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“It was a very smooth scotch. Such a waste to spit out.”
Will pulls his phone from his pocket and mumbles the time. “Ten eighteen.” He holds his finger up, then mimes for me to stand back before he punches a code into the elevator keypad. “Wine or whisky?”
“Wine,” I say.
“Red or white?”
“Red?”
“I’ll be right back.”
I watch as he opens the door on the side of the car and walks into a foyer that looks identical to his. The door closes. I get comfortable on Will’s couch and text Georgia to let her know I’ll be home late.
Will’s place is so stark, all chrome, black, gray, and white. Nothing homey or warm in his living room. He doesn’t have a single plant. I decide I’ll remedy that. He has a perfect windowed wall for some of the plants on the lower floors that aren’t getting enough light. They’ll do well here, and he’d do well having some life in this space with him.
He appears silently, holding three bottles.
“Colt says I’m an idiot since red is not a wine.” Will holds up the single bottle in his right hand. “A pinot noir from Burgundy, France.” He places it on the coffee table and moves one of the two bottles in his left hand to his right. “A merlot from the Napa Valley, and a Shiraz from Australia. Any of these sound good to you?”
“All of them?” I laugh.
“Need a glass, or … you happy to swig right from the bottle?”
I know he’s joking, but my stomach tenses. That’s just the kind of thing my asshole dad would say to my mother. I stand.
“You know, maybe it’s best I leave.”
Will’s face falls. He looks confused. It’s clear he hadn’t meant to insult me.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath for a count of five, hold for five, release slowly, and repeat the truism,Fear is excitement without the breath.
I sit again and say, “Glass, please.”
Will disappears and returns with a corkscrew and one lovely, stemless tumbler.
“We sharing?” I ask.
He shakes his head and nods toward the three bottles. I point at the Shiraz. He opens it, pours, and hands me the glass. I inhale the fruity, spicy scent, then let the first sip sit on my tongue for several seconds. I moan as I swallow.
“That is the best wine I have ever tasted.” I try to offer the glass to Will.
He waves it off. “I have no doubt.”
“It’s only wafer thin,” I say in a terrible French accent.
“More Monty Python. And yet”—he fixes me with a stare—“you claim to not be a fan.”
“Seriously? You’re making me drink alone?” I push the glass toward Will again.
He blocks the offer and presses my arm toward my body. “I’m not making you do anything, Virginia.”
The energy between us flips.
“And I’m back to thinking I should be going.” I take a full mouth swig of the Shiraz, finishing the glass, and move to stand. Will puts his hand on my shoulder and urges me back to the couch as he sits beside me.
“I stopped drinking the night my father died. I don’t mind you drinking. Obviously,” he says, nodding at the table with the three bottles. “Colt drinks, and that doesn’t bother me at all. My choice is personal, and if you’d just sit still and stop threatening to leave every five minutes, I’ll tell you a secret few people outside my family know. I think it’ll help us keep clear on what we’re doing here since I’m ridiculously attracted to you, and I believe you might find me not too distasteful …”
“Not so bad, you know, for … well … a god among men.”
