Another annual stop was usually a place my parents considered educational, such as the aquarium or one of the museums. While I always liked the Museum of Science and Industry, I think that while listening to my parents talk, I learned more in Wrigleyville.
Unlike my parents, I don’t feel the need to limit my alcohol intake to family time. It’s not that I drink a lot or every day, but life often requires a good glass of wine. Sometimes that’s also a great time for a warm bubble bath or like tonight, just a good friend. Those are the ingredients for my special times since I don’t have a husband or family of my own.
“Would you be my family?” I ask Stephen.
“Oh, girl. I’ve said it before; you’re my sister from another mister.”
“And another missus, but it still works.”
I close my eyes and inhale the deep cabernet aroma. There are some people who can taste wine and recite a list of familiar flavors. I’m not one of them.
“I like wine,” I admit.
Stephen laughs. “You’d make a great connoisseur.”
“I could be one if I wanted to.”
When he shakes his head, I sit taller, swirl the contents of my glass, and change my voice to something that sounds somewhere between a snooty librarian and Charlie Brown’s teacher. Clearing my throat, I inhale deeply. Then I take a small sip. “Ahem, being grown in the Napa region of the valley, this full-bodied cabernet is dense in the darker fruits.”
“You’re dense,” Stephen mumbles.
I ignore him as I take another sip and look at the bottle. “Hmmm, 2010. Yes, the blackberries were prominent that year, which is very evident. I also notice a hint of black pepper and do I taste...bell pepper?”
“I love bell peppers!”
“Next time we should get them on our pizza.”
“Next time,” he says, the excitement fading from his voice. “I’m not going to get drunk because of him. It was just that...” He swirls his cabernet. “...I didn’t expect to see him and well, I wanted to hit him with a full-bodied bottle.”
Perhaps the wine is getting the better of me, but the more Stephen talks about Max, the more I think about Trevor. It’s not that I wanted to hit him with a bottle. Well, maybe I did at first. However, after he chased me down the hallway, hitting him was the last thing on my mind. Besides, there weren’t any hard bottles around—not within reach. The only hardness within reach...
“Shana!”
“What?”
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Sleeping with your eyes open. I’m not cleaning up full-bodied wine from this comforter.”
I giggle. “I think it’s called daydreaming and...” I grip the stem of my wine glass tighter. “...I’m not wasting a drop. Our bottle is empty.”
It’s not exactly the pity party I had planned back at the fashion show. Instead, this party is more about Stephen and less about me. We’re sitting cross-legged on my king-sized bed. There’s some old ‘80s movie playing on the television at low volume and an open grease-stained box at the end of the bed that very recently contained the most delicious cheese pizza ever created. Now don’t think I’m exaggerating simply because I hadn’t eaten dinner, had consumed three or four lemon drop martinis, and have now added at least half a bottle of red wine.
It takes more than that to make me exaggerate.
“How could I have known he was here?” Stephen asks.
I sigh, thinking through his question. “I agree. I mean, if the last time you talked to him he never mentioned moving back to New York, how would you know he’s not a figment of your imagination?”
Stephen’s eyes squint. “Max moved to New York?”
I wave my hand, realizing I’m talking about Trevor and try to hide my intention. “Hell, I don’t know. I yelled at him. Did you hear me yell?”
Stephen covers his ears. “Babe, volume. You’re yelling now. Let’s not add getting kicked out of one of the nicer hotels in the Financial District—one, may I add, that’s being paid for by Saks—to our list of crazy-ass things we’ve done today.”
I fall back on the bed, kicking my legs out and nearly sending the pizza box flying. “Today. Just think about that. Twenty-four hours.”
“Okay,” he agrees less than enthusiastically.
I bolt up straight in the bed. “No, Stephen. Really. Think.”
“I’m thinking.”
I’m not sure I believe him. He’s pulled the small folder containing the room-service menu from the nightstand and is covering one eye while he reads the open page. Stopping him, I reach for the folder.
“Wait,” he protests, pulling it back. “I was thinking we should order one more bottle of wine.”
“That isn’t what I wanted you to think about. Think about all that has happened since this morning. The show is done.”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You did great.”
While I appreciate his undying support, I’d rather hear it from Vicky. Instead of arguing, I simply say, “Thanks.”
“Now that we’re done thinking about today, because as amazing as you were, the show is over and well, the last two hours...no, two hours ago. Yes. That’s when. The night sucked and not the good kind...”
His words trail away and I know him. I know he’s falling into a rabbit hole of memories, and if those memories involve sucking of any kind, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear about it. I must change the subject. “So what are we thinking about?”
“Right now...”
“No,” I correct, “before that.”
“Wine. I say we get more.”
I shake my head slowly back and forth. “Not a good idea. My mom always says never drink more than you eat.”
“Your mom is so smart. What else does she say?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, some shit about marriage and babies and how happy she is for Kimbra and my cousin Kalli. And oh yeah, Pete, no, Patty...you know, that girl who works at the drug store who is now pregnant after years of trying.”
“Pete is pregnant?”
“No, Patty,” I correct. “She and I were in dance class together twenty years ago. She was also better at her pirouette than me.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can do a pretty pirouette.”
I start to stand and demonstrate my pirouette when the room begins to wobble. Just as quickly, I reach for the bed and hold on as the waves settle. “Maybe I can show you tomorrow?”
“That’s a good idea. What I meant was, what else did your mom say about eating because on the menu it says that they have nachos.”
“Nachos?”
“Yes,” he says enthusiastically. “And you know what?”
“What?”
“I still have his credit card.”
Of course, my mind goes to Trevor. We never got to the credit card point in a relationship. To be honest, we never got further than what happened in that hallway. “I want a credit-card relationship.”
“You want a what? Why? You have your own credit cards.”
“No, don’t you see? It’s not about credit cards. It’s trust. Max trusted you enough to share that information.”