“So this is all about Greg?” Julien asks, wishing after the fact that he didn’t sound so petulant.
“It’s also about you, hun.” She looks him right in the eyes. “I’m not going to lie to you. Martin only cared about the cocktail night, but I know how much your sommelier studies mean to you, so Wine Down Wednesdays are a way for you to shine and flex your social skills. You light up when you talk about wine. Let’s let people see you in that mode, maybe it’ll help you shake off your shell a bit.”
Julien doesn’t want to molt or whatever. He is perfectly comfortable inside his shell. Or he was. Before Colin’s move and Greg’s arrival.
“Frankly,” she continues, “it will also help us sell some of those expensive vintages you convinced us to stock.”
He replies leadenly, “Fair. Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”
“That’s the spirit!” She winces. “Well, almost the spirit! We’ll work on it.”
As Julien walks away into the back, bag still slung on his shoulder weighed down with his notebook and his course book, he pulls out his phone. On the screen are two notifications:Greg Harlow has followed you on Instagram. Greg Harlow has sent you a friend request on Facebook.
Facebook? Who still uses Facebook?
Admittedly, he does, but only to occasionally linger in special-interest sommelier groups and to get event invitations when the art studio a few blocks down hosts paint-and-sip nights. They work with a local winery he really loves, and for the price he gets to try new wines and paint a piece he can hang on the wall in his living room. He finds painting almost meditative. There is one later this week that he’s looking forward to attending on his night off.
With Aunt Augustine’s words trailing him, he accepts both notifications. A small letting of Greg Harlow into his life. Not that he posts much. His Instagram is artsy shots of wine bottles, and his Facebook wall is chock-full of people he barely knows wishing him a happy birthday dating back at least five years. Greg won’t glean much about him from those.
Only, he finds out he’s wrong rather quickly.
Before they open for the night, Greg wanders over to him while he’s reading and asks if he can have a seat. Julien slides his bag off the bench to make room for the muscular mixologist. “How are you feeling about this whole happy hour business?”
Julien is surprised by this question. After their meeting with Uncle Martin, they spent the rest of their shift like they were repellant magnets. Suddenly, Greg is singing a different tune. “It is what it is. We should make the best of it.”
In the hour since he spoke with Aunt Augustine, he’s made peace with the knowledge that if these nights go well, his tips will be good, and his savings for the advanced sommelier course will accrue quicker. One step closer to Texas. One step closer to Master status. One step closer to getting out of the Lehigh Valley, a place that easily feels like a memory pit for him to get lost in forever.
Greg seems to be good at racking up tips when he’s not upsetting long-term couples. Maybe this won’t be all bad.
“I agree,” Greg says, chipper. “I passed Studio Artiste on my walk in today and noticed they had a sign in their window about a paint-and-sip. I was thinking that might be a good place to tell people about our Wine Down Wednesdays. Could just be fun. Have you, uh, ever been?”
For a split second, Julien considers lying, telling Greg that he’s never been and has no interest, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. There’s an earnestness in the set of Greg’s brows that’s new or at the very least new to Julien. He’s used to seeing one eyebrow cocked, loaded, flirty. Directed at a customer or a coworker.
“I have,” Julien says. “It’s nice. I like it.” He keeps his statements brief, even if his mouth wants to go on about the instructor and the calming wave of a brush across canvas.
“Any chance you’re going this week? I saw there were a few spots still left.”
Once again, Julien contemplates lying, ditching the class, and eating the price of admission because hefinallywrestled himself out of the Greg/Braydon mind trap he was stuck in. This outing might be fodder for a grislier snare. But he’s been looking forward to this class since the last one. Plus, he’s in no position to be wasting money like that. What does it matter if Greg is there, too? They can choose easels next to one another, but that doesn’t mean they have to talk. It’s purely for happy hour visibility.
Julien nods, chest loosening. “I’m going.”
“Great!” Greg says with a tad too much enthusiasm for Julien’s taste. Though a small part of him does find it endearing. Asmallpart of him. “I’ll register online right now.” Greg pulls out his phone.
When he unlocks the screen, Julien can’t help but notice that Greg has the event page for the paint-and-sip open. Julien’s attendance is marked. Clear as day.
He knows there’s no malicious intent here. Instead, he’s rather tickled that Greg would go through the trouble of playing pretend, giving Julien the illusion of spontaneity. It’s a lie, but it’s a white lie, and Julien can tell by the blush slowly spreading on Greg’s cheeks that he needed to tell it for one reason or another, so he lets Greg off without comment.
“All set,” Greg says, hurriedly putting his phone away. “Looking forward to it.”
As Julien gets ready for his shift, he thinks,Maybe I am, too?
Eight
JULIEN
When Julien arrives at Studio Artiste, he takes in the colorful walls, the craft supplies for sale in the front right corner, and the smooth jazz lilting out of the speakers. Margaret, the white, very pale class instructor with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and glasses resting on a chain around her neck, readies the easels and distributes the paint.
He always arrives early to help for two reasons. The first is that he likes Margaret. He’s been coming here for almost two years now, and from his first class he’s sensed that Margaret is a kindred spirit. Meticulously organized. Impassioned about her craft. Diligent and timely and sometimes gruff with her feedback but never cruel, and once she warms up to you, she’s a loyalist.
