Love the Wine You're With

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “Seriously, you don’t have to…”

  “Great. And I will. Thanks,” he says, then hangs up and gives me the phone. “Do you want to call Giovanni?”

  I take the phone. “What did she say and what will you do?”

  “She said the two of them will handle the bar, because it’s not that busy. And to make sure you take your Vicodin, because apparently you hate the feeling of being spacy and sometimes won’t take your medicine.”

  “That’s pretty judgmental coming from … Never mind. I need to call Giovanni.”

  I dial him, and he answers on the first ring. “How are you? Jessie says she accidentally cut open your hand.”

  “Yeah. She fumbled with her phone, and I tried to catch it and hit a glass. I’m fine. How are you doing?”

  “Well, I didn’t cut open my hand. Are you sure you don’t want me to come home early?”

  Chris presses the alarm for his Prius and opens my door first. “No,” I tell Giovanni. “You have wine to sell, and I’m just going to take my medicine and go to bed early. Stay in Santa Barbara. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  “Well, do you want me to cancel the fund-raiser? I don’t have to go,” Giovanni tells me. “I can come straight to you tomorrow afternoon.”

  Shit. With everything going on, I totally forgot about my dinner with Marc. “No, Jessie’s really looking forward to it, and I’m going to be drugged out and resting anyway. I’ll just see you Tuesday.”

  “Okkaaayyyy…” he says reluctantly. “Are you sure? I feel bad.”

  “Don’t feel bad. You’re being the perfect boyfriend. Go. Sell wine. See opera. Have fun.”

  We talk for another minute, and I think I have him convinced that I’m not dying.

  He seems to be the only one I’ve convinced. After I hang up, Chris tells me in an urgent tone, “We’ll stop by the pharmacy, then pick you up some food. What are you hungry for?”

  “In-N-Out.”

  He turns to me, surprised.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I just thought you were going to fight me about the meds. In-N-Out it is.”

  Chris runs into my local Walgreens to drop off my prescriptions, then we head to the nearest drive-thru of In-N-Out. I order a double-double with everything on it (including the grilled onions), french fries, and a chocolate shake. Chris gets almost the same, but no grilled onions.

  We grab our bags, and he starts to drive away from the restaurant. “What are you doing? Park,” I command.

  “We should get back…”

  “No, no, no,” I insist. “This is In-N-Out. You don’t save In-N-Out. You thank the gods for this blessed ambrosia, and you wolf it down like you still have the metabolism of a fourteen-year-old.”

  Chris capitulates and parks in the lot. I hand him his double-double, then tear into my burger. For my first bite, I close my eyes and have a culinary orgasm. “Oh, my God, that’s good,” I murmur. “They should not tell us it’s six hundred and seventy calories. Nobody wants to know that.”

  “Leave some food to have with your meds.”

  “Yeah. That’s not happening,” I say through a mouthful of delicious burger.

  Chris takes his first bite. “These really are the best. Some East Coast people say Five Guys—”

  “Oh, they’re so wrong,” I tell him, then take another bite and savor. I lean back in my seat and let happiness wash over me. “Man, I don’t even know the last time I got this with the grilled onions. I’m always worried about my breath.”

  “Never know when there might be a man around to kiss,” Chris jokes.

  He watches me as I continue to scarf down my burger with just my right hand. “What?” I ask, not able to read his facial expression. “Am I making a mess?”

  “Well, yeah. But it’s In-N-Out. That’s expected. No, I was looking at…” He smiles, take his napkin, leans into me, and gently wipes sauce from my lip and chin.

  Okay, that was sexy as hell. Where did that come from?

  I smile and take a few (nonmessy) french fries. We stare at each other until …

  I look away from his stare. “So, you never told me how the rest of your wedding weekend went. Did your sister find a venue?”

  “She did. In downtown. It’s happening Valentine’s Day weekend. Now I just have to dry-clean my tux and find a date.”

  “And the bachelorette party?”

