And yes, there was kissing, but we talked a lot. The guy is interesting. He’s smart. Well read. Well traveled. And I wouldn’t have known any of that if I had just blown him off at the bar because I didn’t immediately feel the hots for him the way I did with Marc.
I’m starting to think that Jessie is right: Maybe with dating you should lead with your head and not your heart. Actually, it’s not usually our heart that normally makes these decisions either, is it?
I did spend the night, but slept in a borrowed T-shirt and boxer shorts. I tucked into his arms and fell asleep around one, content.
The evening would have been perfect if I hadn’t woken up at five to a ping! on my phone, which was in my purse in the other room.
I should have known when I tiptoed out to check it that it would be from Marc.
I waited all day for you to text me back. Did you get home okay?
I quickly delete Marc’s message and go back to bed.
Chapter Twenty-six
JESSIE
“Slut!” Holly jokes to Nat, putting her palm up for a high five as Nat walks into the bar on the morning of our grand opening.
“All you know is that I never made it home last night,” Nat tells Holly rather sheepishly, though she does give her a weak high five. “You don’t know what happened.”
Although obviously we do know what happened, I think to myself as I work on our financials from my laptop, which I’ve placed in the middle table near the bar so I can bitch to Holly about how much more this is costing us than we planned.
She got to sleep with him. She is the luckiest fucking woman in the whole world right now, and I mean that literally.
Damn it. I love Kevin, and I’m going to marry him. What is wrong with me?
I once read in a bridal magazine that it is completely normal to have a crush on someone right after you get engaged. That it is a healthy … normal (repeat: normal!) … reaction to being spoken for. And realizing that you are never going to have a first kiss again, ever, for the rest of your life, and now I’m fantasizing about my first kiss with Giovanni and … Damn it! I have got to get hold of myself.
“Well, I have faith in you,” Holly tells Nat. “Nice shirt, by the way.”
Holly is referring to a souvenir T-shirt Nat is wearing from the Napa Valley winery that I’ve been dying to go to. Seriously? She has his shirt? It’s been less than a week, and they’re already at the point in their relationship where she gets to wear his clothing?
“Isn’t it cool?” Nat agrees. “I stole it from Giovanni’s dresser this morning, and he said I looked so cute in it, I could keep it.”
I stare intently at my computer screen, trying not to writhe in jealousy. Damn it, I’m positively writhing. Nat gets to wear his T-shirt like it’s a normal, run-of-the-mill thing. Like things like that just happen. Like in the real world, a guy that ridiculously perfect just gives you his T-shirt, which also probably smells like him a little, or at least smells like the Costco detergent he must use because, yes, I recognized the scent on him when we were at Home Depot, and now even doing my laundry reminds me of him, and no, I’m not obsessed.
“So, did you talk to Sven last night?” Nat asks Holly as she lugs a box of Syrah over to the bar.
Plus he told her she looked cute in it. Seriously, what makes her so great that he picked her over me? What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t he want to give me his shirt? And, while we’re on the subject, why did he agree to go out with her when I saw him first?
“No, but we have been sending e-mails. I don’t want to look too crazed,” Holly answers.
She got to see him naked! He must look perfect naked. Like a statue or something—just beautiful. He likes her. I don’t have a shot. I missed my opportunity.
“I agree,” Nat affirms. “You know, I’m starting to realize that if you don’t obsess about a guy, you have a much better shot at happiness…”
Thanks a lot for the great advice, Nat. I’ll try not to obsess.
“And it’s all thanks to Jessie,” Nat tells Holly.
“Why? What did I do?” I blurt out, trying not to sound defensive or jealous.
“You introduced me to a really cool guy,” Nat tells me gratefully. “Someone I would never have thought was my type. You practically forced me into his arms, and for that I’m indebted to you.”
“Well, I know a thing or two about dating,” I say a bit snootily. “So, did you ask him about his ten-year plan?”
Nat winces at my question. “You know, I tried. But he thought it sounded a bit too interviewy.”
