Love the Wine You're With

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  My body quivers, my knees shake …

  And I think of Chris.

  Wait—what?

  Marc gives the hostess his name, and she leads us to a secluded booth in the back. I slide into the booth, and Marc slides in close next to me. The hostess hands us large menus and a wine list, and disappears.

  Marc takes a moment to peruse the wine list while I look at the food menu. Everything looks amazing, from the wagyu filets to oysters flown in from New England to a chateaubriand for two. Almost as good as In-N-Out.

  Stop it, Natasha.

  “What do you think of Bollinger to begin our evening?” Marc asks. “Just for old time’s sake.”

  “It sounds perfect,” I say. And it does. The waiter appears and Marc orders us a bottle and some oysters to start.

  After the waiter leaves, Marc says, “I miss oysters. The ones in London—”

  I interrupt. “I just have to get this out of the way. Did you break up with Elizabeth?”

  Marc seems startled but quickly catches himself. “That’s fair. You’ve waited long enough. The truth is, I have started the conversation, and we’re halfway there. She was very upset, and we talked all night before I left. I have sown the seeds. When I get back to London, I’ll finish what I started. By the time you land at Heathrow, I’ll be a free man.”

  He didn’t really do it, my brain blasts at me. Something feels wrong.

  Before I can ask more questions, the waiter arrives with the bottle of Bollinger and two glasses. “Champagne!” he announces cheerfully.

  “Perfect timing,” Marc tells him.

  The waiter begins opening the champagne’s cage as he asks, “So are we celebrating anything special tonight?”

  “I have just asked my girlfriend to move to London with me. I’m hoping a little of your ambrosia will help me persuade her.”

  Ambrosia? Has he always talked like that? And girlfriend. Wow. That’s the first time he’s ever called me that. I check his left hand and notice he’s not wearing his ring.

  The waiter puts a red cloth over the cork and gently pops it. “Excellent. Would you like to taste?”

  “No. Have the lady do it.”

  The waiter pours me a small taste in my flute. I quickly take the sip, not bothering to put my nose into the glass or savor the bubbly. I want to get back to our conversation. “It’s great. Thanks.”

  The water pours for both of us, places the bottle in a silver bucket next to the table, then asks if we’d like to order. I tell him I need a few minutes. The moment he leaves, Marc says, “So, will you take the job now?’

  I sigh, “Marc…”

  “I know. I’m not totally done with Elizabeth, but by the time you land in London I will be.”

  “It’s not just that. I switched careers. I own a bar now,” I remind him.

  “I’ve been giving that a lot of thought. What if I give you the money you invested in the place, and you just give it to your friends?”

  “I’m not having you buy out my share of the bar.”

  “I wouldn’t buy it out. This is an outright gift. Consider it a signing bonus for your new job. That way, your friends won’t be punished in any way because you’re leaving, and you can come to England with no guilts.”

  Again, I have no words. I take a sip of the champagne. All I can come up with is, “That’s a really generous offer. I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Take all the time you need. Talk to your friends. I’m here until Friday.”

  He has a sip of his champagne, then says, “Although maybe this can persuade you.” And he leans in and kisses me.

  He is still the quintessentially perfect kisser. Perfect form. Would definitely get a ten from the judges in the technicals. I kiss him back, but my brain has too many thoughts racing around to really enjoy the kiss.

  Marc doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles after the kiss ends, then segues into a casual, “So what happened to your hand?”

  I can’t do this now. I begin sliding out of the booth. “You know what? I totally screwed up. I have a Lakers game tonight, and I’m going to be late.”

  “Natasha…”

  I stand up. “No. It’s my fault. I double booked. And it’s with the girls…”

  “You’re lying,” Marc states unequivocally.

  He always did know me pretty well. I take a deep breath, then admit, “You’re right. I am lying. But it’s not with Giovanni either.”

  I give him my best pleading look to say, Please let me go. Don’t chase after me. Just let me go.

  Marc’s jaw tightens. “I’m confused. I’m giving you everything you asked for.”

