Saturday night. A bachelorette party (a good sign that our reputation is already preceding us), a few dates, and a good mix of men and women flirting and having fun. Unapologetic girl music playing on the soundspeakers. (Jessie has this theory that might be panning out: no male singers. Our iPod playlist has Lady Gaga followed by Paula Abdul, then Britney jumps in. Fall back to vintage Rihanna, come back to the present with a little Beyoncé, then on to Christina, Pink, and the list goes on.) By the time “I Will Survive” starts, half of the women in the bar are singing to their friends or dates, and/or boogying in their seats. I’m bopping my hips behind the bar, snapping, getting my shoulders into it as I pour a flight of Pinot Noirs. Life is good.
Another bonus? Chris didn’t come in tonight.
Actually, maybe that’s not a bonus. I’ll admit, I do sort of keep looking over at the front door to see if he might show up.
“So let me get this straight,” Jessie says to Holly as she opens a new bottle of Sauvignon Blanc to finish filling a glass. “You ate steak in front of the guy and talked for almost three hours, but it wasn’t a date?”
“Right,” Holly concurs as she pours a glass of Merlot. “Can I have that Sauvignon when you’re done?”
I continue Jessie’s thought, “And you let him buy you dinner?”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I actually tried to grab the check, but he wouldn’t allow it,” Holly clarifies.
Jess hands the Sauvignon to Holly. “So was it a real grabbing of the check? Or was it like when you start to reach for your wallet to get a credit card but secretly you’re hoping he’ll tell you he’s got this, so you’ll both know you’re on a date?”
“I really tried to grab the check. And we really weren’t out on a date.”
Jessie shakes her head. “So cute. What a waste.”
“Having a good person in your life is a waste?” Holly asks.
“Oh, when he looks like that? Totally,” I assure her.
Holly corks the bottle of Sauvignon, then places her stemware on her tray. “I just can’t face dating anymore. I’m too tired, and I don’t have the strength to take the disappointment one more time. The patchouli alone could kill me. So back off.”
“You know, the not dating could be a good sign,” Jess says, putting a filled glass of Cabernet on her tray. “You know what they say—love happens when you’re not looking.” Jess heads out from behind the bar and over to her table.
“That’s not love. That’s getting hit by a bus,” Holly tells Jess, following her.
Chris walks through the door, hyperfocused on a text. He takes his usual seat at the corner of my bar. “Can I get an IPA, please?” he says, rather distractedly.
I walk over to the small refrigerator where we keep the beer and pull out a bottle. As I walk it over, I enlighten Chris. “If she’s telling you how crazy her life is right now, it means she’s not coming. And you’re in the friend zone.”
He looks up, confused. “What?”
“You’re not the only one who has theories on dating,” I tell him, then open his beer and pour it into a pint glass. “And while you may know what men really mean, I know what women really mean. That look on your face? It’s confusion. Mixed with a touch of anger. It’s you wanting to get your two cents in, but you can’t. Because she does not give a fuck what you really think. You are never getting laid by that woman.”
I toss down a coaster, put down his pint glass, and smirk at him. One point for me.
Unfortunately, he comes back with, “It’s my sister. But thanks for the heads-up.”
Oh. I slink away to help another customer. About a minute later, Chris asks me, “Can you watch my beer and make sure no one takes my spot?” Then he goes outside to take a call.
I’ll admit, I’m kind of intrigued. I watch him pace in front of our large picture window. At one point, he takes his phone and repeatedly hits it against his forehead. He then disappears from view.
I go back to my other customers for about five minutes. When Chris finally returns, he is holding a laptop. He sits down, flips open the computer, and pouts while he reads.
I’m not taking the bait. I refuse to engage. He can talk to me when he’s ready.
Jessie, on the other hand, walks right up to him, giving him a bright, “Hey, you made it.”
“Hey,” he returns. “I could use your help. What’s your Wi-Fi password?”
She types it in for him. He looks flummoxed. “That is seriously your password?”
