To Shine In a Starring Role

So, Jared dumped me over the phone even though he lives like two blocks away and he could have easily done it in person like an adult. He’s not an adult, though, not really, so I guess I can’t hold it against him.

He’s 26 but he works at Grounds Coffee and doesn’t have any plans in life except to keep hosting and performing at the open mic night. And yeah, he’s cute and all but really his music isn’t that great and apart from the girls who hang out at open mic week after week to watch him, I doubt he’ll ever have any real fans.

Maybe I’m just being bitter.

I’m pissed about it. Not heartbroken exactly, but it does hurt my feelings. Like, I know he dates every girl in town for five minutes so what else did I expect? But he really cranked up the charm for me and gave me roses and everything on Valentine’s Day, trying to convince me he was for real.

“You’re the most beautiful girl in Ardmont,” he said the night we ended up hooking up. “There’s no other woman I’d rather be around than you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe,” I said. “But you’re just trying to get me to sleep with you, and I don’t sleep with anyone I’m not seriously dating.”

“I want to date you, Calista.”

“Why, so you can cheat on me with every other girl you meet?”

“Never,” he said. “It’s different with you. I mean that.”

Over the course of that night, as I drank more gin and tonic, Jared’s romantic needling became more convincing. I suppose I wanted to believe he’d really give a committed relationship a go with me.

Yeah, I partially sensed he didn’t mean a word he said but, if I’m being honest, I had as big a crush on him as every other girl in town did. I just served myself the appropriate level of self-admonishment for that foolishness, and worked to repress it.

In my heart of hearts, though, I relished the idea that guy I liked---the one everyone liked---picked me to be with, officially. And I tricked myself for almost two weeks of togetherness that he was genuine.

And then this phone call. “I want to be totally honest with you because it’s not like with other girls, Calista,” he says. “I really care about you.”

“Such bullshit,” is all I say back. I feel like a complete sucker. My anger is protective. I cannot hack the idea of him knowing he hurt me.

We get off the phone and now I’m off to a bar. All the bars and shops in Ardmont are on Lancaster Street and I live on Main, which intersects the middle of it, so I head down the hill on foot. My favorite dive bar has a parking lot and it’s all the way at the end of the strip, but I plan on getting good and drunk tonight, so it’s worth the hike.

The whole time I’m walking, I’m thinking about how I haven’t dated anyone seriously my whole life, except Kelvin in college who turned out to be gay. None of the straight, single guys in Ardmont are serious about their own lives, let alone about the women in them. Or, at least they aren’t serious about me.

What’s so bad about me that no one wants to stay with me for longer than a week or two?

I’m wallowing so hard that I don’t notice Elliott coming in the opposite direction on Lancaster, heading toward me, until he calls out, “Hey, Calista!”

I snap out of it and see him approaching. I don’t know Elliott very well because he’s a quiet guy. He’s the manager at Grounds Coffee and he’s a little older than me, so our core social groups are not exactly the same, even in this small town.

“Oh, hey,” I say, forcing my voice to sound friendly.

His tone immediately shifts. “What’s wrong?”

I’m not sure how he knows. “Nothing,” I say, crossing my arms.

The silence between us lasts a beat too long.

“Whatcha up to?” he asks.

“Heading to Stanby’s,” I say. “I’m going to get completely drunk.”

He takes a half-step toward me. For a second, I think he’ll touch my arm, but he doesn’t. “Let me buy you a drink first, before you go to Stanby’s.”

I agree to it because I’m down for a free drink. “The Tavern?” I suggest. It’s the closest bar to where we’re standing.

“No,” he says. “The Labrador Inn.”

I give him a look. That’s the fanciest restaurant on Lancaster. The only time I ever went there was when the bank where I work rented it for our Christmas party. They serve really, really good food.

My mind’s on drinking, though. I’m still stewing about Jared and what a loser I am. “Do they even sell drinks there?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Elliott pulls the fancy red door open and gestures for me to enter first. We’re seated in a quiet, dimly-lit corner. I glance around at the elegant mid-century decor and feel woefully out of place. This is not where I picture drinking myself into oblivion.

“Do they have Jägerbombs here, or what?” I joke.

Elliott chuckles. “You can get bombed later if you want. For now, Merlot.”

He orders a bottle of 2015 vintage Napa Valley reserve, as well as a double appetizer of poached pear flatbread with brie cheese, caramelized onion, dark cherries, and arugula. I’m not a big wine person, but something tells me that the one he’s picked costs a pretty penny.

“I never had a good wine, I don’t think,” I say.

He shrugs. “You seemed upset. When I’m upset, good food and drink makes me feel better.”

“I’m not upset,” I lie. “I’m fine. Best day of my life.”

