HOLLY
I first see Joe around nine thirty that night. He is dressed in the L.A. single guy standard uniform: button-up shirt, nice jacket, expensive jeans. He doesn’t seem to be there with anyone, but I don’t give that much thought: It’s a women’s wine bar. Single guys love to find easy ways to be near women.
“What can I get you?” I ask, after he waits politely for a few moments while I finish a large order.
“Holly, right?” he asks me, and I notice his cute smile. “I’m Joe. I’m a friend of Karen’s.”
I return the smile. “Hey, Joe. Thanks for coming. What can I get you?”
“How about if you tell me? I like my wine the way I like my women—dark, a little bitter, and totally out of my league.”
I laugh. “Sounds like you could use an aged Cabernet,” I tell him, describing our eighty-dollar-a-glass Cabernet which Jessie was appalled to learn has notes of cow dung. “But that might be a little steep pricewise.” I hand Joe our one-page “wine by the glass” list. “Tell me what you normally drink and I can find…”
“No, no. That Cabernet sounds perfect. I’ll take that.”
“Great. Do you want to start a tab?”
“I do,” he says, handing me a black AmEx. “And can you get me a glass of whatever Karen is drinking, and then a glass of whatever you’re having at the end of the night? My treat.”
Hmm, I think. He must be European. I’ve seen Europeans buy their bartenders a drink. Still, a little strange. “That’s very sweet, but I can’t drink while I’m working. But thank you. Really.”
I pour him his Cabernet and Karen’s Pinot Gris, start his tab, then focus on my other customers.
About half an hour later, Joe returns. “Karen says to buy a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and to tell you that before you say that it’s a boring choice, she wants to remind you that she just made you a four-hundred-dollar sale.”
This is the first time I’ve noticed how good-looking he is. One might say “handsome.” Not my type of handsome: His dark brown hair has a little too much product in it for my taste, and there’s something a little too put together about him. But there’s a light in his clear blue eyes, a passion. And I like his smile. It’s genuine, unforced. “Do you really want a bottle of Dom Pérignon?” I ask.
“No,” he admits. “But Karen says having a bottle at my table is a good way to meet women.”
I laugh and nod. “Fair enough. So are you here tonight to meet women?”
For a split second, I think he gives me a weird look. But then he’s normal. “I’m here to meet a woman, I suppose. What about you? Do you hope to meet a man?” He quickly backpedals. “Or a woman?”
I pull out the bottle of Dom Pérignon from the white wine fridge (set to forty-five degrees exactly) and give him another smile. “You’re sure you want this?”
He nods and smiles. “I’m sure.” As I begin the process of unscrewing the cage surrounding the cork, he asks, “So … man? Woman? One of each?”
I chuckle as I say, “Neither. Truth be told, there was a guy, but I don’t think it’s going to work out. Which is par for my life—no dating has ever worked out. Probably for the best—I’m here to start my new life. I’ve had some stuff go on in the past year that has made me realize that I need to make some changes. The bar is step one.” I reconsider my statement. “Or maybe step seven or eight, I don’t know, I’ve lost count. Point is, I’m making changes. Not dating I guess is either step two or nine.”
I toss the cage in the trash, put a towel over the cork, turn the bottle, and make everything go pop.
“What’s gone on in the past year?” Joe asks me.
“Ah, great question. But I’m swamped. Another time?”
“I’ll be here until closing,” he says, smiling to me warmly as he takes the bottle and two champagne flutes from me.
“Thanks. And good luck.”
He cocks his head. “With what?”
“Meeting that woman.”
“Ooohhh,” he says quickly. “Right.” He lifts the bottle slightly and says, “Well, thanks.”
I wave happily and … I don’t know. Something.
Something swirls around in my brain. But then I hear, “Can I get a refill?” and I get back to work.
* * *
About half an hour after that, Karen trots up to me. “Well, what do you think?”
“I think ordering Dom Pérignon is cliché,” I tell her, as I pour several small glasses of white from southern Italy.
“Not as cliché as the sommelier criticizing my choices,” she counters. “I meant about Joe.”
“Your friend? Uh … he’s nice.”
“Not my friend. Business associate. And what do you mean, ‘nice’?” She flicks her head back toward his direction. “He’s thirty-five, single, successful, and intrigued as hell by you. But he’s not nice.”
“Three tours of Italy flights, and one rosé flight, table three,” Nat calls out.