  “As of now, I’m still hosting. Maybe I can find a date for that too.”

  I let his statement lie there, because there’s a tiny part of me that thinks, maybe, he was referring to me?

  My phone buzzes a text. I put down the burger, wipe my hands, and check it to see …

  We have 7:30 reservations at

  I quickly turn off my phone and stuff it into my purse. Chris pretends not to notice my panic.

  But he knows. I know he knows.

  I nervously offer him the white box of french fries. He takes a few.

  The car is deafeningly silent. Finally, he asks, “So how long have you and Giovanni been dating?”

  “Not long,” I say. I am hoping those two words form a whole sentence.

  Chris waits for more.

  “Less than a week,” I admit reluctantly.

  “Oh. So he’s not really your boyfriend.”

  “Really? What constitutes a boyfriend?”

  “Having sex.”

  “Sex does not constitute a boyfriend.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “No. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends I didn’t have sex with.”

  “Not after the age of twenty-five you didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, come on.”

  More silence. Finally I have to ask, “How did you know we haven’t had sex yet?’

  Chris smiles, clearly very proud of himself. “I didn’t until just now.”

  Damn it! He keeps entrapping me. “I will have sex with him soon, though. And, unlike you, he passed the kissing test.”

  “Do you want to explain…”

  I cross my arms. “It’s none of your business.”

  Chris debates prodding me, then surprises me by saying, “Fair enough.” But you could cut the tension in the car with a knife.

  We finish our food and head back to the pharmacy in silence.

  As Chris pulls the car into a spot in the Walgreens parking lot, I say, “I’ll get everything. You wait here.”

  As I open the passenger door, he asks, “So you can text your married boyfriend?”

  Ouch. I turn to him and clearly enunciate every word. “No. So I can talk to the pharmacist in confidence and take my pill.” I haughtily grab what’s left of my chocolate shake and head out.

  Surprisingly, Chris lets me go in by myself. I get in line for prescription pickup, turn my phone back on, and use my good hand to text.

  I can’t wait. Pick me up at 7:00. I’ll be wearing the dress you like.

  Will you be wearing the bra and panties I sent you?

  The pharmacist calls out, “Next,” and I give him my name and wait for my meds. It kind of hurts to type, because I have to rest the phone on my bad hand, so I type back …

  If I can get them on. I actually had to go to the hospital because I hurt my hand. I’m fine but have people around me. See you tomorrow?

  I hit Send and then wonder why I wrote that. Because I want him to come over and take care of me? But I don’t want him to meet Chris? Or know about Chris? Or maybe I want Chris to take care of me?

  I wonder what the definition of neurotic is. Thirty-two-year-old single woman?

  The pharmacist hands me my pills, explains the proper dosage and side effects, and sends me on my way. On my way out, I rip open the antibiotic bag and take my first dose with the chocolate shake. I leave the Vicodin alone for now. I get loopy on that stuff.

  Then I head back to Chris.

  We drive to my place in silence. Out of the blue, Chris asks me, “So did your married guy pass the kissing test?”

&nb
sp; My initial inclination is to give a resounding, “Oh, yeah.” But instead I shrug.

  More silence. Five blocks later, “So, did I pass the kissing test?”

  Whoa. He remembers. He remembers that night, the night I left. But he’s still here taking care of me. Why?

  “Actually, no,” I answer, thinking back to his balcony, and our dance, and that magical first kiss. The one that I initiated.

  “Wow. How bad was I twelve years ago?” he asks.

  “No. It has nothing to do with the kissing itself. I just have a rule that a man has to kiss me by the middle of the first date. If he doesn’t, it means he’s not really interested, so we both need to move along.”

  He smirks and shakes his head. “That is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Of course you would think that, because you always force the woman to put herself out there. Look, I’m sure there are perfectly good men whose wives or girlfriends asked them out or made the first move or whatever. But I need a man who will put himself out there. I want a man—”

  “You want a man who you don’t care enough about to have an actual relationship with, so you definitely don’t want the guy who you like so much, you’re stressing out the entire date trying to figure out if he’s going to kiss you or not. And by the way—I did not flunk that kissing test. I kissed you.”

