Twenty-One

JULIEN

Flopping down on a plush hotel bed in Dallas, Texas, is exactly what Julien needs after a long first day. His mind is overstuffed with knowledge, much like his notebook filled with scribbled grape varieties, vintages, and countries of origin.

He can't stop replaying his performance in the selling portion of the course, which worked his ability to orally describe the characteristics and style of a wine in a skit-like setting, someone else in the class playing a patron. Julien's tableside manner, despite the last few months of being really "on" during happy hour, is still one of his weak spots.

His other weak spot, which throbs like an infection in the center of his chest, is his cracked heart. It's not broken. That would be too dramatic for this sort of ending. Even if it was of one of the best sexual relationships he has ever had.

The heels of his hands press into his tired eyes. Thankfully, he did his room check when he arrived yesterday. He stripped the bed of its linens and placed his own clean ones over the king-size mattress, laid out his own pillows, disinfected all the surfaces.

Before he flopped down, he tugged off his street clothes, showered, and slipped into his favorite robe, which he thankfully remembered to pack in the frantic flurry that ensued before Greg showed up.

He pushes all the thoughts of Greg—Greg's toothy smile and perfect cock and buttery laugh—out of his head and sinks deeper into the mattress while focusing on his breathing.

His drowsiness gradually gives way to a slight sparkle of joy. He's here, mid advanced sommelier course.

As of today, there are only one hundred and sixty-eight professionals in the Americas with Master Sommelier status. Julien dreams about being the one hundred and sixty-ninth as he reaches for the room service menu and considers ordering a really greasy cheeseburger. If his heart can't be full, at least his stomach can be. He deserves a reward for the achievement of doing the damn thing.

He grabs his sanitizing wipes from his bag to clean the hotel phone but is interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Coming," he calls, trying to remember if he set the DO NOT DISTURB knocker on the door. When he checked in, he informed the friendly clerk behind the counter that he would not be needing or wanting housekeeping during his stay. He had found the nearest market and stocked up on his own cleaning supplies.

Outside the door stands one of Julien's course mates, Carlos—a gentleman somewhere in his early forties with a full head of thick hair graying at the temples in a sexy way. His attire screams wealth—shined-to-perfection shoes, large statement watch—but his smile is salt-of-the-earth, and Julien wishes it didn't, but his body responds to that.

Today, Carlos's sales pitch on a bottle of chardonnay was impressive. Succinct, catchy, and suave all at once. Even though Julien doesn't drink wine for pleasure, he would've bought the bottle without a single sip.

"Hope I'm not catching you at a bad time," Carlos says, looking down at Julien's robe.

Julien pulls the flaps closer together, tightens the belt. "Not at all."

"Do you have dinner plans?"

The greasy cheeseburger flickers through Julien's mind, but there's a handsome man standing at his door asking him if he has dinner plans. Screw the cheeseburger that will probably be more like a hockey puck anyway. "No. I hadn't thought about it."

"I didn't get a chance to catch you after the course let out today. A bunch of us have decided to go to a tapas restaurant, and I wanted to extend the invitation."

Julien shifts his weight from foot to foot. Socializing is not one of his predominant methods of relaxation, but he's in Dallas, his heart is cracked, and his stomach is gurgling. The happy hours have chipped away at his shell. Tonight might be a good night to exercise those new skills outside of the Lehigh Valley. If sommelier-ing is his ticket to a bigger, brighter life, there needs to be a bigger, brighter Julien as well.

"That sounds great. What time is everyone meeting?" Julien asks.

Carlos falters a bit for the first time since Julien opened the door. "Admittedly, within the next ten minutes. Some are waiting down in the lobby already."

Julien is easily able to read between the lines. Some of the people in the course are people he met in his introduction courses. He remembers sitting in the lobby one night in the Vermont hotel, surveying his notes and transcribing them to a second, neater notebook so they were easier to read, when a group of his course mates walked through the lobby talking loudly.

Not that he counted or anything, but at least two of them noticed him there and none of them came over to invite him wherever they were going, not even as they waited out in the cold for their Ubers to arrive.

Julien doesn't exude get-to-know-me energy, which is why he was so shocked when Greg took to him. Which is why he's thankful now that Carlos has come to extend the invitation.

"We've called the rideshares already, so I need to get back down there, but I can give the name of the restaurant..."