“On it!” I call back as I pull out more small glasses to finish the Italian flights. (One thing I’m good at is predicting who will be needing what in the next few minutes. And the gaggle of thirtysomething women at table five will be tasting flights until their Lyfts get here.) “Karen, I’m flattered. But if you wanted to set me up, maybe a night when I’m not completely overwhelmed with guests…”
“He’s also the director you told off a few months ago.”
“What?!” I exclaim, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward me. “Joe is Joseph Chavez?” I whisper. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
Karen’s face lights up. “There’s that passion I saw when you walked into my office at twenty-two.”
“Why?” I stammer out. “For all that is good and holy … why?”
“For the same reason I invited three casting directors and a few network executives: You suddenly weren’t available for auditions. People are intrigued. I’m just trying to build up heat.”
“I don’t want you to build up heat. I’m taking a break from acting.”
“And I’m taking a break from Dysport. But we both know neither of us can stay away long.”
“How are you coming with those flights?” Nat asks as she pours a large Australian Shiraz into a goblet and puts it on her tray.
“Give me a second,” I say, pulling a Rosato from the Veneto region out of the wine fridge below me and quickly pouring it into three glasses. “Seriously, Karen, I cannot handle this stress tonight. Please make him go home.”
She rolls her eyes, then assures me, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Meaning she’ll do nothing. Argh …
I so do not need this tonight.
I place Nat’s flights on a tray, trying not to look over at Karen and Joe in the corner. (Meaning, of course, I’m looking over at Joe in the corner.)
Okay, yes, he’s good-looking. Kind of has a baby face, which would be annoying at twenty but works on a guy in his midthirties. And he’s smiling as Karen tells a story with her customary wild gesturing and theatrics. Nice shoulders. I have a thing about shoulders.
“Can I get another glass of this Pinot when you have a chance?” a woman sitting at the bar asks me pleasantly.
“Absolutely,” I tell her, and get back to work.
A minute or two later, Joe returns to the bar. “I have been told that I must close my tab.”
I place my palms together in a prayer and apologize, “I am so sorry for telling you off at my audition. You did not deserve my unloading on you like that. I was going through a lot, my dad had recently—”
“Stop. I was the asshole,” Joe interrupts. “I was on the phone dealing with … you know what, it doesn’t matter. Just please accept my apology. I had my casting director call your agent to bring you back the following week, and she said you were on a break. We’ve been asking about your availability for months. I’m a fan of your work. What can I do to get you to come in and read for me?”
One of the hottest commercial directors in town wants me to come in and read. I should be thrilled. But instead I hedge. “It’s just not the right time,” I tell him. “I can’t work on any other characters right now. I’m taking time to work on myself. But thank you.”
One of the double-edged swords in acting training is if you are really paying attention, you can tell exactly what the other person is feeling. And despite him nodding pleasantly and saying, “Cool. Cool. I get it,” I can tell that my very minute rejection broke a tiny part of his heart. “Can I close out?”
I have to force a smile as I say, “Sure.” Then I run his card, bring it back, and wait for him to sign.
“I see you guys close at one,” Joe says. “Want to grab some breakfast with me afterward?” Before I can answer, he quickly says, “I know you’re not dating. I’m not asking you out. I just … I don’t know. I just want to get to know you better.”
“It’s opening night I kind of have to hang with my girls after we close.”
“I get it. Of course,” Joe says immediately. “How about tomorrow night?”
“I don’t get off until two or two fifteen in the morning,” I tell him apologetically.
“And I can name five places that are open that late. What will you be more in the mood for? Deli? Coffee shop? Diner? Thai food?”
So this is why this guy is such a successful director—he’s tenacious.
Yet I think I’m blushing. Why am I blushing? I surprise myself by answering, “You know that coffee shop in Silverlake? I’ll meet you there at two thirty.”
“It’s a nondate,” he confirms, then pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?”
“323…” then I give him my cell number.
He types it in. “Perfect. Texting you now…”
My phone beeps. I check and read the text …
Idiot #7 to hit on you opening night.
I chuckle. “Were you hitting on me?”
“I might have been. But not anymore. Nondate.”
I hold up my phone. “But should I put Idiot #7 as your contact information?”
“I would.”
I smile, kind of tickled, and type in “Idiot #7.”
Tickled. That’s actually how I’m feeling right now. Maybe this guy’s not so bad.
We say good-bye, and he heads back to Karen’s table.
As I head to the register, I open the check to see he left an outrageous tip. Out. Ra. Geous. So much so that the credit card company probably won’t allow it.
Hm. Maybe I should have let him stay later.