She looks at her phone. “Okay, but I can’t keep not talking to him. And I don’t even know for sure what I want yet. So what should I…”
Chris types into her phone, then hands it back to her to scrutinize. “What do you think of that?”
Jessie’s eyes widen. “Oh, my God—you’re brilliant.” She hits Send, then heads behind the bar to pour two flights of Central Coast reds.
I follow Jessie over to the reds, lean in, and try to whisper, “Okay, what the hell was that about? Since when are you and Chris friends?”
“Since last night, when I told him about what happened with Kevin when I was waiting on him and his date. And he was so helpful. I mean, as nice as you and Holly and Giovanni were, Chris just immediately turned it into a chess match, which was much more productive. He has such fascinating theories on dating.”
“Jessie, the guy’s a tool. We need to get him out of here so he doesn’t hit on our clients.”
Jessie fans out her eight glasses perfectly and begins pouring the first red. “Why is he a tool? What did he do?”
I loudly sigh. “Nothing outright, he just…”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Why does everyone keep asking that?”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Holly.”
Jessie shrugs. Switches to bottle two and pours. “So you didn’t sleep with him. Do you plan to sleep with him?”
“No. Ick. Besides, I have Giovanni.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Am I allowed to bring a pizza in here?” Chris raises his voice to ask from his side of the bar.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Jessie tells him. “The place next door delivers; we should get some sort of promotion going with them.”
And she switches to bottle three.
I give up.
I make a point of ignoring him when a group of women walk in and sit a few seats away from him. We do the usual polite banter: How long have you guys been open? The place is beautiful. What would you recommend? Etc.
I hook each of them up with different glasses we have on special, start tabs, then try to keep myself busy and away from him.
“Can I get some water over here?” Chris asks, pulling out his iPad and the latest issue of Sports Illustrated.
Sigh. Trying not to grimace (well, not trying too hard), I scoop some ice, shoot some water into a glass from the soda gun, stick in a red straw, and bring it to him. “You brought a sports magazine into a women’s bar?”
“Some women like sports.”
I suppress a laugh. “Schyeah, that’s why sports bars are crawling with women on a random Tuesday.”
Chris turns off his iPad. “Do you want to know the difference between a man dating two women and a woman dating two men?”
“Oh, good, dating thoughts from a man who’s still single…”
“If a man is dating two women at once, it is either because (a) he is an asshole, (b) he’s trying to be an asshole, though he’ll soon realize he sucks at it: think swipe left, or (c) he is trying to break up with the old girlfriend, but he wants a place to land after everything explodes, so he sets up the new girlfriend before he’s completely done with the old girlfriend.”
“So, in other words, (a) because he’s an asshole,” I drone.
“Great, we’re on the same page,” Chris tells me with mock cheer. “Do you know why a woman dates two men?”
“Because one of them is you?” I ask drily.
“Awww… I love that you acknowledge women want to date me.”
“I didn’t say that…”
“The reason why a woman dates two men at the same time is that neither of them is ‘the guy.’”
Shit. How does he know about Marc? But I cover, “That’s ridiculous. Women are just as capable of setting up a landing pad.”
“Yeah, they are,” he acknowledges, “but they usually don’t. See, most women don’t see dating as a game. If they find the guy—that’s it. Chase is over! Let’s start obsessing over dresses and cakes. So the only reason why a woman is dating two men at once is because one of the guys is a jerk who she knows she should break up with, but who for God knows what reason still holds some sway over her. And the other guy, the nice one, is just the chump she’s using to try and get over the first guy.”
I clench my jaw.
A happy Jessie walks up to Chris. “You’re brilliant. Look what he wrote back.” She hands him the screen, then looks at me. “Oh, my God, this guy is amazing. He knows everything about dating!”
“Rook to e5,” Chris says, scrutinizing her screen. “So has he sent you flowers yet?”
“No,” Jessie says, intrigued. “Am I getting flowers? I love flowers.”
“In this case, you might not,” Chris tells her. “When men give flowers at the beginning of the relationship, it’s to be suave and romantic.” Then he looks directly at me as he says, “But if he’s already sleeping with you, it can be manipulative. Be very clear on what you want, both with yourself and him. No one’s on solid ground right now.”
Wow. He thinks Marc is sending me flowers to establish territory? Fuck you, Chris.
Jessie looks at me. “He’s brilliant. He knows everything about men. How have you been keeping him from us this long?”
God, it’s going to be a long night.
I quickly pull out my phone and send a text of my own. To Marc.
Can’t wait to see you Monday. What can I bring?
Chapter Thirty-eight
JESSIE
Around nine o’clock, I am on my first break of the evening and am sitting at my desk, staring at my computer, and absentmindedly stuffing my face with my third Twinkie. I receive an e-mail from Kevin that I’m intrigued by.
It is titled “No beige in sight.” And when I click to open the e-mail, up pops a picture of a bright blue three-story building, smushed between a bright yellow building on one side and a bright red building on the other, with a canal and small boats out front.
Below the picture Kevin wrote:
This is Copenhagen. Specifically, a very picturesque neighborhood called Christianshavn. This is a three-bedroom home for sale there, complete with boat slip.
