by Valentina F.
"Cat, this is Uncle George. He owns Frankie's and he's Ryan's uncle."
I hold my hand out and politely introduce myself.
"Pleasure's all mine. You're the Italian girl, huh?"
Do I have 'Made in Italy' stamped on my forehead? I nod and smile. I don't feel like talking, I want to find Jessica and Abby and hang with them for a while.
"One of my suppliers just brought me an Italian wine and I'd like you to taste it, tell me what you think."
Uncle George certainly knows how to make me feel at home.
People must have stopped us at least forty times on our way over to our friends, several times I even try to wriggle out of Ben's grip but there's no way out. I feel so stupid. Jessica's laughing, Mark, too, but neither of them thinks of coming over and saving me.
Traitors!
"You could have come and got me," I hiss at Mark when I finally manage to sit down next to him.
"What? Miss my brother walking into Frankie’s, arm in arm with a girl? Miss the poisonous stares from all the ladies? Never.”
I know they're all watching us, I can feel their eyes on me, imagine their bitchy comments. I sink back against the back of the chair, trying to keep a low profile.
"See? It wasn't that bad." Ben's breath against my ear startles me. Good, God! When am I going to stop reacting like this whenever he's near? I'd like to say soon, very soon, but I'm afraid the answer would be: never!
"Yes, sure," I say, trying to act cool, but as soon as my eyes meet his I melt, like ice cream. He reaches for my hand under the table and I grab it, almost crushing his fingers.
He smiles, pleased with himself. I can’t remember ever seeing him this relaxed. "What do you think?"
"It’s cool."
A group of framed photos hanging on the column near our table catches my attention. I make out Benjamin, Mark, Ryan, and Kris. Three of the photos show them on stage, a sexy look on Benjamin's face as he leans over to the mic. In the other photos they're younger, and one of them makes me smile so much I can't stop. It must be from their graduation. Ben, Ryan, and Kris are wearing caps and blue gowns and Mark stands next to them in a suit and tie. All three are wearing caps with gold tassels draped to one side like I've seen a thousand times in the American TV series I'm practically addicted to, but I notice Ben's wearing a golden stole around his neck which hangs down over his shoulders. He doesn't seem a day older, he still has that lop-sided grin that tries to hide his happiness, the same tousled fair hair, the same intense green eyes. He looks beautiful.
"Graduation day," he says, looping a hand around my shoulder and leaning in close. He brushes his nose against my hair, breathing in my perfume, then exhales loudly against the back of my neck making goose bumps pop up along my arms.
"Why are you dressed differently than the others?" I ask, unable to take my eyes off the photo. If I'd met him in high school there's no doubt I would have behaved just like one of those idiots who followed him around all day and wrote his name on my notebook surrounded by little hearts.
He leans in even closer. "Er...I was...valedictorian."
I've no idea what that means. I look him squarely in the face and he scratches his head in embarrassment. "What's that?"
My question leaves him a little perplexed, as if it's something I should already know.
"It means I was the student with the highest average in school that year and I had to make a farewell speech. Whenever I think of it, I feel sick." He smiles, even more embarrassed, his cheeks slightly red. My eyes are wide and I can't think of what to say. I know what he means, but I didn't know that was the name. The idea of him standing on the stage, in front of a lectern, as handsome as ever, making a speech to three hundred students makes me laugh.
He never ceases to surprise me. I suddenly feel out of place, no longer quite so special. He's attractive, witty, intelligent. Why is he wasting time with me?
"Wow, you're full of surprises!"
Unexpectedly he leans forward and kisses me on the lips.
I stiffen. What the hell?
"As they say, the best is yet to come." He arches his eyebrows and knocks me out with the kind of smile that sends drops of sweat running down my back.
I'd love to see what his 'best' is. I got a taste of it in Tampa and God knows, every time I think of it, a million nerve endings start throbbing down below. I experienced my first and only orgasm with him and if I don't watch out he's going to turn my life upside down a million different ways.
