“It’s an amazing offer,” Kevin tells me. “Tons of money. We could get married here and start having babies right away. And you could stay home with them, just like you’ve always wanted. Can you imagine what an amazing opportunity it would be for a child to grow up in different places around the world?”
Copenhagen. I’m not even completely sure where Copenhagen is. I mean, I know it’s in Denmark, I’m not an idiot, but if I had to point to it on the map I could just as easily hit Sweden.
“So what do you say?” Kevin says, smiling warmly. “You wanna get married?”
Wow. I pause. Look down at my desk, thinking. Realize my tongue is thrusting itself against the back of my top teeth. Do I want to get married?
Three months ago, when we were looking at every house imaginable, and I was worried Kevin was getting cold feet and about to leave me, I would have died for this moment. But now …
Now I feel nauseated. “You knew this was a permanent move before you left, didn’t you?” I suddenly realize.
“No,” Kevin insists.
I narrow my eyes at him. “I think you did.”
Kevin looks down, and I see him take a deep breath. “I will admit, I thought there was a chance. That’s why I was so nervous about buying a house.”
“And yet you didn’t tell me,” I say, and another puzzle piece falls into place. “Because you were thinking about leaving me.”
Kevin’s eyes dart to his left, and I know that’s exactly what happened.
I shake my head. “You bastard.”
“Don’t get like this. I had a few moments when I wasn’t sure, but that’s normal. I’m sure now. I want to marry you.”
“You know what? I’m gonna go,” I say, “because now I’m the one who’s not sure. And you’re not going to call or Skype me for the rest of the night.”
“Jess—”
“No,” I interrupt, slightly raising my voice. “Tonight is my night, and you’re not stealing it from me. I worked my ass off for it, and I deserve it. I will call you when I’m ready.”
“Jessie…”
I roll my mouse to click Off and immediately shut my laptop.
Then, in a moment of self-care I didn’t know I had in me, I click on my cell phone and block all of Kevin’s numbers.
I open my top drawer, pull out a mirrored compact, then check my lipstick.
Purple. Nat’s right. It is perfect.
And I’m sure as fuck done with being beige.
Chapter Twenty-nine
NAT
8:45 P.M.
Standing behind the bar, I proudly survey the room. The party is going great! The hors d’oeuvres are a hit (Jessie is right—you really never can go wrong with prosciutto). We are selling tons of wine, and everyone seems to be having a great time.
Naturally, this is the moment when I’m set to get unmistakable proof that there is no benevolent God. Because if there was a benevolent God, the really good-looking guy would not be walking into my bar right now.
Wait! Crap! No fucking way! Shit. Shit. Shit. Why, God, why?
Of all the wine joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.
I quickly walk over to Holly’s half of the bar and whisper, “Can you take care of that guy? I need to get some more pretzels from the back.”
Holly eyes me with concern. “Suuurrreeee. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I just need to—”
“Natasha?” I hear Chris (the really good-looking guy) ask behind me.
Damn it. I turn around and smile weakly. “That’s me.”
“Natasha Osorio?” he clarifies.
For a split second, I debate saying no, but then I decide to confront this problem head on. “Yup. Hey, Chris.”
He smiles, then asks, “Wow. You filled out a little. Going through another breakup?”
Less than three seconds. That’s a new record, even for us.
“On the contrary. I’m in a glorious relationship and this is happy fat,” I tell him, trying not to clench my jaw. “Of course, I can always lose the weight, whereas your hair won’t be coming back anytime soon.”
Holly looks to me, then Chris, then back to me. “Okay, so I’m guessing you two know each other. Natasha, would you like to help the ladies at table six?”
I cross my arms and stare down Chris. “Oh, no. I got this.”
Holly smiles at Chris and, as she passes me leans in to whisper, “Paying customer. Be nice.” Then she heads to table six, where a group of cheerful women are debating their next series of flights.