Does that mean he doesn’t see her in his long-term plans? Hmmmm …
“The ten-year-plan question is so stupid,” Holly declares, shaking her head. “I blame the self-help books.”
“That’s pretty much what Giovanni said,” Nat tells her.
“Hm. Maybe I should date him,” Holly jokes.
You do, and I’ll break you like a twig.
“He cooks, he cleans, he has a nice house in the hills. You could do worse,” Nat jokes right back.
Seriously?! How can they joke about that?
Nat turns to me. “Instead, Giovanni suggested we should ask our dates: ‘What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?’”
“See, that’s a much better question,” Holly says. “That focuses on what a person wants to do right now, not on what someone thinks they might want to do, maybe, in ten years.”
That’s a dumb-ass question. So I give the obvious answer, “I’d play the lottery.”
Nat points to me. “Me too! But he told me I wasn’t allowed to answer that.”
Holly looks up and scrunches her lips, thinking. “I think I’d swim with sharks.”
Nat frowns. “Damn. That’s a better answer than what I said.”
“What did you say?” Holly asks.
“Elizabeth Cady Stanton,” Nat answers.
Holly nods, knowing the whole backstory of Nat’s stalled script idea.
“Wait. Giovanni thinks we should judge our dates by what they haven’t done? That’s ridiculous,” I insist. “That question tells a person who you’re not, instead of who you are.”
Nat furrows her brow and scrutinizes me. “Wooowwww… you clearly have something you want to do, but you’re afraid to. What is it?”
“Don’t be silly. I just quit my job and started a business. I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Whoa. Minnie Mouse voice,” Nat says, as though I’ve given her some sort of tell.
Holly smiles as she shakes her head and says to Nat, “I was just thinking the same thing. Damn, I’d like to get her in a poker game.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask them, careful to keep my tone dismissive.
“Whenever you don’t want to talk about something, your voice goes up two octaves and you start talking like Minnie Mouse,” Holly enlightens me. “Spill! What is it?”
Kiss Giovanni—obviously. Hm … If I knew I wouldn’t fail, would I actually kiss him?
Well, this sucks. I’m supposed to say go paragliding, or learn to play piano, or even open a wine bar. I’m not supposed to wonder if my best friend’s new boyfriend would kiss me back. That makes me a truly awful person.
“I want to open a wine bar,” I answer emphatically, making sure to deepen my voice as I shut my laptop and head toward the back office. “And if I don’t get this work done, I’ll be no help tonight for the soft opening.”
“Oh, come on,” Nat implores. “Why are you being like that? I told you about my screenplay, and Holly about her sharks. Just tell us one thing you’d do if you knew you couldn’t fail.”
“I’d get out of this conversation,” I say, making my way into the office. “You guys keep doing setup. I need an hour of quiet, and then you’re free to ask me whatever second-date question you want.”
Thankfully, the girls let me go.
I use my quiet time to set up my laptop, reopen QuickBooks, and do my job.
And quickly check Gi
ovanni’s Facebook. And his Instagram. And Twitter.
No new posts, and no change in relationship status.
Sigh. What is wrong with me?
Chapter Twenty-seven
HOLLY
At 4:28 P.M., we officially open the doors of All for Wine and Wine for All! and begin our new lives.
Well, okay, we don’t officially open our doors. But that’s when Karen, my agent, perpetually on the phone, begins pounding on the door incessantly, so I guess we’re opening early.
“It’s just Karen! I got it!” I yell to the girls, who are getting ready in the back.
I quickly run up to the door and unlock it to stop Karen’s banging. “You’re early,” I tell her.
Karen whisks in, looking like her usual fabulous Neiman Marcus self: Tory Burch jeans with a six-hundred-dollar “kicky” top and Louboutins so high I wonder if she had to take a class in stilt walking before she put them on. “Darling, it’s not going any farther,” she says into the phone.
It’s not going any farther is agentspeak for, You had an audition and two callbacks and they still didn’t hire you. Go get a brownie.