  “Wha … You most certainly did not.”

  “Like hell I didn’t. I pulled you into a slow dance and totally worked up to it.”

  “You did no such thing! I pulled you into the slow dance. Me! I did that!”

  I wait a moment before stating one more time, “And I kissed you.”

  Chris shakes his head slightly, seemingly having an entire conversation in his head. “Fine. Maybe I’m remembering it wrong.”

  I narrow my eyes at him as I watch him drive. I can’t tell if he’s placating me. I look down, feeling bad. “Well, if this were a date, just for future reference, the next red light might be a good time to kiss the girl.” I turn away. “Not that I mean me, of course. I’m just giving you pointers.”

  “I think pointer number one would be, ‘Don’t start your date in the emergency room,’” Chris says, trying to lighten the mood. “And I can’t kiss you now anyway. You’re hopped up on Vicodin.”

  “I haven’t even opened the bag yet. I just took the antibiotic.”

  “Why haven’t you taken your Vicodin?” he exclaims with a little more exasperation than I think is warranted.

  “I don’t like the feeling when I’m on the stuff. I get woozy.”

  “You’re supposed to get woozy. Your hand is currently resembling a fifth-grade girl’s needlepoint project. Take your damn pill.”

  “Fine,” I say, ripping open the bright white bag and pulling out the bottle. But my left hand is a bit bandaged up. “I can’t get it open.”

  Chris stops at the next red light and puts out his hand. “Here. Let me.”

  He opens it, hands me the big white horse-size pill, then hands me my shake. I can feel it slog down my throat. Yuck.

  A minute later, Chris slowly pulls his car up to my house, and stops.

  “You want me to help you inside?” he asks.

  “No. I’m fine.” I put my hand on the car door handle and start to open it. “Thank you for taking me to the ER. You’re not so bad. I’ll see you soon.”

  I let my statement hang there, making no motion to actually open the door. I turn to him, a little sad. “You know, I feel like if we were in a parallel universe, we’d … I don’t know.”

  Then, as I open the door, he becomes his usual antagonistic self. “If I kissed you right now, you’d secretly be afraid that I wouldn’t come back Tuesday, and you can’t stand that. That’s why we haven’t kissed yet.”

  I slam the car door back shut. “What?”

  “It plays into your whole fear-of-intimacy thing. Which is cool, I get it. It’s also why you have three men around and you don’t know what to do with any of them.”

  I sigh loudly. “You know, if I’m so awful, why do you keep showing up to see me every night?”

  He shrugs. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

  I open my door again, but not completely. I want to say a million things to him. I want to tell him to go away. I want to say I’ll see him Tuesday. I want to ask him in.

  I slowly close the door again. We stare at each other. I lean in and kiss him. Tentatively. Hesitantly.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  His lips are so soft, and he opens his mouth slightly. He doesn’t stick out his tongue, and neither do I.

  So what does that mean? Is he being polite? Is he being nice to me because I’m in pain? Does he feel sorry for me?

  I quickly pull away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  He gives me a sexy smile. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

  I shake my head slowly, sadly. “You give me more credit than I deserve.” Then . . “You need to not come into the bar anymore.”

  Chris seems to give my request some consideration. Then he answers, “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  “No. Seriously. I don’t know why I just did that, because I don’t want you. I want Marc.”

  Chris doesn’t seem offended. He asks me in a neutral tone, “He’s the married guy?”

  “For the record, how did you know he was married?”

  “A single guy shows up with flowers. A guy with a girlfriend sends flowers. Only a married guy sends a bouquet the size of a kid’s jungle gym.”

  I can’t help myself—I focus on his lips. And before I know what I’m doing, I fiercely lean in and kiss Chris again. Race cars have less velocity.