"Oh, yes?" I try to keep calm but my cheeks are burning, along with my heart and lungs. "What if I'm not interested?" Why am I teasing him like this?
"Believe me, once you finally let me get my hands on you, you'll never want me to stop."
Arrogant, chauvinistic caveman!
I remember the promise he made in that motel room in Tampa: 'I'll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to live without me.'
I roll my eyes skyward, unconvinced, my heart in my throat and my toes curling.
George comes over to our table with a bottle of wine and four glasses. Water glasses for wine? My father would have a fit.
"Hey, Uncle George. Why only four glasses?" Mark asks, doing a rapid head count of the people around the table.
"This is for me and the girls. You guys are driving." By the tone of his voice, there's no arguing with him. "What do you think, Cat?"
He hands me the bottle and I read the label, half of which is written in Italian.
It's a boring Chianti. I'm no expert, I remember some names because they're my father's favorites, but I've never heard of this label before.
"So?"
I can't stop myself. "Well, red wine should be served in the correct glasses," I say with a smile, trying not to sound too much of a snob.
Ben laughs and beats his fist on the table. "I knew you were going to say that! I would have bet my car on it. I saw it in your face the moment he put the glasses down."
I look over at George, smiling innocently, hoping he's not offended. I've adapted all too well to too many American customs over the past three months and tomorrow I'm even going to have to force myself to eat roast turkey but, when it comes to wine, I refuse to compromise. "My father is a wine lover," I explain. He transformed the storage closet at the end of the corridor into a wine cellar, designed by a well-known architect, with internal temperature controls.
If the house was ever burglarized, the thieves would make more money from his wine than his collection of luxury watches, and he owns some pretty expensive ones.
George laughs and raises his hands then goes back to the bar.
I turn and look at Ben, biting the inside of my cheek. "Did I go too far?"
His sly smile makes me nervous. "Fucking..." He kisses me on the tip of my nose. "...snob!" He laughs, intoxicating me with his scent.
I know he's joking but I assume a look of fake shock. "Watch it, Mr. Carter, or I'll be forced to kick your ass."
He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. His eyes are glued to mine and, as his lips curve into a complicit half-smile, I forget where we are. I move my head to one side and have to use all my self-control not to lean forward and kiss him.
George returns with his version of wine glasses and I come back down to planet earth.
He hands me the bottle and I carefully peel off the protective foil before realizing there's no cork, it's a screw cap, and I almost want to hand it back to him. A screw cap?
That's when I decide to show off a little.
"First of all," I begin. "You have to let red wine 'breathe'. Thirty minutes for each year of age." I don't remember everything exactly or even if the information flooding into my brain is correct, but my confident tone makes me look like an expert. "This is a recent wine so it would have been enough to open it half an hour ago."
Jessica and Abby lean their elbows on the table, their chins cupped in their hands, waiting anxiously. Next to me, Mark laughs and leans forward for a better view. On my left, Ben is silent, and out
of the corner of my eye, I notice his self-satisfied smirk.
"I guess I'd better sit down..." Uncle George takes a chair from the table behind him and sits down between Kris and Ryan, both looking at me attentively and, for once, I'm loving being the center of attention. It's so difficult to create space for myself, they’re all so close, with so much shared history.
I take the bottle and pour three fingers of it into my wine glass, then begin to rotate it clockwise, my fingers gently holding the stem. "The wine glass needs to be wide to allow for correct aeration." I have no idea how my brain conjured up the word in English, but it did. "Rotating the glass in a circular pattern oxygenates the wine and releases its fragrance."
Ben sprawls in his chair, his arms crossed, his legs spread out under the table. If he thinks I'm a snob, he's seen nothing yet.
"That way, any sediment remains on the sides of your glass. Depending on how quickly the drops slide down, we get an idea of the alcohol content."
"They're coming down pretty fast," George points out. He's right, too bad it's one of the first signs that it's not a good wine. I smile. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"
I smile again and bite my lower lip. "The more alcohol there is, then the cheaper the wine. The more alcohol there is..." I hesitate, "…the faster the drops move."
