A Second Bite at the Apple (29 page)

Libby and my parents freeze in their seats. The wedding coordinator's eyes flit around the room.

“I'm sick of it,” I say. “I'm sick of this fucking charade.”

“Sydney . . .” Libby starts to say.

“No. I've had enough.” I thrust my seat away from the table and stand up, my napkin clutched in my hand. “There are too many secrets floating around this room, and if people don't start telling the truth, I'm going to do it for you. Because I can't take another second of this.” I throw the napkin in the middle of the table. “Matt, maybe you can start.”

Then I storm out of the boardroom, slam the door behind me, and tear down the hallway, not knowing where I'm headed but realizing anyplace I end up is better than here.

I probably could have handled that situation a little more delicately. Like slamming the door? That might have been overkill. And did I really need to throw the napkin? Probably not. But I'm tired of playing the bad guy while everyone else pretends everything is okay. Everything isn't okay. Everything is a mess, and my family needs to know that.

The problem with making such a dramatic exit is that I am now charging down the streets of Philadelphia, without a clue as to where I am heading. I don't have a car, my parents live in the suburbs, and I don't know anyone who lives downtown. I didn't really think this through.

I press onward along Walnut Street and eventually turn onto Broad Street, heading toward City Hall, the nine-story Beaux Arts building looming a few blocks ahead of me, a bronze statue of William Penn perched atop its clock tower. In high school, Zach and I would go for drives at night, swerving along Kelly Drive to look at the twinkling boathouses or circling City Hall to see if William Penn was wearing an Eagles jersey as the playoffs approached. The clocks turned bright yellow at night, and Zach always said it looked as if good old Billy had taken a leak through the clock tower.

As I get closer to City Hall, I curse myself for thinking about Zach, for tethering yet another experience in the present to an experience with him in my past. Why can't I let him go? Why do I keep trying to jam everything—my relationships, my career, my visions of the future—into the narrow framework of what I thought I wanted in high school?

The traffic on Broad Street curves around City Hall, and I dart across the street as I continue my aimless journey. For so long, Zach was a crutch, an easy excuse for why I gave up on my food-writing dreams and felt so alone. But I don't blame Zach anymore. I blame myself. And I don't want him anymore. I want Jeremy.

Jeremy.

I look up as I round City Hall and see a lumpy, middle-aged man moving toward me, a laminated pass dangling around his neck by a long, black cord. Upon closer inspection, I notice the large seal and lettering above the man's name: 35
TH
A
NNUAL
N
ATIONAL
H
OMEBREWERS
C
ONFERENCE
.

I rush up to him before he can cross the street. “Excuse me—are you heading to the Homebrewers Conference?”

“You betcha,” he says. “You?”

“I . . .” I clear my throat. “Yes. Mind if I follow you?”

“Sure thing.”

I hustle along with him as he crosses Broad onto Market Street, realizing I have no idea where we are going or who this guy is.

“So where are you coming from?” he asks as we wait on the corner of Thirteenth and Market.

“Washington, DC.”

“Ah. Nice. Couldn't get a room at the Marriott either, huh?”

“Nope . . .”

He casts a sideways glance at me as we cross to the other side of Market Street and approach the Marriott. “What brew club are you with?”

“Um . . . It's a really small one. We're not very well-known.”

“Well, you gotta start somewhere, right?” He laughs as he gestures in front of the Marriott's front door. “After you, m'lady.”

I swing through the circular door, which empties me into the Marriott's vast lobby, where throngs of guests of varying descriptions shuttle back and forth along the cream marble floor. Various signs pepper the waiting area, directing guests to the events taking place there this weekend, including the Homebrewers Conference.

“Better get out your badge,” the man says as he sidles up beside me. “They're real sticklers when it comes to that.”

“I . . . actually have to run to the ladies' room first. I'll catch you up there.”

“Okeydokey. But I'd hurry if I were you, before it gets too crowded.”