  “I know,” I answer immediately. “You are, and that’s amazing. I just need to think about everything. And I need space to do that. With a friend who’s not going to judge me because I’m confused.”

  Marc, angry but covering, shrugs. “Go. My offer’s good until Friday.”

  “Thank you,” I say, leaning over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll let you know by Friday.”

  He turns to kiss me on the lips, but I back away too quickly, which throws him. But he quickly recovers. “You’ll talk to your friends?” he asks.

  “Yes, I promise. I just … I really need to go.”

  I quickly walk out of the restaurant, trying not to run. Both because running out would cause a scene and also … what was I thinking wearing these shoes? It’s even worse as I race down Figueroa, clip-clopping as quickly as possible without falling.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, I am in Staples Center, walking down to the second row behind courtside.

  Chris is sitting near center court. I think I surprise him when I sit down. He turns slightly but says nothing at first. No hug or kiss. We both just sit there.

  I look at the scoreboard. “Ooohhh, that doesn’t look good.”

  “Yeah. Lakers had two guys go down with injuries in the first six minutes.” He shrugs. “Guess it’s a chance for the rookies to show what they really got.”

  I nod. A moment later I confess, “You do know I have no idea who any of these guys are.”

  “I know.” He gives me a wink. “But hey, two days ago I had no idea what a hydrangea looked like. Maybe we can teach each other a few things.” He motions for the waitress. I guess when you sit this close to the court, you get a waitress. “You didn’t take your Vicodin, did you?”

  “I’m telling you—”

  “I can’t have this argument one more time,” he interrupts. Then he says to the waitress, “When you get a chance, can you bring the lady your favorite red?”

  “Actually,” I tell her, pointing to his big plastic cup filled with beer, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  She smiles, says, “Right away.” And leaves.

  We watch some tall guy throw the ball to another tall guy, who passes it to a third tall guy, who throws and makes a three-pointer. The crowd cheers.

  “So, if I kiss you by halftime, would I retroactively pass the kissing test?” Chris asks.

  I think I’m blushing. I’m definitely smiling. “No. Because this isn’t a date.”

  He nods. “That’s a shame. Because I told the tech guys if you showed up they should put us on the kiss cam.”

  I try not to stop grinning, but it’s a losing battle.

  “You met me at a very strange time in my life,” I admit.

  He turns to me, an impressed smile creeping onto his face. “Fight Club?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Book or movie?”

  “Both.”

  “You never fail to surprise and delight me, Miss Osorio.”

  “You as well, Mr. Washington.”

  The waitress brings me my beer and asks if I want anything to eat. I order some french fries, then settle in to watch a different tall guy race past me.

  I turn to Chris and ask, very nonjudgmentally, “Why didn’t you want to have sex with me?”

  Chris looks perplexed. “What? When?”

/>   “The night we got together after finals were over. Right before Christmas. I showed up on Thursday night, and I kissed you … and you didn’t want to have sex with me.” I look up and nervously wait for the answer I’ve always/never wanted to know: “What was so bad about me that you didn’t want me? Was I that hideous? Too fat? Did I talk too much? I know we used to spar, but I put myself out there, and you didn’t want me. Why?”

  Chris gently takes my good hand and gives it a light kiss. “I didn’t sleep with you that night because you were wasted, you were slurring, and believe it or not there are men out there who don’t want a woman who won’t remember anything the next morning. Plus I thought we should have a better first time than doing it on unwashed sheets in a rickety old bunk bed with Green Day and Eminem blaring downstairs.”

  Well, now I feel about two inches tall. “And my reward for you being a good guy was to leave in the middle of the night.”

  He forces a smile. “Yeah. That was a fun morning. And believe me, it was one of a long list of times that made me realize women may say they want a nice guy, but when they get one, they throw him away.”

  “Huh. Maybe…” I agree. “So maybe I wasn’t ugly or unlovable or unfuckable. Maybe I was just neurotic and a little mean?”

  Chris attempts a joke. “Was?”