Chris takes a seat at the bar. “What kind of beer do you have on tap?”
“None. Did you read the sign out front? We’re a wine bar. We have water on tap. And soda.”
Chris squints at me for a quick second, then flashes me an easy smile. “Okay, what wine would you recommend?”
“That depends. Do you prefer red, white, or rosé?”
“I prefer beer.”
“Then go home and call Pink Dot.”
He smirks with confidence. “You do know we’re gonna sleep together, right?”
Typical Chris question, designed to shock and intrigue. I hit his volley back without missing a beat. “You do you know you’re gonna propose to me, right?”
I can’t tell if he’s amused by or hates my comeback. Never could read his face. He takes a moment, then says, “Red.”
“What types of reds do you like? And don’t say red ale.”
“Hah,” Chris says, pointing at me. “You remember I like red ale.”
“You just tried to order a beer, you moron. What are you doing here, anyway? This is a wine bar for women.”
He looks around. “First off, there are men here too. Second, I’m meeting a woman.”
“Lucky her,” I say, making a show of an eye roll.
There is absolutely no reason why I should have a tinge of jealousy about that. But a small part of me—a part of me I hate—can’t wait to see what she looks like.
Okay, I suppose it’s time for a little backstory. Chris and I met my junior year of college, at a friend’s party.
He was my friend’s new roommate, and we hated each other almost immediately. He was smug. Thought he could have any woman in the room. In all fairness, he could get a lot of them, which just made him all the more annoying. I suppose one could say Chris was kind of handsome. You know, if chiseled features, an effortless smile, and clear hazel eyes are your thing. And as long as he didn’t open his mouth and show you his personality. In college, he did a couple of national commercials, and the girls at school acted like he was the best-looking man they had ever seen. They’d flirt, they’d giggle at every stupid thing he said, they’d toss their hair around.
I was not impressed. And he wasn’t particularly impressed with me either. So we sparred. He’d try to get my goat and show he wasn’t interested. I made it clear I wasn’t interested. Unfortunately, his roommate was dating my roommate, and we saw each other all the time.
And, over time, ever so rarely, I let my guard down around him. I talked about a bad date I had, and Chris told me the guy was an idiot. I opened up about not wanting to go to my dad’s wedding to his fourth wife (a woman all of three years older than me). Chris offered to go with me. At one point, he admitted he was failing a literature class, and I tutored him.
And then one night, right before winter break, we all celebrated the end of finals week with shots of something stupid, and I got hammered. Ham. Mered.
I remember the tree, and Chris and me walking out onto his balcony to look at Christmas lights across the street, and then the song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” came on, and I sang one of the woman’s lines and he started singing the man’s lines, and we quietly sang the banter to each other for a verse or so. Then he took me in his arms for this spontaneous slow dance. And for a brief few seconds, I forgot I hated him and just closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth of his body and the smell of his cologne.
When the so
ng was over, Chris pulled back to say, “You’re a pretty good…” and I kissed him. Yeah, I know it’s all my fault.
We made out for a while, and I remember thinking I could be in his arms forever, and that I could not ask for a more perfect evening. (Let the record show I was twenty. Only twenty-year-olds are so naïve.)
Anyway, late that evening/early that morning, I woke up in his bed, not remembering much after that perfect kiss.
First, I looked down at myself and was relieved to see I was fully clothed.
But then I looked over at him, shirtless. He was covered by a sheet, and although I was tempted to look, I resisted. Instead, I did something I am not particularly proud of: I snuck out. Totally pulled the coyote-ugly asshole-guy move. Just grabbed my shoes and purse and tiptoed away.
In my defense, it’s not like he ever called me afterward. But he should have known that I didn’t really leave because I didn’t like him, that I was just embarrassed by how the night went. He should have known that he could have easily picked up the phone to ask me out, that I would have been relieved that he didn’t think I was “that kind of girl” and that I would have been thrilled to go on an actual date with him.