George frowns and I feel bad.
I swirl the wine in my glass again and go on with my explanation. "Once the alcohol content has been established, you have to sniff it, putting your nose right down into it."
I stop the glass and before the wine can stop swirling, I put my face down to the wine and breathe in deeply, closing my eyes. A whiff of alcohol hits me in the face.
No currants, no blackberries, no raspberries, no wood. Just alcohol.
"Even our noses help us understand if the wine’s good quality. Some wines smell of the wine barrels they’re aged in, or the earth where the grapes grew or the aromas of the fruit that’s mixed in with it. You can actually smell the fruit it was made with."
George's mouth hangs half-open and I have to make an incredible effort not to laugh. "And what does this smell of?"
I have to bite my tongue because I want to say, "Nothing!" but I lie shamelessly and say, "Cherries." Only because I read it somewhere on the label. However, one look at George's pleased expression and I feel more relaxed. "Now we can taste it. The first sip of any wine has to be slow and measured. You have to taste it, almost suck it from the glass. Then, let the liquid rest on your tongue and inhale slowly." I feel Ben stiffen next to me and he wipes a hand nervously over his forehead and mouth. "As you breathe in, the air brings with it the aromas of the fruit, invading your mouth."
Ben squirms in his chair and I have to hold back my giggles. My voice is warm and sensuous and totally inappropriate, but I'm having a great time.
I take my glass, place my tongue on the edge without taking my eyes off Uncle George, and slowly suck the wine into my mouth. I rotate my tongue for everyone to see and slowly inhale.
It's a shame this Chianti is disgusting because my detailed explanation and expert demonstration are practically perfect, but just to make sure, I'll check with my dad tomorrow.
They all sit there is silence, watching me, waiting for my verdict.
"Not bad," I say in the end. I wink at Uncle George and he smiles smugly.
"I want to try, too." He pours some wine and the girls do the same. I laugh as they swirl the contents of their glasses, but I'm not laughing so hard when Ben's voice hits me between the legs.
"Blondie, if I hear you say 'suck' and 'invading your mouth' once more, in that sexy Playboy Bunny voice, I swear to God, I won't be responsible for my actions and I don't care if there are people around!"
The wine goes to my head, the music booms in my chest, and I want to dance and sing and kiss Benjamin till I'm breathless. And that's what I do as soon as we leave Frankie's, hand in hand, almost running over to his car. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him like I've never kissed him before, praying he doesn't notice how happy he makes me.
He holds me tight, slips his hands under my shirt, and strokes my naked back, but it's not good enough, I want more. I want him, in the car, in this bar parking lot.
"How drunk are you?" he asks, grinning, groping my ass, leaving me gasping.
"Not enough to blame the alcohol." It's true. I'm excited but I'm not drunk. His tongue explores my mouth relentlessly and I feel his hands all over me. I put the palm of my hand on his jeans, over his crotch, and feel his excitement. He throws his head back and I kiss his neck, then slowly trace my tongue down toward his ear.
"Blondie, you're going to make me lose control." He gently removes my hand from his erection.
"Lose it," I whisper in his ear. "For me...with me..."
He lifts me off the ground and pushes me up against the door of his car. "Not tonight. I regret it already, but not tonight."
He puts me down and his lips find mine, brushing against them in a chaste kiss. My disappointment is written in huge letters on my face. I know he's right, but I never lose control like this and I know this is what I want. His hands, his skin, on mine.
I've seen how the other girls look at him, checking out his ass in his favorite jeans––a dark wash, that fits him perfectly––and I'm jealous to the core to think he's not really mine, that he might lose interest in me before there's anything between us. I hate feeling insecure and detest even more that I can no longer hide my feelings for him.
There's no way out. I can tell myself over and over how wrong it is, that I'm being vicious, but the truth is, I fell for him the first time I saw him, head down, bent over his Mustang, his ball cap pulled over his eyes. My heart skipped a beat the next morning when I saw him wandering around the kitchen, bare-chested, mixing pancakes. I fell in love with him on the stage in Tampa, when he sang the song he wrote for me.
