him, only half joking.
“No. But it’s a little like if someone said you looked like …
Who do people say you look like?”
I rattle off the usual suspects. “Jamie Chung, Lucy Liu, Chrissy Teigen, Beyoncé…”
“Beyoncé?”
“Just the one time. But it made my day.”
He laughs as the smarter, less drunk girl comes back. “Hi, I just wanted to apologize for my friend. I’m Tracy.”
She puts out her hand, which Sven graciously accepts. “Hi, Tracy. I’m Sven.”
“Sven,” she repeats, looking charmed. “Sven, our table is getting so estrogen heavy, I’m afraid we’re about to become a pack of birth control pills. Would you like to join us for a drink?”
She’s got to be a scientist, that was a strange joke. And by that I mean, Go away go away, go away …
“I don’t know, maybe,” Sven says, grimacing his face in debate. He turns to me, “Honey, how late did you say the babysitter could stay?”
Score!
I smile and bat my left hand like a cat swatting a string of yarn. “She said to stay out as late as we want. After all, it is our opening night.”
Tracy’s face falls, and she turns to me in apology, “Oh, my God. I am so sorry. I had no idea Sven was your husband. So, so sorry. I swear I looked for a ring.”
“Don’t be silly,” I say, waving it off. “He gets that all the time. And he won’t wear a ring. Hates the feeling on his hand.”
She ran away so fast, I felt bad.
Well, I felt bad enough to send over a free refill of the Sauvignon Blanc she was nursing.
But, really, I felt awesome.
Chapter Thirty-four
NAT
The evening could not have gone more perfectly. It was crowded, but not so much that people couldn’t find seats. We sold a ton of wine, broke only one glass, and the refrigerator Giovanni fixed held up nicely.
We had hugged friends good-bye, thanked all of our new customers, sent any of the people who needed rides home in an assortment of Ubers, Lyfts, and cabs (oh my), and had just sat down at a table by the brick wall to open a bottle of bubbly and celebrate.
I pop open the champagne and Holly grabs four glasses while Jessie waves good-bye to our final two customers of the night as they step into a black Prius. Jess yells out a happy, “Good night. Get home safely!” then locks the front door, flips around a wooden sign Holly had made from a picture of a cork popping from a champagne bottle (open) to a picture of an open of red wine being vacuum sealed (closed).
Jessie immediately turns around to Holly, me, and Sven, and runs excitedly over to the table, “Postparty car analysis. Go!”
“What is a postparty car analysis?” Sven asks Holly as I pour them each a flute.
“You know how when you’re a couple, right after you leave the party and get into your car, you start gossiping about everyone who was there?” she answers.
He seems genuinely confused. “Why would I do that? That sounds mean.”
I hand him his glass, then make a joke of waving him off. “Okay, Sven’s too nice to play. But speaking of cars, that reminds me: Sven, I’m going to go to Giovanni’s tonight. Would you mind giving Holly a ride home?”
“So that we can gossip in the car?” he asks jokingly.
I shrug. “Or whatever else you want to do in the car,” I suggest, giving him a fun wink as I hand Holly her glass of champagne.
I watch Sven gently take Holly’s hand and give her a shy smile. “It would be my pleasure.”
Jessie knows what’s up. “Holly, we can handle cleanup if you guys want to leave after our toast.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that to you,” Holly insists. “There’s way too much to do.”
“Nonsense,” Jessie counters as I hand her a filled flute. “The cleaning crew will be here in an hour for the heavy lifting. We just need to get the glasses into the dishwasher and things like that. You should go.”
Holly sneaks a quick look at Sven. “I don’t know…” she says awkwardly. “Jessie, you just broke up tonight. We need to rally around you.”
“It’s a breakup, not an election,” Jessie points out. “And I’m fine. You should go.”
Sven kisses Holly’s hand lightly. “I’m happy to take you.”
“Well…” Holly hesitates.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter. I raise my glass and quickly toast, “Here’s to us! Good people are scarce.” I down a fast gulp like I’m doing a Jell-O shot, then turn to the two of them. “Now get the fuck out.”
Both Holly and Sven laugh before drinking their champagne. “Let me grab my purse,” Holly says, practically giddy.
In less than two minutes, Holly is out the door with the man of her wet dreams, and Jessie has relocked the front door and is heading back to me. “I feel like I just finished finals week in college.”
“Me too,” I say. “I am exhausted and wide awake all at once.” I take a sip of champagne. “So where did you leave things with Kevin?”