Instead, my roommate broke up with his roommate over Christmas break, and Chris and I never saw each other again.
No, that’s not true. We did see each other once, at a party toward the end of the year. He smirked that smirk guys get once they’ve nailed you and teased, “Good morning, sleepyhead.” I pretended to trip and spilled a drink in his lap, and that was all that anyone ever said to anyone about anything.
Until now.
“Give me something Spanish,” he says, then asks, “So how’s the writing career going?”
“Aces,” I nearly spit out as I angrily pour him a red. “This is a Bobal from central Spain. Some wine aficionados are calling it Spain’s hidden gem. If you don’t like it, I’ll be happy to punch you in the throat.”
“In that case, it looks … What was that word you used? Aces. Thank you.” He smiles as he raises his glass to me.
Tool.
I put down the bottle, and the moment Holly returns behind the bar, I tell her, “I need to check on the corner tables.”
I bring the bottle of Bobal with me, planning to ask some people in the corner if they would like a refill. Seriously, what is he doing here? And why didn’t he leave the minute he saw I was here?
I don’t mean to, but I accidentally glance over in Chris’s direction, and suddenly I’m an insecure coed again. What is it about our first loves that we never completely get over them? And make no mistake—I was totally infatuated with this man. The first time I saw him, I couldn’t breathe. It must have taken five trips back and forth across my friend’s living room and three red Solo cups of beer before I finally had the nerve to talk to him.
At which time he was a jerk. I walked up to him only to hear him say to another girl, “It’s perfectly fine to ask a guy out. It’s awesome even. You just need to make sure he’s a good guy. No one needs an asshole in her life.”
Okay, that sounds like a nice-guy thing to say—but you had to be there! The tone was manipulative and calculating. And his calculation paid off: Twenty minutes later, the girl had him pushed up against the wall, having her way with him and causing several guys to yell, “Get a room!”
They did.
I walk up to Giovanni, who is giving a table of women an in-depth lesson on the Orvieto he distributes to us. “Can I borrow you for a second?” I ask.
“Of course,” Giovanni says happily, then turns to the women and slightly bows. “Ladies.”
They wave to him as he leaves, clearly checking out his backside as I take him by the hand and lovingly bring him over to Chris. “Giovanni, this is Chris. He’s an old college friend of mine. Chris, my boyfriend, Giovanni.”
Chris puts out his hand, “Chris Washington. Nice to meet you, man.”
“Pleasure,” Giovanni says. “What are you drinking?”
Chris looks down at his glass. “I don’t know. Something Spanish.”
Giovanni turns to me. “You didn’t offer him one of mine?”
Before I can answer, Chris says, “That was my fault. I just got back from Barcelona for work, and I wanted a little reminder.”
“Barcel—” Giovanni’s face lights up. “Hey, I know you,” he says, suddenly realizing. “You’re a sports reporter, aren’t you?”
Chris actually seems surprised. “I am. How did you know that?”
“I recognize the name,” Giovanni tells him, then he points to Chris while talking to me. “This guy was wrote an amazing article for Esquire a few years back about the increasing influence of soccer here in the States. Got to interview Messi and everything.”
I have no idea what he just said to me.
“So, are you still with Esquire?” Giovanni asks Chris.
“No, I only freelanced for them. Actually, I took a job at Fox Sports last year. Decided I wanted to sleep in the same city for more than two weeks at a time, maybe have more than four dollars to my name.”
“So you must get to see some really great stuff live.”
“A lot of it I just watch on the feed. But I can get tickets to anything local. If you ever want to hit up a Galaxy game, let me know.”
Before Giovanni can answer, I stop him cold by saying, “Honey, we’re almost out of Super Tuscans. Could you go to the storage area and stock a few back into our wall-of-wine fridge?”
Giovanni smiles at me. “Sure.” He shakes Chris’s hand. “Nice meeting you. I’m sure we’ll see you again soon. And let me know about those Galaxy tickets. I’d love to tag along to a game with you.”
