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The poor girl is seriously confused.
“Nothing is wrong with it. He’s just decided to switch to Pinot Noir.” I hand her the glass. “Charge us for both.”
“I’m actually in the mood for Cab,” Enzo says when she walks away.
“OK, well why don’t you tell her the reason you need a new glass is that you just contaminated your wine with an unregulated substance?”
“Speaking of regulations . . .”
Enzo’s spent most of his week at the lab, so this is the first time we’ve sat down for a one-on-one conversation.
“Spill it.”
Sometimes, my own words just don’t feel sufficient, so I say, “‘When a heart insists on its destiny, miracles of coincidence bring the inevitable to pass.’”
Enzo thanks the waitress who delivers his wine, unfortunately not Cabernet, and waits for an explanation.
“Who said that?”
“Joseph Campbell.”
“And whatexactlywould Joseph Campbell have to say about our NDA and the lovely Doctor Flemming?”
I run my fingers through my hair, wishing away a headache that was brought on by an afternoon phone call with my father. You’d have thought the guy would be thrilled I spent an afternoon with Paul poring over reports, but no. He’s now on to being worked up about the contract with our mid-Atlantic beer distributor. He’s never quite pleased with me.
“He’d say that nothing will keep love apart. That when the heart speaks, we should take good notes.”
Enzo’s eyes widen in genuine shock. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with Hayden?”
“I’m in love with her, Enz.”
I’ve thought about nothing else this whole week, and after last night . . .
There is no doubt in my mind.
His only reaction is to nod for me to continue.
“She sees past the bullshit somehow,” I say. “Like you.”
I tilt my head back, closing my eyes. No way am I going to let him see the tears forming in my eyes. I don’t cry.
“Hayden.”
Holy shit, I can’t stop them.
Think of something else. Like Ada straddling your lap in the car last night.
“Hayden?”
Not working.
Screw it.
I look at my friend, wiping an errant tear away as I continue to fight off the surge of emotion.
“It’s OK,” he says.
But it doesn’t feel OK. I can practically hear my father telling me to man up. That no one likes a crying baby.