Below that is a series of pictures of bright white rooms with light wooden floors. Everything is pristine and spotless, but also very cozy. I could vaguely picture myself walking around barefoot in that house, a fireplace roaring in the background. Which is a lot more than I could have said about Copenhagen an hour ago.
As I rip open the plastic wrap of another Twinkie, I end up going down a rabbit hole, researching Copenhagen.
The city is actually made up of a bunch of islands, so I could get the benefits of both worlds in terms of living near water and living in the city. Most Danes actually speak English, so it is possible to get around the city without feeling like Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation. The signs all seem to be in Danish, but it’s easy to get a smartphone translator to help with that. And, yeah, the weather sucks in February (it’s cold!), but the weather sucks in lots of places in February. I can’t believe how blonde everyone is there.
Nat pops her head in. “Jess, can I ask you a favor?”
I gulp the bite of my Twinkie, nearly causing myself to choke. “Shoot.”
“Wait, is that your dinner?” she asks with a hint of disapproval.
“Last week I saw you wolf down two slices of cold sausage pizza with a plastic cup of chocolate pudding and a horchata,” I remind her.
“Fair enough.” She trots in and leans on my desk. “So how would you like to see The Barber of Seville on Monday night with a hot Italian?”
My heart stops, and my breath catches. God, more than anything. “What? Why?”
“There’s this panel I really want to go to at the Writers Guild about writing for subscription TV, but it’s on Monday night. Unfortunately, Giovanni asked me to go to some black tie opera benefit, which I totally forgot about. “Pllleeeaaasseeee. I will so owe
you.”
I’m sort of at a loss here. “Won’t Giovanni get upset?”
“Why would he get upset? He loves you. And you actually know about opera. Plus you won’t preorder your cocktail three hours beforehand just to get through Act Two.” She puts her palms together in prayer. “Please, please, please?”
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. Like I’m doing her a favor. “Sure. Sounds fun.”
“Really? Oh, my God! Thank you!” Nat hugs me so hard that I nearly fall over. “I’ll call him right now to tell him,” she says, pulling out her cell and racing back out of the office. “I owe you!”
As the door closes behind her, I can hear Nat saying, “I just talked to Jess. She’d love to go.”
I have a date. I can’t breathe. I know it’s not a real date, but … what am I going to wear? What am I going to say to him? How am I not going to kiss him all night?
A new e-mail pops up from Kevin, with the title “Or maybe Norrebro. Or Frederiksberg.”
Nat pops her back in. “Holly says break’s over. And Giovanni says that sounds great. Is it okay if I give Giovanni your phone number so you guys can coordinate Monday?”
“Did he ask for my number?” I ask, trying not to sound giddy as I turn off my laptop and stand up.
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“Of course not,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “I like talking to him.”
You know, kind of like how I like taking my next breath.
* * *
Giovanni’s texts start almost immediately and continue throughout the night. The first one dinged when I was taking an order for a party of eight. I was so swamped, it didn’t occur to me to check it for at least five minutes. But then I saw it was him, and I was hooked.
So I know you say you like the opera, but you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.
Are you kidding? I’m thrilled! I haven’t seen the Barber of Seville in years.
Did Nat explain what this is? It’s a variety of arias performed for a charity benefit, including Figaro’s aria. But also Violetta’s aria from La traviata, Un bel di vedremo from Madame Butterfly, and I’m not sure what else.
Sounds exquisite.
I begin typing. Then I decide to test the waters, adding …
Can I take you to dinner afterward to thank you?
You don’t have to. There will be tapas and cocktails at the benefit.
He sensed it. He knew that I was asking him out, and he shot me down. Which is totally fair. I deserved that. So I lie …
Perfect.
Even though it’s not perfect. It’s not even vaguely perfect. I feel utterly humiliated.
But then an hour later he writes again.
I looked up the menu, because I’m a geek, and it does seem a bit sparse. Maybe we should nibble on a little something beforehand. Where do you live?
I’m near Santa Monica. Is the benefit downtown?
Yes, so I’m going to have to pick you up early.
You don’t have to go all the way out there. Traffic will be a mess. Plus I’m used to driving to the Eastside. I’ll come meet you.
No. I’ll come get you. Is 5:00 too early?
“Jess, tell Kevin we say hello, then get the hell off your phone,” Holly chastises me.
5:00’s great. Gotta go. Swamped here.
Tell Nat I say hi.
And that should have been it. I was already dancing with fire.
Leave it to Nat to douse the woodpile with gasoline and a bright new torch after closing. “Shit,” she says as the three of us pile into our cars an hour after closing. “My phone is dead, and I forgot my charger.” She looks over at me. “Can you call Giovanni and tell him I’m on my way?”
“Sure,” I promise. And we all head out in opposite directions.
It takes me at least five minutes of driving to get up the nerve to dial him into my Bluetooth and press the little green phone button.
Giovanni answers on the first ring. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” I assure him nervously. “Nat just wanted you to know that her phone is dead, but she is on her way over.”
“Cool. So how was your night?”
“Good,” I answer. “Yours?”