Elliott peers at me with his kind brown eyes. His are the roundest eyes I ever saw, and his cheekbones are the flattest. I used to think he was a little funny looking, but for the first time, I notice the strong cut of his jaw, and how nicely his facial hair trims it.

“Is it Jared?” he asks.

I’m about to declare that no, it’s not Jared. That getting upset about that serial philanderer would be absurd, so my current state of mind is altogether unrelated to the barista in question. I’m drawing myself up to tell him so, but just then, the waiter brings the wine to the table. He ceremoniously removes the cork and pours us each a glass, but Elliott’s thoughtful eyes never leave my face.

There’s no point in trying to fool him. I’m convinced he’s picked up on the whole story while the wine was poured. It's an all-too-familiar tale in Ardmont.

Elliott takes a small sip from his glass and pauses, tasting it. “This is good,” he comments. “Tannins are astringent by nature, but with this, if you let it sit a moment in your mouth, they become soft and melt.”

I don’t know what “astringent” means, but I sip the wine and feel how the taste shifts from a tart berry to warm and silky like chocolate. A warmth fills my belly. I’m starting to forget about getting drunk.

I lean toward Elliott. “Do you ever feel like you don’t deserve the good things in life? Love, and all that? Like you’re too big a fool to figure out the first place to look for it?”

My cheeks burn. That was a lot to lay on a guy.

The waiter brings the appetizers and I, relieved for something to do besides blurt out embarrassing confessions, grab one and bite into it. It’s freaking delicious. The combination of the fruit’s sweetness with the savory cheese and greens, plus the hint of burnt cocoa leftover in my mouth from the Merlot, is unadulterated perfection in that moment.

“Mmmm,” I say, closing my eyes.

When I open them again, Elliott is smiling, closed-mouthed and understated. Something about him glows. I recognize that look from a man. He thinks I’m cute.

“You know,” he says, and takes another sip. “They grow Merlot in France as, like, insurance.”

“Insurance?” The only insurance I know anything about is car insurance, which costs me hundreds of dollars every year and never gets me anything.

“Yeah,” he says. “Merlot grapes ripen earlier, when the weather is nice. But the big popular grape in France, the Cabernet Sauvignon, ripens later, which means lots of the crop might get washed out by rain. And if it does, they blend in trusty Merlot, to save it.”

I don’t like the sound of it. Here I thought he’s splurged on a fine wine for me. I’ve even fooled myself into believing it contains subtle notes of flavor. I must have terrible taste.

“Trusty,” I say, twirling my glass. “So this is just insurance wine?”

“Oh no,” Elliott says. “This is great wine. My favorite. People in California started growing Merlot and they recognized its potential to shine in a starring role.”

He pauses and we both sip our wine again. Some of its initial tartness has worn off and settled into a deep, warm flavor. Later, I find out that’s because I aerated it with my nervous twirling.

“The French are jerks,” Elliott says. “They don’t know a good thing when they have it. I’m more of a California guy, myself.”

Something tells me he’s not just talking about wine anymore. This evening is taking on brand new shades of flavor, as is the man I’m sitting across from.

We start talking about ourselves. He tells me how, with his savings and a small inheritance from his great-aunt, he’s in the process of buying Grounds Coffee from the current owner. He’s got big plans to bring in national touring acts to perform there.

“The space has a lot of potential,” he says. “This whole town does.”

He’s the kind of man who finds potential in a lot of unexpected places, I’m learning. He’s a musician as well, but rather than taking center stage, he’s often called to play backup on drums, guitar, or keys. It’s an essential role, like Merlot filling out the Cabernet.

“I want to hear the songs you write,” I tell him. “I’ll bet they’re really good.” He promises to text me a link.

We end up ordering dinner and talking for hours, as the restaurant fills and clears out again. When it’s time to go, he walks me up the hill to my apartment and, at my door, I think he’ll kiss me. I want him to kiss me.

“Calista,” Elliott says. “This has been such a great night. A dream date, really.”

I nod. It has. This was not at all how I expected the evening to go.

“But I’m not going to kiss you.”

“Oh,” I say. He doesn’t want to kiss me. The hurt must show on my face.

“Not because I don’t want to,” he says. “I do. Very much.”

It’s my second rejection today. “Then why?”

“Because I can tell you’re still upset about someone else,” he says. “And when we kiss, I want your memory of it to be untainted by any of that. I want it to stand entirely on its own.”

He takes my hands in his and raises them to his lips, brushing them against my knuckles. It sends a stirring all through me.

All week, I listen to Elliott’s gorgeous songs he’s uploaded to the internet. They’re soft and understated, just like him.

For our second date, we hike along Ardmont Creek together. We talk and laugh and I have zero doubt that his feelings for me are genuine. My mind is fixed on him alone, and when we kiss at last, for the first time in my life, it’s like I shine in my starring role.

Then I blend elegantly with him.