  I smile and lightly kiss his hand. “You do know we’re gonna sleep together, right?” I say, referring to his first comment to me four days ago.

  “You do know I’m gonna propose to you, right?” he returns.

  The Lakers won that night. And while no one slept together or proposed that night, I will say I definitely liked overtime.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  JESSIE

  I am feeling beyond guilty for what I’ve done to Nat.

  But there is a solution to every problem. I just have to figure out … how she’s not going to kill us in our sleep.

  Giovanni and I ordered Thai to be delivered, and over chicken satay, shrimp pad Thai, and crispy wontons, we decided on a plan of attack. Giovanni would come into the bar tomorrow, after we closed, and we would tell Nat together. She only has one good hand—how bad could it go?

  We celebrated our plan after dinner and, I have to say, celebrating with Giovanni is my favorite new activity.

  And, also, I’m going to hell.

  Around two A.M., just as Giovanni is drifting off to sleep, I ask him if I can hear Nat’s messages one more time.

  He hands me his phone, tells me his code, and falls asleep.

  I tiptoe into my living room and play back the messages. Twenty-seven times. Well, the first one twenty-seven times. The second one maybe only twenty-two. Mostly, I was trying to find anything I could use for evidence that she had already broken up with him.

  The problem is, I don’t think she did break up with him.

  And I think I just lost one my best friends in the world.

  And possibly my bar. Because there’s no way she will stay and work with me, and Holly and I can’t afford to keep the place open by ourselves.

  Okay. Think it through, Jessie. Options. Everyone has choices.

  Option #1: Tell Giovanni this was great, but it can never happen again. Hope Nat and he eventually break up. Find him five years after the breakup, when the statute of limitations on exes expires.

  Who am I kidding? Nat doesn’t believe exes have statutes of limitations. One of her exes once kissed Holly good-bye on the cheek, and Holly had to hear about it for two months.

  Option #2: Tell Nat the truth, preferably in a public place where she can’t let her half-Latin tempter get too out of control. Throw myself at the mercy of her court.

  Get myself killed—option #2 is totally out.

  Option #3: Leave town with Giovanni, change my identity, and write her a heartfelt note of apology on Crane stationery, careful to mail it from a town nowhere near where I will be living, so the postmark doesn’t give me away.

  Hawaii is supposed to be nice. I’ll keep option #3 in my pocket for now.

  Chapter Fifty

  NAT

  When I get to work Tuesday afternoon, Jessie takes one look at my hand and yelps as though it’s her hand in bandages, “Jesus! Look at you! You should go home.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But look at what I did to you!” she exclaims. “If I hadn’t dropped my phone, and you hadn’t tried to catch it, your hand would be fine. Seriously, you should go home. No one would be mad at you if you needed a few more days’ rest.”

  I glance over at Holly, to silently check if it’s just me noticing Jess’s jumpy behavior. Holly gives a shrug—meaning she sees it but has no idea what’s causing it.

  I assure Jessie, “I’m good. It was an accident. Don’t give it another thought.”

  I think we’ll get back to normal, but fifteen minutes later, she charges out of the office looking like a cheetah who has just escaped confinement. “Did you want to order two cases of the Ice Wine you liked from upstate New York?” she asks, while nearing hyperventilation. “Because I will order whatever you want.”

  “I think half a case should be more than adequate,” I tell her as I take down wineglasses, one by one, with my good hand. “It’s a dessert wine. I don’t see us having a huge call for it, but we should have some on hand.”

  “Okay,” she says. Then she puts a hand on each of my arms and faces me, telling me in all kinds of seriousness, “But you promise me you’ll let me know if you want to order anything else. I am just the paper pusher. You are the brains behind this whole shebang.”

  I furrow my brow and ask, “Thank you?”

  Then she hugs me so hard, I look past her to Holly, who openly throws up her arms as if to say, No fucking clue. She’s mental.

