Unzipped

by Lauren Blakely

  And that’s a confusing twist in the script. I don’t know what John Cusack, Nicolas Cage, or any of my movie heroes would do if they were me.

  Except they’d be way cooler when perplexed. That’s for sure.

  “Try this one.”

  She hands me an olive, and I pop it in my mouth. “It’s salty and tangy. Also, how is this date prep? Seems more like taste bud training.”

  “Many dates involve going to tastings. Chocolate. Wine. Olives. You have gone on dates, right?”

  “Sure,” I grumble. “But not an olive-tasting one.”

  She eyes me curiously at the counter in the tasting room. “Where have you been taking women on dates?”

  “The movies,” I say, raising my chin proudly.

  “The. Movies?” Her eyebrow arches into another hemisphere.

  “Dinner too. Is this where you give me a hard time like you did about movie quotes?”

  “I relented on that. But this? I’m not so sure.”

  I groan. “What am I doing wrong now?”

  “You’ve never taken a woman to a wine tasting? Or to an art gallery? Or bowling? Or to the Ice Cream Museum?”

  I scoff. “That ridiculous place in the city that exists solely for the purpose of Instagram pictures?” One of my clients went there and showed me shots of her kid perched on a unicorn statue, wandering through a room full of oversize gumdrops like some Willy Wonka dreamscape, and another of her kid eating a coconut popsicle in a mirrored room that looks like a pink ’50s diner. They made zero sense.

  “People like to take pictures in crazy places.”

  I shake my head. “Can’t do it. Won’t give in to the Instagram madness.”

  “You’re so crotchety. You’re probably going to tell me you’re not even on social media.”

  “Not much. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t friend Cassie. I don’t post much on Facebook, and I have maybe fifty friends, so I didn’t want to look like a loser.”

  “Fine, you don’t need to be on Facebook to date effectively. But we need to shake it up. Get you out of the dinner-and-a-movie rut.” She hands me a small olive from the tasting tray.

  “Dinner and movies are a rut?”

  “Dinner and the movies are fine, but that’s what old married couples do.”

  “I’m not old.”

  “Nor are you married. That’s why we’re eating olives.” She pops one in her mouth and moans. “If I could survive on ice cream, wine, and olives I would.” She sighs happily.

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “No. But I’m willing to make an attempt. Want to try with me?”

  “Definitely. Should we pack a cooler with a few dozen flavors, a bunch of bottles, and some olives?”

  She drops her voice. “Meet me at dawn by the docks, and we’ll escape on the first boat out of town.”

  “It’s a plan.” I reach for a sage-green olive, biting into the meat then dropping the pit in the white dish. “Have you always lived here? It’s odd to live in wine country. Just like you think it’s odd to go to the movies as a date. Sheesh.”

  “I don’t think movies are odd, but you don’t get to know someone at the movies. Oh, but wait. You were never that interested in getting to know anyone.”

  I hold up my hands. “In my defense, I honestly never met anyone who blew my mind.”

  “Oh, your mind? I’d have thought it was something else you wanted blown . . .”

  As her voice trails off, I have no choice but to slow-clap. For several beats. “Well done.”

  She stands up and takes a well-deserved curtsy. “Thank you very much. Please make ample use of the tip jar on your way out.” Sitting down, she answers, “My dad was a business manager at a bunch of different wineries, so it was kind of here or no place else.”

  “And your mom?”

  Her expression shifts when she mentions her mom, a hardness in her features. “She was an accountant.”

  “Did you mean it when you said you disappointed her?”

  She taps her chest, her voice cold. “Finley Barker. Disappointing mothers since 1989.”

  “How does that happen? You’re awesome. How did she not think you’re kick-ass?”

  She shrugs. “My brothers were the superstars of the family. They were both jocks. In fact, they weren’t only jocks. They were student-athletes. And they were student council. They could do no wrong.”

  “And you? Were you a troublemaker?”