“Holly picked it. She’s secretly into otters. And One Direction.”
Chris’s eyes widen as if to say, I’m gonna let that one go. “Jess, you’re a girl, so obviously you’ve thought about this: If you had to get married in Los Angeles, where would you go?”
“In Los Angeles?” Jessie asks, giving him a strange look.
“Yeah, like you’d ever elope in Vegas,” I snark.
“Fair enough,” Jessie concedes. “Well, it depends. If I was only having twenty guests, I’d get married in the gazebo of the Hotel Bel-Air, in front of the swans.” Her answer motivates Chris to begin typing vigorously on his keyboard. She continues, “Or maybe at the Montage, and have a nice luncheon afterward. Something with salmon or striped bass. If I was having fifty guests, there’s this lovely venue in Santa Monica I am in love with: I’d get married on the beach, then rent out the venue and bring in a caterer. If I was having a hundred people, I might go with Duke’s in Malibu, but I’d definitely go with the buffet there, not the seated dinner, and if I were having over two hundred—”
“Hold up,” I stop her as Chris continues to type like a madman. “Why would you ever have over two hundred guests at your wedding? You don’t even know two hundred people.”
“We’re talking about my dream wedding. I’m not really thinking about who the guests are…”
“Schyeah,” Chris mutters to himself.
She makes a joke of saying, “Fine. Then I’m not telling you where I’d get married if I had over five hundred guests either.” She rubs his arm to let him know she’s not really offended, then heads back to her work.
Chris projects his voice toward her. “Thank you. That’s very helpful.” Then he says, “Holly, where do you want to get married?”
“I like the idea of downtown. You know, the Biltmore if we went traditional, maybe the Ritz-Carlton if we wanted to be more modern. Of course, there are so many cool hotels constantly opening up down there, I’m sure I’ll have lots of good choices.”
He types away. “Biltmore, actually now called the Millennium Biltmore, and the Ritz-Carlton. Thank you.”
And she goes back to work.
I watch Chris focus on his screen and begin using his index finger to move around the mouse box on his keyboard.
He doesn’t even acknowledge me. Finally, I ask, “Aren’t you going to ask me where I want to get married?”
He looks up. Throws me a sarcastic, “You? With your fear of intimacy? Right.”
“I don’t have a fear of…” I throw up my hands. “You know what, Chris? I think you should go. I’m done. I don’t know what this is, but I’m done.”
Chris takes a deep breath, then closes his computer. “You’re right. I apologize. I actually meant it as a compliment.”
“You think telling me I have a fear of intimacy is a compliment?”
“No. I think you are a level-headed woman who could just as easily go to City Hall on a Tuesday morning to start her marriage, than turn everything into a spectacle at the expense of the sanity of everyone who loves her. Again, I apologize.”
I debate throwing him out anyway. But instead I decide, “I accept your apology.” Then I decide to be nice. “It sounds like you’ve had a bad day. Do you want to talk about it?”
“I spent the day, starting at eight in the morning, driving my mother and two sisters around the city looking at wedding venues.”
“Okay,” I say. His sentence was loaded with exasperation, but instead of jumping in with m
ore questions, I give him the space to go on.
“My sister lives in San Francisco with her fiancé. He’s from Boston, she’s from L.A. So, instead of doing a big wedding, they announced last month that they were going to elope in Bora Bora. Get married on a beach at sunset. Have their honeymoon in an overwater bungalow. Swim with dolphins during the day, drink too much champagne at night. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?”
“Bora Bora sounds lovely, yes.”
“That’s what I thought. And nobody had to go. No tuxedos to rent, no dates to try and find, no planes, no hotels, no rubbery chicken for dinner. They go. When they get back, they send out a wedding announcement. I send a gift. One click of a button on the Bloomingdale’s registry, and I’m golden.”
Jessie suddenly reappears. “Wait, you wouldn’t go to your sister’s wedding just because she was traveling out of town?”
“Please,” Chris says as he returns to typing. “Anyone contemplating a destination wedding must be comfortable with the idea that not one single guest will be pleased to hear that.”
