Page 73 of Just for Tonight

“I remember. You’re an asshole. You only think about yourself.” But I’m thinking about Richard Bradshaw’s comments about monsters, or more importantly, about people shaped by monsters who dread the possibility of becoming monsters themselves.

“Exactly,” Jake says. “And if there’s a thing, then I have to think about me and you and maybe even us. You’re not asking for a small concession here, Mackenzie. You want me to just change who I am, and I’m not going to do that.”

“Not for anyone?”

“Not so far.”

Ouch. I wince, but he can’t see that—and I’m glad. “You are an asshole,” I say, as if I’m complimenting the color of his tie.

“I know. And I called it early, so you can’t say you weren’t warned. Take care, Mackenzie.”

And he ends the call.

I can’t believe it. No nicey-nice. No thanks-for-the-good-times. No it-was-great-while-it-lasted. Nope. No concessions from Jake Cavendish. Done and gone.

But I’m the one who doesn’t like compromise.

I also don’t like being turned down. I know I’m not wrong about him, but if he won’t take a chance on us, I can’t force him.

I’d love to shake him so hard that his teeth rattle.

I’m so mad that after I finish staring at my phone, I turn it off and chuck it across the room. (It lands safely on the couch.) Then I retrieve it, take out the battery, and drop it in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I’ll ditch my number and get a different one. Jake will never be able to contact me again.

But I don’t need to bother. He probably won’t even try.

It is almost worth driving to Toronto to argue with him, but he probably wouldn’t let me in the door.

I grab a coat and head downtown, needing to do something other than sit alone and fume.

Merrie takes one look at me and holds the door wide open.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be open on a Sunday,” I say.

“I’m not, not anymore,” she says and turns the sign to closed. She’s wearing her whites and leads me toward the kitchen. I grab a seat at the counter, wondering where I’ll start so I don’t sound pathetic.

I’m not sure there’s such a place.

Merry takes a bottle of wine from the bar fridge, a perfect distraction, and presents it to me. It’s a white, a Gewürztraminer with an unfamiliar label. I see that it’s from Niagara, a vineyard I don’t know. There are a lot of small ones down there.

“I don’t know this wine.”

“You should,” she says and leaves me with a corkscrew and two glasses. She returns to the kitchen while I open it. The cork has a wonderful fruit scent, apples and citrus, fresh as a day at the beach. It’s dead clear, pale yellow, and looks divine in the glass. I swirl and sniff, seduced before I even taste.

“Little place,” she says. “The way he told it anyway. Down by Jordan, just starting up.”

“God knows where they found any acreage down there.” I close my eyes and let it slide down my throat, cool and crisp and utterly perfect.

Then I realize what she said.

“They called on you?”

She nods. “Nice kid. Earnest. Sold me with a sip.”

“Me, too.”

“I bought a case if you want to take one home.”

“Thanks. I might. Opa would love it. Let me pay you for it.”