  “No. I was a solid B-plus student. But it didn’t matter. They earned straight As. So my decent enough grades were meaningless. Every single B-plus I brought home, she wanted to know why it wasn’t an A.”

  “Ouch,” I say, cringing. “What did you tell her? I can’t imagine because I never had the pressure. My mom was gone at that point, and my dad was so worn out raising four boys on his own that he was thrilled if our socks matched.”

  “Did they match?”

  “Rarely, but enough to make him happy.”

  She smiles sympathetically. “Nothing pleased my mom. She wanted to know why I didn’t earn As, and I never had an answer that was satisfying for her. I told her I had tried hard enough. I told her that was the best I could do. I told her what I was really good at was making people laugh. So that’s what I did. I became . . .” She rubs her fingers together as if trying to recall something. “What’s that name for the kid who always makes jokes?”

  A dash of excitement shimmies through me. “Holy shit. You were the class clown?”

  “You’ve never met a female class clown before?”

  I have to hand it to her. She’s right. “Not that women aren’t funny, but it’s something that guys do—assume the class clown role.”

  “It was the only thing I could do better than my brothers. The dry humor. The little asides. The deadpan comments. I was never going to be faster, smarter, or more popular, so I picked my weapon.”

  “And you chose the sword of humor,” I say as if I’m holding a weapon and anointing her like a knight.

  “And I wielded it. I did talent shows at school. I would do open mics. And yet, it wasn’t what a daughter of hers should be doing.”

  “Did you want her to be proud of you?”

  Finley fiddles with the napkin, looking down as she licks her lips. She raises her face, nodding. “Yeah, I did. I wanted that for a long time.” She sighs, and that one sad sound seems to say but it wasn’t meant to be. “Look, she wasn’t awful. She cared about me. I’m sure in her own way she did love me. But I never felt like I was good enough for her. I was the third child. I was the girl, which you’d think would bond us, but it seemed to do just the opposite. And I was the one who didn’t fit in her neat, orderly box. That’s probably why I’m so much closer to my dad. He gets me. He supports me. He’s in love with my Mars and Venus.”

  “He has good taste, then.”

  “But he loves it so much, and that’s why I haven’t told him it’s failing. Maybe Mom was right. My show is pretty much on death’s door.” She makes a sound like a plane sputtering as it heads to the ground, about to crash land.

  I bang a fist on the table. “We can’t let that happen. What can I do to help you with your show?”

  “Set up a computer program so it looks like my show was watched by five million people?”

  I tap my temple. “Will add that to my to-do list. In the meantime, how about I keep being your inspiration for the guy trying to find his dream girl?”

  “That works too.” She shoots me a wide smile. “Just keep being you.”

  “I’ll do my best. And you know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes we don’t really understand other people and what they want from us. Maybe your mother was happy with you, but maybe she couldn’t show it. Or maybe she was unhappy with herself.”

  “You think so?”

  “Was she funny?”

  “Not really.”

  “Maybe you were a threat to her in some weird way. Maybe you threate
ned her idea of womanhood.”

  She tucks some curls behind her ear. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Maybe she wanted a daughter who was pink and princess-y. Who liked ruffles and did cheers. Maybe when she had a girl who liked argyle and Joan Rivers, Wanda Sykes, and Lily Tomlin—”

  Her blue eyes twinkle. “How did you know they were my heroines?”

  “Good guess?” I say hopefully.

  “Very good guess.”

  “And now, I bet it’s Amy Poehler and Tina Fey.”

  She points a finger at me, nodding. “And Ali Wong. Do not forget the rising queen.”

  “She’s hilarious. Baby Cobra is the best.”

  Her phone trills. She reaches for the device and shoots daggers at the screen.

  “Mortal enemy?” I ask.

  “Spam.” She shows me the red “Spam Likely” screen then hits ignore with a flourish. “Is the spam notification on phones the best or the absolute best thing ever?”

  “The best, of course.”