  This time he kisses me back and, make no mistake, he’s not just being polite.

  I rip myself away just as fiercely. “My God. Giovanni. I have to break up with Giovanni.”

  Chris calmly leans in, puts his arms around my waist, and kisses me again.

  I melt. I absolutely melt. There might as well just be a puddle of Nat on his passenger seat.

  Eventually, I come up for air. “I have to go,” I tell him, and this time I manage to open the door fully. And yes, okay, so maybe my knees are weak and I can barely get out of the car. But I’m out of the car.

  He starts to get out of the car too.

  “No, no, no, no,” I stammer and point. “Stay in the car.”

  “I just want to make sure you get in okay.”

  “No you don’t. You want to make sure…” I look at my white bag, then point to him again. “And I’m now on drugs. You said so. So that’s…” I whirl my index finger around, not quite sure what to say next. “That’s what that is.”

  And I turn on my heel and racewalk to my door.

  I have not heard his car turn on yet. “Go!” I command without looking behind me.

  “I’ll go when you’re safely inside.”

  “I’m safe. Go,” I yell behind me and fish through my purse for my keys.

  Fuck. Noooo … Not when he’s looking. Where are my damn keys?

  “I’m not fishing for my keys as an invitation!” I yell toward him.

  “Okay,” he yells back.

  There they are. I pull them out.

  Then stare at my fist full of keys.

  Silent night out here. Just a cricket and some faraway freeway traffic noise. I still don’t hear his car. He still hasn’t moved.

  I could invite him in. Crawl into his arms. Softly kiss him until the Vicodin kicks in and I fall asleep.

  Jesus, Nat: Marc, Giovanni, now Chris? What’s the matter with you?

  Determined not to further screw up my life, I slip my key into the lock, and turn it. I quietly let myself in and close the door. I fall against the door, desperately wanting to invite him in, yet knowing what a horrible idea that would be.

  Still quiet outside. I remain with my back to the door and wait for what could be two minutes or twenty. Finally, I hear a car start and slowly drive away.


  Holly’s still at work, so I decide to lie down on the couch and breathe.

  Seriously, what’s wrong with me? Who kisses two guys within thirty-six hours of each other, knowing she’s about to finally get the third guy she has pined over for years?

  I hear my phone ping a text.

  Chris.

  Of course.

  See you Tuesday.

  I start to write back.

  No, you won’t.

  I delete that. Type …

  I’m sorry. That won’t happen again.

  Delete.

  Finally …

  Okay.

  And Send.

  Chapter Forty-five

  HOLLY

  You know how, after your first real heartbreak, when the guy you were totally in love with leaves you, you see him everywhere? It is so much worse when the guy who leaves you dies. Just like after a bad breakup, it’s not the big things that send you down an emotional spiral: a birthday, an anniversary, or some other date that you can emotionally prepare for ahead of time. It’s the little things that remind you of the person that ambush you: You find yourself bursting into tears because “Teach Your Children” plays on the sound system at Target, or you pass your beloved’s favorite museum or football stadium, or someone is wearing the same aftershave he wore. (Dad wore Old Spice. I used to joke that every time I smelled that on a man, I had the uncontrollable urge to miss curfew. Now I have the uncontrollable urge to vomit.)

  In this case, the trigger is a catalog that came in the mail this morning from his favorite candy company. Every year at Christmas, I bought him a pound of milk chocolate and a candy called bear claws (his favorite) from this little chocolate shop in Dad’s hometown. So every year, they sent me a catalog, usually around Christmas, occasionally before Thanksgiving, and then once or twice a year other than that.

  The catalog came in the mail today, and I’ve been crying off and on for the last three hours.

  It’s my own damn fault. I really wanted to leaf through the catalog the way I used to as a kid. My favorite pieces were always the chocolate-covered Oreos. In the fall, they hand-decorate each cookie with a sugar pumpkin or turkey or cornucopia. In the spring, Easter bunnies and chicks.