Giovanni heads toward the back room, then makes a detour over to Jessie, who is opening a bottle for table eight. Once he’s out of hearing range, Chris says, “Cool guy. Think he knows anyone for me?”
I don’t try to hide my disapproval. “I thought you had a date.”
“Yes. A date. Not a fiancée.”
“You’re a pig.”
Holly leans over the bar to me and whispers, “Rather than insult the customers, feel like heading over to the center table and waiting on a few of them?”
“No problem,” I say, and head over to a long community table bisecting the large room.
He’s still just as smug and gross and phony as ever. I dodged a bullet leaving that one.
Despite myself: I spend the next hour scoping out Chris, vaguely keeping tabs on him yet wishing he’d leave.
Particularly after I watched him take a small corner table toward the back with a stunning blonde.
I make Jessie wait on them and feel a little betrayed when I see her burst out laughing at a joke he makes.
I really do hate him. Men like that act like they’re nice guys, and that’s the most dangerous kind of guy to date, because his eventual betrayal is the most insidious. It’s one thing to know you’re dating Lucifer right off the bat. But guys like Chris sneak into your heart by acting like they’re into what you’re saying, and being all nice and funny. And then just when you let your guard down, they screw you over.
Believe me: I will never let my guard down again. Screw me once …
Chapter Thirty
JESSIE
Okay, Jessie, you gotta keep it together. Nobody knows, and you don’t want anyone to know. You can do this. It’s just for a couple more hours …
I was doing so well for the first few hours. After Kevin and my conversation, I felt powerful. In control. Angry as hell, but in a good way. I didn’t even bother to tell my friends what was going on. I just marched out of my office and began the night. I greeted old friends, helped customers, talked about wine. I took cheerful pictures with the girls, posted the hell out of them on social media (#allforwineandwineforall), and in general pushed Kevin out of my mind.
But then I overheard a woman at the table I waited on complaining to her friends about a destination wedding she had just been invited to, and how pissed she was
that the bride and groom required everyone to spend thousands of dollars and several vacation days to head out to some island halfway around the world. And I immediately wanted to tell Kevin, “See, this is why we shouldn’t have a destination wedding: Instead of your closest friends, you get your richest friends.”
And then it hit me like a punch in the gut: I won’t be debating destination weddings with Kevin anymore. Or any kinds of weddings. I won’t be talking to him about my engagement ring ever again. We won’t playfully argue about whether our formal china should be patterned or plain. Or whether our kids will go to public or private school.
Because there won’t be an engagement. Or a wedding. Or kids. There will just be me, by myself, on the other side of the planet.
And suddenly I felt completely alone.
The table asked for another bottle, and I was grateful for the escape. I am now at the wine fridge, staring at the sea of bottles and feeling the tears start to well up.
I angrily wipe a tear from my right eye, grab the bottle of wine with the gold-and-black label, plaster a smile to my face, and walk back to the group. “Are we ready to keep this party going?” I ask them, and I’m greeted with cheers. I present the bottle to the ladies before I open it, making sure to hold it in such a way as to show off the label. The alpha of the group seems convivial and tells me to pour. I am about to pierce the foil when Giovanni appears out of nowhere to put his hand over mine and subtly pull the corkscrew away from the bottle. “Now, ladies, you promised me for your second bottle you’d try one of my Sangioveses. I have a 2012 that I’m so sure you’ll love, that if you hate it, I’ll take it back free of charge.”
Okay, that was kind of an asshole move. Maybe Giovanni isn’t the perfect guy after all.
A few of the women giggle (of course they do), and they agree to try his Sangiovese. “Excellent. Jessica will be happy to get that for you. Jessica, a word?”
He then takes the bottle out of my hand, places his hand on the small of my back, and begins gently pushing me toward the storage area in back. Feeling his hand on me is making me even more sad, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it together.
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