  “I used to answer it, just in case it was someone offering me candy or money, but it was never free candy or free money, so now I hit ignore freely.”

  I laugh. “I haven’t received free candy or free money via email either. Took me a while to accept that too.”

  “And now look at us. We’ve achieved nirvana over spam,” she says with a happy sigh. Her eyes sparkle in a way that makes my chest feel funny. Not ha-ha funny. A whole different kind. A kind I haven’t felt in a long time. “Also, you’re good at talking on dates. It’s among your strengths. You just haven’t done it enough. But what about you? Would your mother be proud of you and your work?”

  I nod confidently. “She loved thrill rides. She took me to all the amusement parks when I was a kid. She adored them.”

  “That part of you—that massive part of you—came from her?”

  “Definitely. I was always good at math and engineering and structural stuff. But the love of the thrill? She instilled that. She was fearless about everything. She took us on all the rides from the time we were tall enough to ride them.”

  “Were you ever scared of them?”

  “Maybe for a hot minute, but there was no real room to be scared. Not with three older brothers and a daring mother. My first memory is of being five and staring at a tall roller coaster and feeling complete terror, but also knowing I had to move past it.”

  “And you did?”

  “I got on it with her and flew. I was never scared again.” I hold up a finger and modify that. “Correction—I felt fear, but I drop-kicked its ass. I never let it get the better of me, and I got that from her. When she got sick, the day she told us, she made us go wig shopping. She said, ‘This is finally my chance to wear crazy wigs.’ She bought pink, purple, electric blue. A few months before she died, she put on a banana-yellow wig and took us all to Great Adventure.”

  Finley swallows hard, like she’s choking back a tear. “She would be so proud of you, Tom. She would be over the moon.” She stretches her hand across the table, grabbing mine. “If she could ride the Boomerang Flyer—can you even imagine?”

  I smile because it’s all I can do. “She would’ve loved it. And then she’d have found some eighties flick retrospective and taken off with my dad to go see Some Kind of Wonderful for the twentieth time.”

  Finley’s blue eyes flicker with a new kind of awareness. “That’s where your love of movies comes from. I thought it was your brothers. But it’s from your mom?”

  “They kept it going, but it started with her. Watching her favorites, it felt like we were honoring her memory and following her advice.”

  She cocks her head. “Her advice?”

  “She said the great rom-coms had all the answers to the heart.”

  “Oh, this explains so much of you.”

  “It does?”

  “It’s like you’ve been taking advice from the movies, but it’s really your way of trying to connect with her.”

  I nod slowly, digesting that. It feels true. It sounds about right. “I suppose so.”

  She nibbles on her lips like she’s thinking. “I wonder though. Did she mean for you to take them literally, or did she want you to listen to them because so many are all about love? Pursuing it. Going for it. Like you’re doing.”

  Is that what I’m doing? Going after love? It felt that way a few days ago.

  Now?

  I don’t know what I’m pursuing. Or what I want to pursue.

  Or who, for that matter.

  We leave the tasting room and wander through the vineyard. Finley stares into the distance, perhaps noticing the grape stompers for the first time. She gives them the side-eye.

  I nudge her. “Admit it. You’re taking me to make wine right now.”

  “Oh yeah. I’m a huge wine stomper.”

  “You really don’t like it?”

  Her nose crinkles. “People step on grapes. Why would I want to drink that?”

  “I think the wine fermentation process actually gets rid of any bacteria and whatnot.”

  “I’m sure it does. But I’m also sure I don’t want to drink anything that has been touched by feet.”

  “You do know that it’s not about drinking something you made with your feet, right?”

  “What’s it about, then?”

  “It’s the fun of making it with your feet. It’s all squishy. I bet it feels great between your toes. You should do it. I dare you to.”

  She parks her hands on her hips, looking all sassy and sexy. “You did not just dare me.”

  “I so did.” I smile a satisfied grin. “Just like you dared me to skydive.”

