“Unless . . .” Ashleigh reads my hesitancy. “You had somewhere else in mind?”
Of course I don’t have somewhere else in mind. I don’t foresee Ashleigh loving MEATLOCKER.
But I have to say something, so I blurt the first place—the only place—that springs to mind: “Cherry Hill.”
Her dark brow lifts appraisingly.
“It’s a winery.”
“Is that the one with the hot drug-dealer bartender, or the one down the road from that one, where they only play Tom Petty?”
“Um,” I say. “I really only know . . . about the wine.”
In that I know they have wine.
After a protracted pause, she says, “Okay. Cherry Hill.”
“Great!” I say.
She goes back to scanning books in. “Are you going to dress like that?”
I look down at my brown high-necked button-up. “No?”
“A coworker and I are going to stop by Cherry Hill tonight,” I tell Miles from the doorway as he’s brushing his teeth in our tiny, pink-tiled bathroom.
He meets my eyes in the mirror, toothpaste foam spilling out of his mouth. “Why did you say it like that?” he asks.
“Like what?”
“Menacingly.” He spits into the sink and knocks the faucet on. “Like, Me and my friend are gonna pay you a little visit, and we might have a baseball bat with us.”
“Because me and my friend are going to pay you a visit,” I say, “and we might have a baseball bat with us.”
He thrusts his head into the sink, under the running water, to rinse. When he straightens up, he grabs his towel from the rack and buries his whole face in it.
“I just thought it might be weird for me to show up without mentioning it,” I say.
He faces me, one hand and hip propped against the sink. “I’m flattered you remember where I work.”
“I needed somewhere cool, to impress Ashleigh, and it leapt out of my subconscious,” I admit.
“Was she impressed?” he asks. “Does she like our wine?”
“No idea,” I say. “But she thinks one of your bartenders is a drug dealer. Or plays a lot of Tom Petty.”
He frowns. “She must not have tried the pinot.”
I laugh in surprise. “Are you offended?”
“A little,” he admits, shrugging. “It’s a double gold winner. Make sure she tries it tonight.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
For a second, we just stand there.
He waves toward the doorway, which I’m blocking.
“Right!” I step aside, and he breezes past, his warm, vaguely spicy scent hitting me. “I’ll see you later,” I call over my shoulder, shutting myself in my room to continue my—so far unproductive—outfit selection.
Wool, tweed, satin posing as silk, every piece of it easily matched to every other piece, and all of it a bit stodgy professor, even my casual summer clothes. Sadie used to say my look sat at the intersection of Personal Style as a Statement About Personality and Don’t Look at My Body, which is essentially accurate.
A quick Google search of “what to wear to a winery” reveals a plethora of the kind of bright and airy clothes that could be plucked from an Elin Hilderbrand novel. My own wardrobe is mostly creams, tans, camels, browns. I could just go with a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, but I suspect that between showing up overdressed and underdressed, the latter would be the greater sin to Ashleigh, and I want to make a good impression.
So I swallow my pride, and put on the slinky backless black dress I bought for Peter’s and my engagement party.
I haven’t worn it since, which is stupid, because it cost way more than I would ordinarily spend (Peter bought it) and it’s extremely flattering.
Fifteen minutes after seven, someone knocks on the door. I’m not surprised she’s late. I am surprised she came to the door. I thought I’d have three flights of stairs to get over my hanging out with someone new nerves before I was face-to-face with her.
It’s been years since I made a new friend. I mean, actually made a new friend, not just inherited one from Peter, or from Sadie, who’s always been more of a social butterfly than me.
I smooth the front of my dress, a nervous sixteen-year-old about to find out whether she really scored a date to the prom, or if the other kids are about to dump pig’s blood on her.
When I open the door, Ashleigh jumps a little, because she’d been looking at her phone.
“You didn’t have to come up,” I say. “You could’ve texted me from the car.”