“Huh,” Jessie says. “Okay, thanks.” And she walks away again.
I decide to ignore Jessie’s weirdness and focus on Chris. “I take it your mother did not approve of your sister’s choice.”
He seems surprised by my observation. “How did you know that?”
“Well, I have a mother,” I tell him.
“Mom basically threatened to show up to Bora Bora with a flashlight and a machete looking for them. She then reminded all three of us of how long she was in labor with each one of us. Apparently, she sailed through the day with me at only eighteen hours. My sister was forty-two. That was on Day One of the fight. By Day Two, we got a very graphic, not to mention rude, description of how bad potty training went all three times. Day Seven was a trip down memory lane on the horrors of driver’s education. By Day Fifteen, my sister capitulated and agreed to get married here. Only she doesn’t live here anymore, so she decided to come down for one weekend to pick a venue. And somehow, her soon to be husband got to stay in San Francisco and get out of helping her. So now the lovely job of picking a venue, choosing a menu, and negotiating with my mother has fallen onto both her maid of honor and, much more important, her man of honor.”
“That would be you?” I surmise.
“Yes. Because she didn’t want to, and I quote, ‘hurt my feelings’ by not asking me to be in the wedding. Can you honestly tell me women get offended if they’re not asked to be in a wedding? Which part would be offensive? The not having to listen to your friend lambaste you because you don’t know the difference between squab and pigeon, or the paying six hundred dollars for a taffeta dress that makes you look like a prom date from 1988?”
I am ready to answer, Hell, yes! Of course our feelings would be hurt, you unfeeling cad. But I can’t get a word in edgewise.
“And don’t even get me started on the bachelorette party. I’m not going. If I technically have to host it, fine, here’s my credit card. Go nuts. But I’m not going.”
I nod my head. “Well, I can certainly see why you’re feeling agitated…”
“The second I learned what Bachelorette Party Bingo was, I started planning my appendectomy to fall on that weekend. Then there’s the male strip show. Where women actually pay money … I can’t even … Do you know what it takes to get the average man to take off his clothes?”
“A six-pack of microbrew?” I answer.
“I was going to say, ‘Asking,’ but I like your answer better. Oh! And then, for God knows what reason, in the middle of the afternoon they suddenly decide we need to go dress shopping. Like, right this minute!”
I try to help his sister by explaining to him calmly, “They decided to go because the groom wasn’t there. It’s bad luck for him to see the bride in her gown ahead of time.”
Chris narrows his jaw. “Oh, my God, that’s what they said. What is wrong with you people?”
“So I take it you didn’t like dress shopping…”
“I don’t even like shopping for my own clothes. Why on earth would I want to go shopping for hers? And do you know there is something called a ‘mermaid dress’? Why would anyone want to show up on her wedding day dressed as a fish?”
“A mermaid style is actually form-fitting until you get to the—”
“I am sad to say I now know exactly what a mermaid dress is. And it made her ass look huge, although not as big as the dress, which can only be described as the dress that made her look like Glinda the Good Witch.”
“You didn’t actually tell her that her ass—”
“I’m not done talking.”
Fair enough. I shut my mouth and let Chris continue his tirade. “You know, many years ago, I thought I wanted to spend my life surrounded by women. God has a sense of humor, because after one day of this, I’m toast. Seriously, why do women like weddings?”
“For the same reason men like victory parades,” I tell him. “Because the war is over. And in our case, we get rewarded with cake and pretty jewelry.”
Chris takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I will be calm now. Thank you for listening. How was your day?”
I’m about to answer when his cell phone rings the first line from “Lady Marmalade”: “Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister.” He picks up and consciously tries to keep his voice level, calm, and supportive. “Okay, what do you think about Malibu? There’s a place called Duke’s…”
I walk away to give him his privacy. And for a brief moment I decide that he’s actually kind of cute. I mean, I always knew he was good-looking in that prom-king, -girls-will-do-whatever-I-want kind of way. But listening to him talk to his sister is actually rather sweet.