Julien shakes away Greg and the past. He's not going to let people's preconceived ideas about him or another man's decision to leave him ruin his night. "Ten minutes is more than enough time. Let me just change. I'll be right down."

After throwing off his robe and slipping on the most presentable clothes he has, Julien makes it with just enough time to squeeze into the back seat of a modest-size SUV beside Carlos and a bohemian woman who reminds him of Carole King on the cover of one of the albums Greg likes to play. Julien blocks out that inconvenient image.

The restaurant is the antithesis of Martin's Place. Where Martin's Place has black-and-white photographs on the wall, this place has pop art portraits of culture icons. Where Martin's Place has an industrial hominess, this place has lowlight chic.

Their group is seated beneath a pink, green, and yellow picture of Elvis. Half of them squeeze into the booth side. Julien chooses a chair near the end. Included, but separate from the central conversation so if he needs to disappear for a couple seconds—into the bathroom or into his mind—he won't disrupt anyone.

Their server is a bouncy woman with her auburn hair in a ponytail. She passes around drink menus. He won't order anything, but to avoid being the lone person staring into the center of the table where the condiments are, he pretends to be very interested.

"What's everyone thinking of drinking?" a white man with sparkling eyes asks from across the table.

Carlos is the first to speak. "I'm thinking something dry. Maybe a white."

The others pipe up, adding comments about some of the wines they tasted today, making jibes about the paltry wine offerings here. "Who chose this place?" Carole King's twin asks.

Julien barely hears when Carlos asks, "What about you, Julien?"

"Oh, nothing for me." He fiddles nervously with the napkin in his lap.

"Come on, we're out. We're celebrating," Sparkling Smile—Kane?—says. "We don't start until ten tomorrow. Plenty of time to sleep off any unwanted effects."

"Unwanted?" Carole King—Brenda??—retorts. "Speak for yourself. This course is already hard as anything. Do you know what it's like to be a woman trying to break into this field? I need a drink and then five more, pronto."

"Your taste's too refined for this spot?" This question comes from Alec, a thirtysomething guy in an ornate designer blazer and perfectly coiffed hair. In class today, Julien could tell that Alec felt threatened by his command of the subject.

Back in school, Julien was never a know-it-all. Science and math and English didn't appeal to him much. Of course, he was a good student. Uncle Martin and Aunt Augustine demanded that of him. He never wanted to let them down, so he did the work he had to do to make good marks and get out, unscathed but prepared.

But here, Julien feels like a classic nerd. All he needs is a pocket protector to complete the look.

"Clear head for class tomorrow," Carlos says. "I think it's smart." He offers Julien a reassuring smile.

Julien appreciates the gesture but doesn't feel like tiptoeing around his truth. Sharing it with Greg made it more normal. A small piece of the puzzle that makes up Julien. "Outside of swilling, I just don't drink."

The confusion ripples through the table. It doesn't ruffle Julien. Much.

"Interesting," Maybe-Kane says.

"Very," Maybe-Brenda says.

Carlos's smile broadens. "You're quite the study, Julien." There's a flirty undertone that Julien likes but doesn't love.

Love.A little word that has been taking up a big amount of space inside his head. He supposes, now that Greg is retreating to the mean streets of New York City once more, that he can let that word out of his grasp, allow it to float off like a carnival balloon.

Only, as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he feels the vicelike knuckles in his head grip tighter to the silky string.

"A sommelier who doesn't drink," Julien says, trying to get the easygoing conversation back by deploying some of the charm Greg has taught him over the last few months. "What can I say? I'm an oxymoron."

This gets everyone laughing, even Alec. The server arriving again gives them all a solid distraction.

For some reason, his eyes are drawn back to the menu, down to the swirly pink writing on the right-hand side. After spending so much time with Greg, making TikToks and various concoctions, he's curious to check out the twists on classic offerings.

One specific menu item catches his attention: a grapefruit rosé sangria with tequila.

Without questioning it, Julien takes out his phone, snaps a picture, and adds it to his text chain with Greg with the accompanying text: We should do a sangria happy hour.

It's silly, really, that they hadn't thought to do one earlier.

Wine and liquor. Julien and Greg.

But then he remembers: there might not still be an and to hope for.

Instead of stoking the embers of a fire set on burning out, he deletes the photo, erases the message, and joins in the conversation properly, even if his heart can't quite come to the table.