"Blondie." His commanding tone startles me. He leans forward and whispers two of the world's sweetest words against my lips, "Choose me."
I've already chosen him. I may not have found the courage to say it out loud, but it's not possible that he doesn't know how I feel. "Why?" I ask, for no reason.
"Because your heart beats fast when we're together. Because you’re mine." His soft voice caresses my face.
Yes, I’m his. Only his.
27
She hates the turkey and I can't stop smirking. Every time she lifts a forkful of it to her mouth she makes a face. No one else has noticed, but then again, no one else has been staring at her so obsessively since we sat down to eat.
She's wearing a blue dress with thin straps and a puffy skirt, not too short but long enough to cover her perfect legs. She realizes I'm watching and forces a smile as she chews the turkey again and again, and I wonder when she'll get around to swallowing it.
"Put it on my plate," I whisper in her ear, my mouth dangerously close to her face.
"What?" she asks, catching me off guard.
"The turkey. Put it on my plate."
She smiles slyly and bites down on her lip to keep from laughing, but she does as I say. She delicately takes a slice of turkey and slides it on to my plate without anyone noticing. "Thanks," she whispers out of the corner of her mouth.
For the past half hour, Jessica's dad, Stefan, has been droning on and on about this afternoon's football game. Mark pretends to listen and Jessica rolls her eyes every two seconds. He gave up trying to include me in his conversations years ago, but my brother has better manners than me and pays the consequences. Sometimes, having a shitty personality comes in handy.
I'm already pretty full but I quickly eat the extra turkey and look around me. Thanksgiving is my mom and Betty's favorite holiday. Each year they start cooking at least two days before, they make autumn-themed centerpieces for the tables, which seem to get bigger every year, so big that sometimes I can hardly see Jess in front of me, and they are both ridiculously happy.
I prefer Christmas; the fairy lights, the tree, last
minute shopping, searching for the perfect gifts for my family. The six of us are one big, happy family. We've known each other for years and Jessica's parents have always been there for us, in bad times and in good. Stefan is the closest thing to a father figure I've ever had. My own father wasn't all that good even when we were kids, before he went crazy and ended up in jail.
I watch them for a moment and think how much I like having Blondie next to me. She's disoriented and feels out of place most of the time but it's just a matter of time. She was like that with us at first, with her turned up little nose and her straight back, exhibiting a self-confidence she doesn't feel. I stroke her knee and she jumps in surprise. She's wearing a light coat of lipstick, she doesn't look bad, just older and more aloof. I'd rather see her with a pound of strawberry Chapstick, which smells of gum and is the same natural color as her lips.
As usual, we sit down to eat at 4 p.m. and leave the table at 7 p.m., exhausted and stuffed. I need to take a walk to help digest the six pounds of turkey I just ate, together with an infinite number of sides, but I know I won't get off quite so easy.
My mother looks at me before I have chance to stand up and clear my plate. "Ben, you know what you have to do, don't you?"
"My favorite part of Thanksgiving!" Jessica claps.
I hate this moment, however. Every year, it's the same old story. And this year there's Blondie and I really don't feel like it.
"Can't we miss it this year? I'll do a double performance at Christmas, I promise," I try, though I know I have no choice.
"Don't even think about it." My mother stands up and takes away the tray with the turkey leftovers - which we'll be eating for the next three days - but not before flashing me a warning glance.
Cat stares at me curiously and I want to run screaming from the house. I don't want to play the piano, not in front of her. I've been playing for myself for years but only a couple of times a year for my family.
"Come on, Ben, you know your mother’s been waiting."
Jesus! It's so embarrassing. I know I make faces while I'm playing, and I can't help it, it's like my body becomes one with the piano. No matter how hard I try to keep my eyes open and on the score, I can't. They always close, my head bent back as I play, and it's embarrassing.