Chris spends the next several hours dealing with the female members of his family, and I must say, it was quite entertaining to hear him losing the war of the sexes. My favorite lines of the night being, “If your groom wants me to wear a magenta cummerbund and tie, that’s fine … I’m not taking his side. And there shouldn’t be sides, if … Seriously, magenta’s purple? It sounds like it should be yellow. Or discovering new worlds for King Charles I of Spain … I am paying attention … Fine. Black. Nothing says ‘We wish your marriage well’ like black.”
Also, “The way you’re using that in a sentence, it sounds like a chicken.”
And finally, a defeated, “Brunch. Yes, by all means, let’s day drink … I wasn’t being sarcastic. When can I meet you?”
* * *
At twelve forty-five, Holly loudly announces, “Last call.” I walk over to Chris and ask, “One more?”
“Yes,” he says very pleasantly as he closes his laptop. “And I so need to call Lyft. Is my car safe out there?”
“Yeah. Meters don’t work on Sundays,” I tell him.
As I go to the refrigerator to get him his IPA, he asks, “Actually, can I get a glass of champagne?”
I smile. “The man is full of surprises. Do you want actual champagne, or a sparkler from California?”
“Whatever you choose. You’re the boss.” As I rifle through our selections and go with a dry bubbly from Northern California, he asks, “Care to join me?”
“Can’t really drink while I’m working,” I tell him, and I take down a flute hanging from a metal rack in the ceiling. I bring the flute and the bottle over to him for inspection, then pour a small taste.
He smiles and nods. As I pour the drink, he asks, “So where do you want to get married?”
A teeny part of me braces. I smirk and give him a sarcastic, “I have a fear of intimacy, remember?”
“I’m sorry about that. Really. I’m curious. Where do you want to get married?”
Yeah, I’m not telling him that. “You know, I’ve got other customers I have to close out. Maybe we’ll talk another time.”
“Okay.”
Chris nurses his drink, waiting until every other customer has left the bar. At some point, Jessie walks over to him, and he asks her, “Am I allowed to be here past closi
ng?”
She shrugs. “Sure. Just finish drinking that so it doesn’t look like we’re still open.”
I overhear them but pretend not to.
A little after one, I put his credit card and receipt into a clear glass and place it on the bar. I nod at his champagne flute. “You done with that?”
Chris downs the rest, then hands me the glass, smiling. “Absolutely. So, everyone’s closed out. Nobody here but us chickens. Where do you want to get married?”
I deflect him by flipping his question around. “Where do you want to get married?”
“Wherever I’m told.”
“Oh, come on. You don’t have any opinion about where you are going to spend one of the best days of your life.”
“I’m assuming if I’m with the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, it’s going to be one of the best days of my life anyway. I could be at a One Direction concert, and it would still be great.”
“What’s wrong with One Direction?” Holly snaps kiddingly from the other side of the room.
“All respect. Although it wouldn’t kill you to pick up a Beatles CD,” Chris tells her teasingly. Then to me, he asks softly, “Seriously, I want to know. Where do you want to get married?”
Don’t tell him. He’s just going to file away the information and use it against you later. “The Hotel del Coronado,” I can’t help but answer.
His face is expressionless. “In Coronado?”
“No. In Wichita. Never mind.”
“No, I’m just surprised. Coronado’s beautiful. I just assumed … I don’t know what I assumed. I guess that you’d get married here.”
“My family’s in San Diego,” I tell him. “I grew up there. I’m getting married there. And the Del is absolutely gorgeous.”
“Her colors are going to be red and white,” Jessie tells him in passing as she gathers a bunch of glasses to bring to the dishwasher in the back.
Chris nods approvingly. “Hm. I like red. Everyone knows that color. You say your colors are red and white, we’re all on the same page. It’s not like vermilion or … Zaffre. Do you plan to do it on Valentine’s Day?”
“No. I hate Valentine’s Day. I just like red.”
Love the Wine You're With Page 23
