Maybe it was. It didn’t matter. It was Chase who understood vintages. Ethan had spent a childhood vacation in Tuscany cooped up in a hotel room after a meal of bad airplane shrimp ravioli while his family went wine tasting and made pasta with Italian grandmothers. His brother had returned at the end of one day’s expedition to announce that if Ethan had waited to eat his—Chase’s—own ravioli, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten sick. Maybe he would’ve imbibed some culture and appreciation for the local grapes. Chase had touted those Tuscan adventures for years, taking dozens of dates home to demonstrate his pasta-making prowess. Or something.
Tossing back a mouthful of inky Malbec that tasted only of tannin, he edged to a corner whose open windows faced out onto Ramona Street. Maybe a few minutes away from the crush while he downed his glass of depressant chemicals would steady him. Holding the stemware occupied his fidgeting fingers, too.
He should’ve brought his sketchpad to the bar. That would’ve been better than a rose or even Ted Chiang’s story collection. But if Forster noticed it, so might Erin. She’d see the evidence against him, proof of his secret second life. She’d see it like she’d seen him on Friday night when she’d witnessed him at his worst: wild andweak.
She’d know—
Where was she?
He took another slug of Malbec and scanned the room. She wasn’t by the street door, wasn’t outside at one of the upright wine barrel tables, wasn’t perched on a couch near the fireplace—thank God. But if he couldn’t locate her, then she had the advantage of surprise, could catch him unawares again, the recessed golden bulbs overhead skimming her collarbones and the tiny divot of her navel—
He choked on his next sip.
And he watched for Forster. Waited for her. After a fourth gulp of tannin, he thumbed back into their messages.
Forster
See you at 7 p.m.! I’m excited to meet you.
She’d sent that text earlier this afternoon. He’d heard nothing from her since.
It was past seven o’clock, now. 7:13 p.m. But a fifteen-minute delay in Bay Area traffic wasn’t anything unusual. If she didn’t text while she handled heavy machinery on a freeway, even better. Maybe she was stalled trying to find street parking. He should’ve told her to head for the City Hall garage. Maybe she was still circling the block.
Ethan
The garage under Palo Alto’s city hall always has open parking spots, if you need one.
The text zipped into their thread. “Delivered” didn’t immediately appear beneath its blue bubble, however. Sometimes it took a minute… if she was driving in a tunnel, somewhere without service. But there was nothing when the clock on his screen read 7:16 p.m., either.
Her phone was off.
Which was fine, and he’d put away his device once she arrived, too—maybe: what if Dr. Kramer emailed him?—but powering it down before they’d found each other at the bar? That didn’t make sense. She’d have a reasonable explanation, though. He knew it. They’d laugh about the confusion together.Soon.
Butsoonbecame seven thirty. Then seven forty-three. Then eight o’clock. He fended off attempts from a couple on a first date to annex his spot. He craned his neck around a boisterous group of coworkers celebrating end-of-quarter bonuses to watch the door.
8:01 p.m.
No messages came from Forster’s number, or from anyone else. The next cohort to try for his bench was a cluster of women in strappy heels. One of them almost sat on him.
“Oops!Sorry, didn’t see you!”
He grunted. He didn’t look up from his phone. He didn’t move.
“Sir,” from the bartender a quarter-hour later, “if you’ve finished, would you mind…”
He stayed where he was. “Another Malbec.”
He’d downed half of his second glass by eight fifteen.
His fingers were clumsy on his keyboard.
Ethan
Seems like your phone’s off, but if it isn’t, I’m here near the entry.
Ethan
If tonight doesn’t work anymore, we can reschedule.
