She grabbed for it, frantically shaking water from the screen—which flickered and died.
“No, no, no…” She blotted the glass with handfuls of paper towels, but the screen remained black. Efforts to turn her phone off and on resulted in a blur of staticky pixels. “Martina, do you have anything in your purse—”
“Like a whole bag of rice?” Martina tossed away more tissues and blocked their drunk companion’s unhelpful attempts to resuscitate the device herself. “Sorry, no.”
Soaked like this, it could be hours before her phone was functional again.
“Damn!”
“Hey.” Martina sighed and caught Erin’s cheeks in her hands. “It’s not a great situation. But wasn’t the idea to get the two of you off your screens and meeting in person? Maybe this is a sign.”
“Asign.”
“Yes. Your phone’s dead, but you’re here. So come on. Let’s get you some wine.”
“And… what? Just hope we run into each other?”
“What other options do you have?”
Martina was right.
“Ready?”
“No.” But she followed her friend back out to the bar.
Even encountering Chase at the Wine Room would’ve been better than this.
Erin Monaghan, here?
Of all the times they could’ve collided, of all the places she could’ve ambushed him—outside the Modern Physics building, or in the experimental halls, or in his own damn office—it had to be here,now, following hard on the heels of his disastrous Friday and just when he was scheduled to meet Forster.
What are you doing here?
What areyoudoing here?
You need to go.
He’d refused. What would Forster think if he switched their meetup location now? He wouldn’t do that to her, and he wouldn’t give Erin the satisfaction of yielding. Besides, Forster might’ve already driven an hour along the Peninsula from Santa Clara or San Jose in Saturday traffic, then braved the hazards of parking in Palo Alto, all to meet him. So yes, he’d refused, rehashing their old arguments, because the alternative was to back away, to let his stammering agitation silence him, and at least there was some control in denying Erin what she wanted.
But what if Forster had seen their confrontation? She might’ve come to her senses and left before identifying herself, slipping out a window from the bathroom or through a service door behind the bar. They hadn’t agreed on a signal like characters from a 1990s romantic comedy, something like a rose or a book, so how could he know if he’d already passed her in the crowd? He wouldn’t have blamed Forster if she’d run.
He could blame Erin, though.
He would.
Blame was safe. Blame was good.
Because even if he and Forster were to meet now with tentative waves that gave way to laughter as they settled with their drinks into a nook somewhere near the candles illuminating the fireplace, trading stories as if they’d known each other for years, knees bumping, arms brushing, the distance between their smiles closing… even if everything he’d dared to hope for tonight happened, how could he focus on her? How could he give her the attention she deserved when Erin was here?
Erin:gilded in lamplight, barefoot.
Erin:never pulling punches.
Erin, who if she ever met Chase Meyer Jr.—
His mouth puckered. He’d never make it past the crowds to the bathroom, so instead he elbowed his way up to the bar and pointed at a random selection from the wine list that Martina Perez had given him.
With a smooth nod and an even smoother pour through an aerator, the bartender slid a glass in his direction. “This winery—Calathus—has produced some of the best reds in its region lately. Excellent choice.”
