Funny Story(22)

Miles pushes off the bar. “I’ll be right back.”

He beelines toward the drunk guy, a calm and polite smile fixed to his face though something about his eyes has flattened out, changed. Like he’s peering out from heavily tinted windows.

Ashleigh angles toward me. “Do you think if I keep being ignorant, he’ll keep pouring more, or was that a onetime thing?”

I watch him exchange a few words with the man. Miles nods, then bends his head toward Katya’s, the two of them quietly conferring, her hands braced lightly against his shoulders as she pushes up onto her tiptoes to reach his ear.

They both glance our way at the same time, and I spin back to Ashleigh, downing my drink. “I think you can just ask for more,” I say, “and he’ll probably give it to you.”

“I feel like a celeb,” she says. “I’ve never had this kind of in before.”

“Well, if having my heart shattered in the single most humiliating way imaginable can be of service to someone, I’ll take it.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Ashleigh says, swirling her glass, “but if Peter was going to break your heart now, he would’ve done it eventually.”

“So, what?” I say. “Peter and Petra are soulmates, and it was going to happen sooner or later?”

“Soulmates?” She laughs. “No. I’m saying your ex is the little boy looking over someone else’s shoulder, trying to figure out if the kid next to him has a better lunch. Only, the lunch box is shut, so even though he knows what his parents packed for him is pretty good, he’d still trade it just to open up that rusty little Batman lunch box.”

“What is this metaphor, Ashleigh,” I say.

“It makes perfect sense,” she says. “He’s a lunch swapper, and whether it was the rusty metal Batman lunch box or a Cars 2 zip-up one that’s filled with mold, at some point, he was going to trade in the sack lunch.”

“Just to be clear, I’m the sack lunch here?” I say.

“It ain’t about the bag, babe,” she says. “It’s what’s inside.”

“So I’m a paper sack with a heart of gold.”

“You could be a three-course balanced meal with a cute little Hostess dessert, and it wouldn’t matter. He knows you, and the lunch he doesn’t know is going to catch his eye. I’m sorry, I just realized I’m really hungry, so that probably explains some of the—oh, thank god.”

Miles is back, unloading our order in front of us: a board with three local cheeses, a variety of pickled vegetables, and some Waning Bay preserves, along with a basket of bread from a bakery in town.

“So,” he says, “a bit of a snag.”

“What, you ran out of grapes?” I say.

His eyes flick down as he lifts the next bottle from beneath the bar. “Katya, my coworker . . .” He clears his throat as he pours our next taste. “She heard from Petra. About my new girlfriend.”

“Oh no,” I say.

He grimaces. “I am . . . really sorry, Daphne.”

“She just asked if it was me, didn’t she,” I say. “If I’m the new girlfriend.”

He nods, the tea lights sprinkling the bar catching the flush creeping up his neck.

“And you said yes,” I say.

The flush deepens. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Ashleigh tips her head back and laughs. The man to her left turns at the sound and gives her a flirtatious body-scan, which she, in her delight, entirely misses. “I love this so much.” She claps to emphasize each word.

“I’m never lying again,” I say.

“Except if Katya walks up to you and says, Hey, you’re sleeping with Miles, right?” he jokes. “Because if you tell the truth, this will all be very embarrassing.”

“You told her we’re sleeping together?” I say.

“Yeah, she said, Is that your girlfriend, and I was like, We have sex, and we’re in love. Someday, when we have a baby, we’re going to name her Sue Ellen after my mom. No, Daphne. I didn’t tell her we’re sleeping together. Petra told her I’m living with my new girlfriend. I’m just guessing Katya might do some high-level deduction here. But if you want me to go ask whether she thinks we’re having sex, I can.”

“How soon until everyone in Waning Bay hears this lie,” I groan.

“I’m sure the paparazzi are gathering as we speak,” he replies. “This is the 2020 Chardonnay, by the way. People think they hate Chardonnay because they’ve mostly had shitty Chardonnay. It’s a misunderstood wine.”

“Aw,” Ashleigh coos, clutching her heart. “Misunderstood little wine.”

“Don’t feel too bad for it,” I mumble. “Sounds like it gets laid a lot.”

Miles gives me a teasingly admonishing look and goes on: “Ours is pretty restrained.”

“Okay, I take my last comment back,” I say.

“See, Daphne,” he says, meeting my heckling with over-the-top sobriety, “the Chardonnay grapes themselves are pretty neutral. That’s why they can take on too much oak for a lot of wine drinkers’ tastes. But ours has a nice peach nose, and this pinch of lemon zest, and a faint, warm oakiness, but not so much that the wine’s overpowered.”