“I know, it sucks. Now promise me you won’t indulge in Kummerspeck. Just go for a nice run to get all of your feelings out. Call you tomorrow.” She hangs up her phone and throws it in her bag as she air-kisses me on the cheek. “I’m sorry, darling. What did you say?”
“I said you’re early,” I repeat. “And what’s Kummerspeck?”
“It means ‘grief bacon.’ And if I’m not ten minutes early, I’m late,” Karen says, walking to the center of the bar and doing a slow spin to check out the place. “Just put me to work. Do you need some candles lit?”
Before I can answer, she exclaims, “Well, isn’t this charming? I love it. Let me make some phone calls—let’s get some more people in here.”
“Okay … sounds good,” I say.
Karen pulls out her phone and looks at her screen. “Fantastic. Who do you want? Famous people or paying customers?”
“Yes. Can I get you a drink?”
“Dirty martini, two olives.”
“Pinot Gris it is,” I tell her, heading behind the bar as she texts. “So how’s work going?”
“It’s not as much fun without my favorite client,” she tells me as I pull out a bottle of Pinot Gris from the Marlborough region of New Zealand. “But of course I wouldn’t dream of pressuring you to come back.”
As I pour her a glass, I ask bluntly, “Is that your passive-aggressive way of telling me you’re firing me, or your passive-aggressive way of asking me when I’m going back to work?”
Karen is laser focused on her phone as she absentmindedly sits down on a stool across the bar from me. “It means I’m proud of you but I miss you. No hidden agenda.” She hits Send, then tosses her phone on the bar and smiles at me. “By the way, I happened to invite a few casting agents tonight. Maybe a director or two…”
I wince. “Damn it! Karen, I’m nervous enough about tonight…”
“Which is why I’m here. To soothe you yet encourage you. And if part of what I encourage you to do is cheerfully ply a few job creators with booze and then pour them into an Uber…”
“Crap. Who did you invite?”
“Fans. People who love you. Forget I said anything,” Karen says, taking a big sip of her white wine. “This is lovely, dear. Thank you.”
I take a deep, cleansing breath, then exhale my nerves out. “Excellent. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“That’s what you’re wearing?” she asks, referring to the tasteful sleeveless black dress I bought when I thought Sven would be here.
“Yes, Karen, this is what I’m wearing,” I tell her patiently.
“Black? What do you think that says to people?”
“I don’t know. That I’m opening a bar?”
“And where’s the cleavage?”
“I’m opening a bar, not a brothel.”
“But I have people coming to see you.”
“Yes, and I’m not auditioning anymore, remember?”
She crosses her arm and pouts. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” I say, turning on the cash register to make sure everything works.
Karen waits all of ten seconds before saying, “You could at least color in your eyebrows a little more…”
“Karen!”
“And that’s all I’m going to say about anything. Forget I’m here.”
Yeah, that’ll happen.
Chapter Twenty-eight
JESSIE
4:35 P.M.
I am standing in our new pink marble ladies’ room, trying to decide if (1) pink marble is quirky or tacky and (2) my makeup is cute or tacky. Can I pull off red lipstick? The Nats of the world can pull off red lipstick. She has that shiny, dark brown hair and glowing slightly tanned skin, and (most important) a personality that says, “Fuck, yeah, I wear red lipstick.”
I’m more “barely there” beige, possibly an “oh so subtle” pink. I lean in to my reflection to debate.
Nope, can’t pull it off. I grab a Kleenex and wipe off the red as Nat pops into the doorway, looking super cute in her bright red dress and matching lipstick. “Your computer has been beeping off the hook. I think it’s your Skype, so I assume it’s Kevin.”
“Okay, thanks,” I tell her.
She walks over to me. “How come you’re not wearing the lipstick?”
I shrug sheepishly. “Not my style.”
“Don’t be silly. I wear it all the time.”
“Yeah, you do. And it looks great on you. But women like me…” My sentence trails off as I look in the mirror again. “I don’t know. I’m already a little out of my comfort zone tonight. Let’s not push it.”
Nat furrows her brow. “You okay?”