“Good. I have a wine and food festival I’m presenting at tomorrow in Santa Barbara, so I’m just packing for the weekend.”
“Fun!” I say, with a crack in my voice that makes me sound like a thirteen-year-old-boy going through the change.
Fun? Who says “fun” like that? Try to sound intelligent. “So, are you going to go do that twelve-course meal you told Nat about when you’re there?”
There’s silence on the other end. Crap. What did I say?
Finally, he answers, “No. There won’t be time.”
We share an awkward pause I quickly try to fill. “Oh. Well, it sounds amazing. I always wanted to do that dinner with Kevin, but he never wanted to. The scallop course alone would have me happily slogging up the PCH on a Friday afternoon for three hours.”
“Wait, you know about this meal?”
“Oh, I’ve fantasized about it for years. I think I’d most want to do it in the fall, when the chef pairs the scallops with a fresh pumpkin risotto.”
“Whoa. You really do know this meal,” Giovanni says, clearly impressed and warming up to me. “Fall would be great. Although in the spring, she pairs the lamb chops with what’s supposed to be an out-of-this-world roasted asparagus.”
“Well, now see, we’ll just have to go in the spring and the fall,” I say, without thinking.
And he gets quiet again. God fucking damn it. Why can’t I just let a nice moment happen?
Giovanni changes the subject. “So, have you heard from Kevin?”
And the moment is gone. Damn it. “Yeah,” I answer. “Well, just via text and e-mail. I’m not ready to talk to him. He sent me pictures of a house in Copenhagen.”
Why did I tell him that? What do I possibly hope to gain by letting him know Kevin is still very much in the picture.
“Why didn’t Kevin want to go?” he asks.
For a moment, I don’t understand the question. Then, “Oh, you mean to the restaurant in Santa Barbara? Kevin and I never went to places like that. It was way too expensive. And we were always saving up to pay off student loans and buy a house.”
“So four-hundred-dollar meals weren’t really in the budget.”
“God, no. If it wasn’t happy hour or we didn’t have a Groupon, we stayed home.”
“It’s always a balance, isn’t it?” Giovanni states. “I’m guilty sometimes of only living in the moment. But then the credit card bill will come due at the end of the month, and you have to think about that too.”
“So is that why you haven’t gone? You worry at the end of the month it wouldn’t have been worth it?”
“I do worry about that. But not because of the money. It’s…” He seems to struggle with how to put his next thoughts into words. “Have you ever traveled with a friend?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, me too. To me, the coolest part about traveling with someone is that, for years afterward, you have this person you get to share that memory with. And they’ll remember details about the trip that you totally forgot about. And when you talk about this memory years later with your friend, it all comes rushing back and you get to relive those happy feelings again, like it’s the first time.”
“Hm. I never thought about it that way. But yeah, you’re right.”
“So back when I was in college, and for a little while in my early twenties, I had all of these experiences in Hawaii and Europe with friends who can bring me right back to that time, and that’s awesome. Unfortunately, I also had some experiences with now ex-girlfriends, one in particular who cheated on me, and those memories … Well, they’re just not as good.”
“Got it,” I say, intentionally not asking about the ex-girlfriend memories so I don’t ruin another moment. “You want to make sure you go with th
e right person.”
“Exactly.”
And then I say, truly, just as a friend, “Well, if you ever decide you want to go up there with a friend who can rave about the roasted asparagus with you in ten years, let me know. Because I’d love to be that person.”
Can I hear smiling on the phone? I think I hear smiling. “That sounds pretty cool. I’ll think about it.” And then another ninety-degree turn: “You know what wine they pair with the pasta course? Orvieto.”
“You’re kidding?” I say brightly. “Well, see, now I have to go.”
And the conversation easily flowed from there. We mostly talked about food. I admitted to hating duck breast, and he pulled the usual guy thing of, “Maybe you’ve just never had the right duck breast.” But I let him. And he recommended a gourmet food truck he insisted served the best duck tacos on the planet. He said there was even a Groupon for it sometimes, which made me smile.
And okay, so maybe I wasn’t going to get a boyfriend out of this. Maybe I would just get a really cool new friend who enjoys a lot of the same things I do. That’s still pretty good, right?
At least that’s what I told myself twenty minutes later, when he hung up to go have sex with my friend.
Chapter Thirty-nine
HOLLY
Okay, let me just break down the punishment I received today for being a totally clueless slut last night.
At nine A.M., Sven texts me. (Note: I do not say he comes over to speak to the woman he had sex with less than six hours before. He doesn’t even call. He texts.)
Hey. Ended up oversleeping and had to quickly get my run in before work. (Talk about a mad dash—LOL.) What time are you done tonight? We can hook up, and tomorrow I promise breakfast.
Of course, the proper response would be, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Or, better yet, “Fuck off.” But, being a doormat, I spend the next thirty minutes lying in my bed, trying to figure out a nicer way to play this. I finally write:
I actually have a date tonight after work.
Granted, I did not actually have a date tonight; I was just seeing Joe. But here was my theory: Men prefer women who are wanted by other men. They need to pursue a little bit. I did not give Sven the chance to chase me enough. Therefore, I have to reset the clock.
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