Jessie looks down at her drink. Looks back up at me. “Would you be mad if I didn’t drink this?”
“Of course not. If you don’t feel like celebrating, I totally understand.”
“I do … I just … I want my head to be clear right now.”
Jessie doesn’t say anything else, and I know her well enough to know that she is not a typical girl: If she doesn’t feel like talking, pushing her along won’t help.
“I totally understand,” I tell her, giving her a smile as I pick up Holly’s, Sven’s, and my glasses, and walk them toward the dishwasher. “Let’s just clean up and get out of here.”
Jessie picks up her glass and the bottle, and follows me. “Man, that agent of Holly’s is a piece of work. I felt like I was serving Auntie Mame.”
“Make no mistake, you were,” I tell Jessie as I dump the champagne into the sink. “I could tell you stories. Did Holly tell you about the guy her agent was with?”
“I don’t think she was with him,” Jessie says. “He’s too young for her. Really cute, though. I kept trying to figure out a way to introduce myself to him.”
“That’s the commercial director Holly told off,” I tell Jessie as I rinse the glasses and put them in the dishwasher.
“No!” Jessie exclaims.
“Yes,” I confirm. “And he asked her to meet him for dinner tomorrow after work.”
“You do the glasses. I’ll wipe down tables,” Jessie says as she wets a rag and begins scrubbing down the bar. “Well, she’s with Sven now, so: friends or date?”
“Not sure. I don’t think Holly knows either. But he…”
My phone pings, which startles me a little. I pull my phone from my apron pocket and check the screen.
Did you like the flowers?
Shit. I have to admit, even after all this time, that man still manages to surprise me. From the time the flowers showed up, I was bracing for Marc’s text. I didn’t want Giovanni to hear my cell pinging like crazy, or see a flood of texts on my phone.
But Marc never called, texted, or gave any indication that he had even a passing interest in me.
Jessie walks around the room, picking up stray glasses. “Giovanni’s waiting for you. You should go.”
“No, no,” I say, neither lying nor telling the truth as I quickly text back.
They were lovely. I’m with my boyfriend. Gotta go.
Then I put my phone on vibrate.
Half an hour later, Jessie and I have finished cleaning up, and I am headed to Giovanni’s.
Well, I should say as far as Jessie knows, I am headed to Giovanni’s. In reality, we drive off at the same time, then I follow her car until she makes a right turn while I go straight, en route to Hollywood Hills.
I pull over a block later, turn my phone ringer on, and check my screen. Three text messages and two voice mails.
I’m in town next week for business. When can I take you to dinner?
Hello? I just left you a message.
You’re not answering, so I checked your bar’s Web site. You appear to be closed on Mondays. Can I take
you out then?
And immediately, I’m nauseous. I sit in my car for several minutes, shoulders slumped, absentmindedly watching cars whiz past me, the drivers anxious to be home and in their beds.
Finally, after mentally preparing myself, I listen to his voice mails.
The first one is just as I expect. His voice is smooth, he’s charming … He’s a snake. “Darling, it’s me. I hope the florist got you exactly what I asked for: I told them a woman like you deserves millions of roses, but to also add a surprise or two. I also said nothing but purple and white.”
He pauses, but the message keeps playing. Finally he says, “I miss you. I didn’t realize how much until recently. Please call me back.”
The messages ends. I take a deep breath and play the next one.
“I’m getting a divorce,” Marc begins. “I’m telling her everything. I didn’t want to tell you over voice mail, but I was afraid otherwise you wouldn’t call me back.”
I don’t even wait for the rest of his message before I call him back.
He answers on the first ring. “I’m so glad you called. It’s over.”
“What happened?”
“I miss you is what happened. This marriage feels like a hollow shell. I feel like we’re pretending to be a happy couple, and it’s all an act. I want out.”
For a few moments, I’m speechless. “When are you going to tell her?”
“Before I leave for Los Angeles. I want it all out in the open.”
“Wow,” is all I can manage.
“So, the question is … Will you still have me?” Marc asks.
“I … I’m sorry. I’m just stunned,” I stammer. “Of course, I love you. I’m thrilled about this news. Not thrilled. What a terrible word. I just mean…”
And the words sort of disappear. Marc finally asks, “Would you like to have dinner with me on Monday?”
“I would LOVE that,” I answer immediately.
“Good. I kept my apartment, so maybe we could stay in … Wait. Hold on,” Marc says.
I wait for a few moments.
“Elizabeth just walked in,” Marc says, lowering his voice. “Can I call you back?”
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