No, I’m not okay. I wish I could wear red lipstick. I wish I was that woman. But I’m not—I’m a big phony. I’m an accountant who is pretending she can own and run a business, and I’m acting (meaning pretending!) like this is a great idea. I’m a woman who wears knee-length dark blue dresses, not short red ones. Keeps the same shoulder-length, dirty blonde hair that she’s had since college, because I would never have the nerve to get Nat’s “I’m fierce” pixie cut. I’m a woman who never gets the Giovannis of the world. So we make ourselves happy with the Kevins.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m just a little nervous.”
“You just sank your life savings into this place. If you weren’t a little nervous, I’d be worried about you.”
I pull out my glossy beige lipstick. “Thanks.”
“Stop,” Nat says cheerfully. “I have a thought.” She runs out of the bathroom, then reappears less than a minute later with her makeup bag. “I just got one of those free-with-purchase lipsticks that would look great on you.” She pulls out a black plastic tube, opens it, and twists it up to reveal a dark purple lipstick.
“Purple?” I react. “No, no, no. I don’t wear purple.”
“Let’s just try it,” Nat says, getting right up to my face so she can swipe the lipstick onto my lips. She pulls back and looks me over. “Nice. One more thing to make it pop, though.” Nat pulls out another, thinner black tube, and opens it to reveal a liner pencil in the same shade of purple. She begins drawing studiously. “Let’s just open those lips up, give you a little pouty Brigitte Bardot thing.” After another thirty seconds, Nat pulls back to examine her work. “Perfect. Take a look.”
I turn to the mirror to see my reflection. “Huh. Who knew I could wear purple? It’s cool. It’s, like, it’s not exactly me, but it’s kind of a cooler version of me.”
Nat squints at me a bit. “So that’s good, right?”
“It’s awesome,” I assure her. “I need to buy those. What’s the color called?”
“Curious Cabernet,” Nat says, handing me the lipstick and matching liner pencil. “It’s fate, I tell you.”
I wave my hands. “I couldn’t. That brand’s expensive.”
“Don’t be silly. L
ike I said, it was a freebie,” Nat reminds me, pushing the lipstick and liner into my hands. “Now go call back your boyfriend, show him what he’s missing tonight, and meet me at the bar.”
* * *
A minute later, I am in the back office, waiting on my computer for Kevin to pick up. He clicks on after the third ring.
It’s the middle of the night in Germany, but I can see when he answers that his lights are on. “Hey, just returning all of your calls. Did I wake you?” I whisper.
“No,” he says, slurring a little. “I actually just got home from celebrating. I’ve been promoted to management accountant.”
Management accountant? I didn’t even know he wanted to be a management accountant. “Wait, so you’re coming home early?” I ask him, confused.
“Not exactly. The job’s in Copenhagen. I’m flying up to see the offices tomorrow morning. You should hop on a plane and come meet me. Copenhagen this time of year is supposed to be magical.”
I’m stunned. For a bunch of reasons. “Obviously, I can’t come now. We open the bar tonight,” I stammer out.
Kevin smiles warmly. “Oh, that’s right. How’s it going? I’m sorry to miss it.”
“It hasn’t actually opened yet, we don’t open until five,” I tell him quickly. “So I don’t understand. How long will you be in Copenhagen?”
Kevin pauses. (Damn it. Here it comes.) “I’ve been offered a contract for three years.”
“What do you MEAN three years?”
“Minimum,” Kevin says.
“Minimum?!” I shake my head. “And you’re telling me this now? Less than an hour before opening night…”
“Shitty timing on my part,” Kevin says quickly, and it occurs to me that maybe he didn’t intentionally just ambush me. “I’m sorry. I was just excited, and I didn’t think it through. Let’s talk about it tomorrow. You go do you tonight. I’m proud of you. Have a great time.”
I’m blinking, and slightly shaking my head. I want to get up and start pacing. But then I’d move out of my computer’s camera range, so I stay seated. Finally I ask, in a seething voice that surprises me, “What about us?”
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