  At five fifteen, the bar has a few customers indulging in happy hour. Holly’s friend Joe sits at one corner of the bar hanging out while Chris sits at his usual Norm seat in the other corner, working on his laptop, a pint of beer by his side. Joe seems to have clawed his way out of the friend zone, judging by the postcoital glow he and Holly both have every time they make eye contact.

  A thin, blonde woman wearing large Tom Ford sunglasses nervously walks in. She takes off her glasses and quickly scans the room. Not seeing a familiar face, she takes a seat at the bar two seats away from Chris. “May I have a Chardonnay, please?” she asks me in a quiet British accent.

  “Sure thing,” I say happily. “Do you have a preference in terms of region? We have one from California, of course, but also…”

  “Anything that’s not from California will be fine,” she tells me in a clipped voice.

  Chris and I exchange a look. Who is this broad? As I pour her a glass, I say, “This is a very good one from the Willamette Valley in Oregon. It has won several gold medals, and—”

  She shuts me down with, “Thank you.”

  I decide not to push. “Would you like to start a tab?”

  The woman looks around the bar again and debates. “No … Yes. I’m sorry. Yes.” She pulls out a black AmEx card and hands it to me. I smile and take it.

  As I head to the cash register, I read the card and see the name: Elizabeth Winslow.

  Marc’s wife.

  Holy crap.

  Jessie walks up to me, still as energized as a puppy right out of the Christmas box. “Would you like me to order you a pizza? You need food with your antibiotics, and I’d be happy to—”

  I hold up the AmEx card for Jessie to read. Her eyes bug out. She leans in and whispers, “Should I ask her to leave?”

  “Don’t do anything. Act normal.”

  “No, but I will take her,” Jessie whispers threateningly. “I love you. And if anyone tries to hurt you…”

  “Seriously, what is wrong with you today?” I whisper back. “You’re as nervous as a virgin on prom night. Chill.”

  Chris eyes Jessie and me, and decides something’s up. He closes his laptop and smiles pleasantly at Elizabeth. “So, not a big fan of California wines, huh?�
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  “Not a big fan of California in general. No,” she tells him.

  I stand at the register, frozen. I can’t move. Jessie slowly pours some wine, and we both watch Elizabeth.

  “So what brings you to our fair city, then?” Chris asks. No, Chris. Please, no. Don’t engage.

  Elizabeth looks right at me when she answers. “I’m here with my husband.”

  I try not to give away any reaction. But inside I’m thinking, Did she follow him to the restaurant last night? Does he know she’s here now? Did she bring a butcher knife?

  “Really. What does he do?” Chris asks her pleasantly.

  Elizabeth turns to Chris, gives him an enigmatic look (or at least one I can’t read), then says, “He’s a game show producer.”

  Jessie freezes midpour.

  Chris, on the other hand, doesn’t miss a beat. “What a coincidence. My fiancée used to write for game shows. Which show?”

  His face is open, happy, curious.

  Elizabeth, on the other hand, might throw up on him. “Genius!” she answers.

  And at that point I realize she’s here to find me, but she has no idea who I am. I’ll rephrase—she doesn’t know what I look like. She knows exactly who I am.

  “Wow. Nat. Honey…” Chris says, projecting his voice as though to get my attention. “I just met the wife of someone you used to work for.”

  “Really?” I say, walking back over to them and pretending not to have listened in. “I know everyone there,” I tell her brightly. “Who’s your husband?”

  Clearly, Elizabeth doesn’t know what to make of this. She came here for a fight. Granted, a mousy fight, but a fight nonetheless. “Marc Winslow.”

  “Love Marc,” I tell her. “You know, he offered me a job in London with his next show, but obviously I couldn’t do it. What with the bar opening and my wedding coming up and everything.”

  “Wedding?” She repeats. “When are you getting married?”

  I spout out, “Valentine’s Day. We’re having an intimate ceremony on Coronado Island…”

  “We were going to elope,” Chris continues, “but both sets of parents insisted on coming…”

  “His mother threatened to show up with a machete and a flashlight looking for us if we didn’t tell her when and where it was…”