He heads for the elevators, and I slip into the bathroom, where I park myself in front of one of the mirrors and try to make myself look presentable. Given that my carb, sugar, and fat consumption over the past week has rivaled that of a small country, there's a limit to what I can do. I'm also not exactly sure what my plan is. And let's be honest: My track record in devising plans while in the bathroom is less than stellar. My only saving grace is that there is no baby powder in here.

Once I've given my cheeks a pinch and my hair a quick tousle, I make my way out of the bathroom and up to the fourth floor to Franklin Hall, where the Beer Expo is taking place. Dozens of tables line the room, showcasing anything and everything related to homebrewing: exotic strains of malt and yeast, high-tech brewing gadgets, free beer from local breweries, specialty beer glasses, and on and on. Radical facial hair pervades the room, everything from handlebar mustaches to Santa-like beards, a fashion statement outclassed only by the Hawaiian shirts in varying shades of neon and one man who, inexplicably, is dressed as Bigfoot.

The crowds move from stand to stand, sampling different kinds of beer made with whatever sort of specialty ingredients or equipment is on exhibit. In the back of the room, a few homebrewing clubs offer samples of their beers in a makeshift suite, clubs with names like Barley Legal and Yeast of Eden and San Andreas Malts.

I manage to slip in without being asked to show my badge and scan the room for Jeremy. I don't see him anywhere. Maybe he isn't here. Even if he were, the crowd is so thick I don't know how I'd find him. There are hundreds of people in this room.

As I snake through the crowd, unsure where I am going or why, I casually drape my arm across my torso, trying to disguise the fact that I don't have an entry badge and therefore have no business being here. Is this really what my life has come to? Crashing a beer conference? What the hell am I doing?

Just as I am about to bail on what is surely a bad idea, I spot Jeremy in the back corner of the room, listening to a poster presentation beside the Yeast of Eden table. He wears a baby blue polo shirt and strokes his chin as he listens to the presenter, his eyes twinkling. He is rapt.

I slink along the fringes of the crowd and make my way toward the poster presentation, where some guy is talking about glutathione and a bunch of other long, chemical-sounding words I do not understand. I am about to reach out and tug Jeremy's shirt, when he raises his hand to ask a question.

“So what are we talking, in terms of shelf life?” he asks.

“Good question,” the presenter says, and proceeds to respond to an intrigued Jeremy.

When it seems the presenter has moved on, I crane my head in Jeremy's direction. “Pssst!”

He doesn't hear me. I inch a little closer and tap him on the shoulder.

“Pssst!”

This time, Jeremy and the entire crowd turn to look at me, everyone appearing equally perplexed by my presence. Jeremy's cheeks flush, and his jaw tightens. He does not look happy to see me.

“Sorry.” I hold up my hands defensively as I meet the gaze of the man presenting his poster. “Carry on.”

He resumes his talk, and Jeremy drags me out of the hall and into the area immediately outside. His grip on my arm isn't rough or painful, but it isn't tender and welcoming either. It is not the grip of a man who is about to say, “Sydney, I missed you. I hoped you'd come and find me here.”

He pushes me into a quiet corner and lets go of me. “What are you
doing
here?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“You don't know?” He snorts. “You came all the way to Philadelphia, but you don't know why you're here.”

“I was in town for my sister's wedding tasting.”

“Ah.” He nods solemnly. “Well.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't.

“I wanted to see you. Needed to see you.” I glance down at my shoes, then look up again. “I miss you.”

Jeremy stares back at me, his expression blank.

“Aren't you going to say anything?”

Jeremy keeps his eyes fixed on mine. “What am I supposed to say?”

“I don't know. That you're mad at me. That you hate me. That you miss me, too.”

He sighs. “I don't hate you. But am I mad at you? Yeah. I'm really fucking mad at you. And I don't feel like talking to you.”

“You mean right now?”

“No, I mean like ever.”

“Oh.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn't. He just stands there, staring at me with cool, impassive eyes.

“I made a huge mistake,” I say. “I know that. I broke your trust. And I'm not sure there's anything I can do to get it back.” My voice quavers, and I take a deep breath to collect myself. “But I feel terrible about what I did, and I'm asking for forgiveness. You know what that's like.”