  She gestures theatrically to the vast expanse of blue above us. “I don’t see you skydiving.”

  “But I will. Since you dared me. And now I’m daring you to stomp on grapes. You have to do it.”

  She tosses her head back and snorts, and it’s magnificent. A deep, throaty snort that seems to resonate through the entire vineyard. “I do? I have to prove it?”

  “You do. Also, that was your best snort ever.”

  “Are you cataloging my snorts?”

  “Maybe I am. They’re amusing. But don’t distract me. You have a dare to do, and you’re a daring woman.” I go for a throwdown. “In fact, I double-dog dare you.”

  “Do you really think I’m going to fall for the banana in the tailpipe?”

  My eyes bug out. I’m a cartoon character with pupils bouncing on springs. “Dear God, you might be perfect. You went from Moonstruck to Beverly Hills Cop on one date. Are you going to make me a mixtape next?”

  “Yes, and it’ll have Debbie Gibson on it.”

  “If I listen to it, will you stomp on grapes?”

  She screws up the corner of her lips, tapping her chin. “Wait. You might be onto something.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Her eyes glint with mischief. “I have a date proposition for you.”

  A little later, we’re stomping on grapes, and the squishy juice spreads through my toes. Finley is laughing so hard, it’s like a brand-new soundtrack. If I thought her snort was fantastic, it’s nothing compared to the way she cracks up as she stomps on grapes in a barrel, the squishing and squirting sound rocketing through the early evening sweet summer air.

  When we’re done, she says, “Your turn.”

  And I’m ready.

  We head to her house and grab her bike, hoisting it onto the bike rack on my car, then go downtown. I park outside Red, White, and Rosé. She stations herself curbside and salutes me.

  I turn on my phone, hit play, and hop on Finley’s bike, then I pedal down Main Street on a Sunday night, belting out Debbie Gibson’s “Only in My Dreams.”

  A dare for a dare.

  Finley stands on the sidewalk, dancing and cheering me on. It’s worth it. Riding down the street, missing every single note, and seeing her have the time of her life.

  It’s worth singing Debbie Gibson horrifically off-key.

&n
bsp; Because Finley’s cute when stomping.

  And when talking.

  And when watching me.

  And all the time, it seems.

  When I circle back to her, I hop off the bike.

  She can’t seem to stop smiling. “That was a certifiably awesome date.”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “I mean, practice date,” she says, correcting herself.

  “Yes, it was.”

  Silence falls over us, grappling at me. I’m not sure what to do or say. Maybe she’s not either.

  She shuffles a foot on the sidewalk. “I guess I should go home.”

  “Sure,” I say, my chest cratering because I wish she didn’t need to leave. “I’ll text you to make plans for tomorrow.”

  “Great.” She points to the wine bar. “I’ll just pop into the little girls’ room first.”

  As the door swings shut behind her, something hits me.

  That didn’t feel like a practice date. That felt like the real deal all by itself, and it had nothing to do with Cassandra.

  My heart thumps harder, my nerves kick in, and I don’t know what the hell to do with these out-of-control feelings. I need to get away from her, or I’ll say something. I’ll tell her it felt real. I’ll tell her I want her instead.

  When I see a note on my phone from my client in Singapore, that’s the only excuse I need to leave.

  13

  Finley

  What in the ever-loving handbasket?

  On the sidewalk outside the wine bar, I jerk my gaze right, then left, searching for the guy who had been standing right here when I went in. “Tom?”

  No one answers.

  I peer in the doorway of the wine bar in case he went in after me, but I don’t see him, nor do I spot his car.

  Instead, the real estate his Tesla occupied a few minutes ago is now temptingly available for other cars. I pace up and down the block. Did Tom move his car for some reason? But there aren’t any No Parking signs anywhere. And his ride is gone, gone, gone.

  Did he dart down an alley? Receive a call from the Bat Cave? Or just leave without saying goodbye?