He presses his lips together. “Why should I forgive you?”

“Because . . .” I take a deep breath and collect myself. “Because I'm falling in love with you.”

Jeremy stares at me for a long while, and the silence hangs between us, thick and poisonous like a dense acid cloud. After a few moments, his shoulders slump. “Sydney,” he says, his voice soft. “I . . .”

“Jeremy?” A guy in a tie-dyed T-shirt and clip-on bowtie pokes his head out from behind me.

Jeremy studies the man's face, as if he is trying to remember who this guy is. “Yeah?”

“Aw, man, I thought that was you!” He slaps Jeremy on the back. “It's me—Vince. Vince Stone. From last year? In Minneapolis?”

Jeremy nods slowly, then a smile blooms on his face. “
Vince.
Right. Wow, how've you been? You competing again this year?”

Vince pretends to wiggle his clip-on bowtie. “Indubitably. You?”

“Yep. My Munich Helles and oatmeal stout both made the final cut.”

“That's amazing,” I interject. “You never told me.”

Vince shifts his gaze to me, as if he is noticing me for the first time. “Pardon my rudeness,” he says, reaching out for my hand. “It's a pleasure meeting you, Ms. . . . ?”

“Strauss. Sydney Strauss.”

“She was just leaving,” Jeremy says.

Vince scowls. “What? The party's just getting started. Come on. A bunch of us are going to check out the Spiegelau tasting before we get ready for Club Night.”

“Maybe in a minute,” I say, keeping my gaze on Jeremy.

“Okay, but when the room is too packed, don't say I didn't warn you.” I feel his eyes on me. “You'd better put on your badge, though. The enforcers are out en masse.”

“She was just leaving,” Jeremy repeats.

Vince studies me quizzically and hesitates before heading into Franklin Hall, and Jeremy glances over his shoulder toward the door. “Listen, I have to go. And so do you.”

“But . . . don't you want to talk?”

“Talk? About what?”

“About us.”

He sighs. “There is no us.”

“I know. And that's my fault.” I take a deep breath and close my eyes, then open them again. “Is there anything I could do to win back your trust? Because I'll do it. Whatever it takes.”

He looks at the floor and sighs, but before he can say anything, I feel a forceful tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me. Ma'am?” I whirl around and face a stocky man in a rust-colored Hawaiian shirt, who is standing next to a security guard dressed in black. “Could I please see your badge?”

“I . . . oh . . .” I pat my hands up and down my torso and around my pockets, as if—
whoops!
—I somehow managed to misplace it. “I must have forgotten to put it on.”

The man in the Hawaiian shirt pulls out an iPad. “Name?”

I mumble my name under my breath.

“Sorry? I didn't catch that.”

I glance up at Jeremy, hoping he will jump in and save me, but he doesn't. My shoulders slump. “Sydney Strauss,” I say.

The man flicks through his iPad. “Did you register for this event?”

“I . . . well . . .” I clear my throat. “The thing is—”

“No.” Jeremy jumps in. “She didn't.”

The man looks up. “Then I'm going to need you to come with me.”

“Just give me a minute,” I say.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but you need to leave now.”

“You don't understand—the two of us were dating, and I made a huge mistake, but I'm really sorry and need to talk to him before it's too—”

“Ma'am? I'll ask you one more time.”

“But . . . I still need to—”

But before I can continue, the security guard grabs one of my arms and the guy in the Hawaiian shirt grabs the other, and the two of them drag me down the hallway while I kick and shout and beg them to let me go. I peer over my shoulder at Jeremy, who watches, along with fifty-some other homebrewers, as the two men wrestle me toward the elevators.

“Jeremy!” I shout back at him. “I'm sorry!”

He stands frozen and says nothing as I trip and flail down the corridor.

Finally, when we reach the elevator bay, I call out to him one last time: “I'll wait for you in the lobby!”

He stares at me, his sad eyes fixed on mine. “Please don't,” he calls back.

Then he walks back into the conference, disappearing as the two men shove me into the elevator and the doors close in front of my face.