Misery Loves Cabernet

KIM GRUENENFELDER

Also by the Author

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

To Brian and Alex—who taught me that
testosterone and estrogen really can coexist

Thanks to Kim Whalen, my brilliant literary agent, for encouraging me to write this book, even during months when I would just stare at the computer and sigh. And to Rebecca Oliver for introducing us, and changing my life.

Thanks to Jennifer Weis, my wonderful editor. Thanks for believing in me, and for believing there’s an audience for women’s fiction not set in New York’s Upper East Side. I’ve got another L.A. comedy for you soon!

Thanks to Jennifer Good, my awesome film agent, who is making me turn this book series into a pilot. Let’s hope you’re right!

Thanks to the friends who are willing not only to look at my crappy first draft but also to give honest notes about what needs to be fixed: Gaylyn Fraiche, Carolyn Townsend, Dorothy Kozak, Susan Schofield, and my wonderful husband, Brian Smith.

Thank you to Joe Keenan for letting me bounce around ideas as we trudged the WGA picket line last year. I am in awe of your talent. And I’m totally stealing your idea for my next protagonist’s man problems! Someone who’s willing to listen to my ten mediocre ideas to get to the one good one is worth his weight in Bollinger.

Thank you to Irishman Cormac Funge for helping me get all of the Liam nuances correct. You answered every e-mail question about your country, no matter how stupid, and for that you’re worth your weight in good Irish whisky.

Thanks to my family: Carol (Mom), Ed (Dad), Janis, Jenn, Rob, Jake, Declan, and all of my wonderful aunts, uncles, and cousins. And to my in-laws, who welcomed me with open arms: Caryol, Walter, Bonnie, Toni, Sonia, Eric Sr., Eric Jr., and Kyle.

Thanks to Elizabeth Porter and her wonderful fiancé, Bryant York, for describing a perfect first date in DUMBO in such amazing detail.

And, of course, to “the winetasters” (I guess Misery really does love Cabernet)—my female pack: Jen, Dawn, Gaylyn, Christie, Marisa, Missy, Dorothy, Cecily, and Nancy. And to newer friends Susan and Jamie. I treasure all of you.

And finally, here’s to the next generation of women: Haley, Maibre, Lila, Janni, Emily, Korie, Scarlett, Katie, Adeline, Karina, and Sophia. You guys are going to kick ass, and I can’t wait to be your biggest fan when you do!

Do not read and reread a man’s text message, or e-mail, or listen to his voice message, over and over again. Do not try to delve into his words for hidden meaning, or call your friends to get their opinions on “what he really means.” It’s a message, not the Constitution—you’re not supposed to study it
.

I’m sitting on my living room couch, an empty bag of Doritos to my right and an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights to my left, writing a book of advice for my future great-granddaughter.

Why am I writing a book that won’t be read for almost a hundred years? A few months ago, I started thinking about all of the things I wish I had known when I was sixteen and wish I could remember now that I’m thirty.

I began my book a few months ago by telling her things like:

You should never have a job that you hate so much you think, “Thank God it’s Friday” every week of your life
.

Not to mention:

You won’t meet your future husband at a bar
.

And, my favorite:

Some days are a total waste of makeup
.

In the past week, I’ve come up with a few other pieces of advice I like, such as:

If you are going to show up at someone’s house unannounced, call at least five minutes in advance. This gives your hostess four minutes to race around the house collecting dirty dishes to throw in the sink, and another minute to plan your death
.

All women think they can utter the following phrase: “If I had a dime for every sane member of my family, I’d have a dime.”

Never drink wine from a box
.

And just now . . .

Do not read and reread a man’s text message, or e-mail, or listen to his voice message, over and over again. Do not try to delve into his words for hidden meaning, or call your friends to get their opinions on “what he really means.” It’s a message, not the Constitution—you’re not supposed to study it
.

Which is stupendous advice, if I do say so myself. So stupendous that I must immediately ignore it, walk over to my computer, and stare at the e-mail on my screen:

Charlie, you’re overthinking this. Have fun at the Halloween party. Talk to whomever you want. As you said before, we’ll figure this out when I get home. No worries.

xoxo

J

Crap. What did Jordan mean when he wrote that? That we’re a couple who trust each other, and therefore I can have fun talking to whomever I want while he’s away in Paris?

That he likes me, even though I’ve insisted that we should be on a break while he is in Paris?

That he’s already on the set sleeping with the Second A.D.?

The past six weeks have been alternately perfect and hideous, and the hideous parts may be my own damn fault. I recently wrote to my great-granddaughter:

You know what the right thing to do is, even though it’s usually easier (and temporarily more fun) to do the wrong thing
.

The problem is, I don’t even know if I have done the right thing.

Let me back up. Six weeks ago, after a particularly brutal weekend acting as maid of honor at my little sister’s wedding, I thought I had finally found my perfect guy, my reward for all of my torturous years of dating. Jordan Dumaurier. After several frustrating starts and stops in our relationship, both of us were totally free of our entanglements, and we were now dating each other.

Those next six weeks should have been bliss. I wasn’t working much, since my boss was out of the country. One of the perks of being a personal assistant to a successful boss is that they sometimes take off for Belize on a moment’s notice, and you get some unexpected free time. So while international movie star Drew Stanton dined on plantains and readjusted his chakras in a Yucatán villa, I got to hang out with my new man and still collect a fat check every week, made out to Charlize Edwards.

Yes, Drew Stanton. As in
the
Drew Stanton: Golden Globe winner, Academy Award nominee, “Sexiest Man Alive” . . . complete lunatic.

But I say that with love. Drew is one of those forces of nature that seem to irreparably change all who enter his sphere of influence. In chaos theory, they refer to this as the butterfly effect. But if Drew is a butterfly, I’m frankly never sure whether to stare at him in admiration or pin him to a corkboard.

But enough about him, let’s talk about me. And Jordan.

Jordan’s gig as set still photographer on Drew’s last film ended when the shoot wrapped, so he had time off, too. We spent four delicious weeks holed up in my little house, eating lots of takeout, talking for all hours, and having sex, sex, and more sex.

Then, the unthinkable happened. He—gasp!—got a job offer. Oh, the horror.

Yes, I know, I’m being a big baby. People have to work. It’s reality. And I even advised my great-granddaughter:

Don’t be jealous of spoiled rich kids. If you don’t work, you don’t have honor
.

But here’s the problem: he didn’t actually get one offer, he got two. One was to shoot stills for a film shooting in Los Angeles for the next three months. Taking that job would have allowed us to be in the same city during the holidays. The other job was for a movie shooting in Paris until the end of February. And he had to leave the next day.

He chose Paris. And I couldn’t help but feel that he had chosen Paris over me.

I spent the next sixteen hours hanging out with him as he packed, and temporarily breaking up with him.

I didn’t actually break up with him. What I did was tell him that long-distance relationships don’t work, and that we’d be deluding ourselves if we thought we could weather a four-month split after a four-week courtship. I then quoted the “if it was meant to be” line, and said that when he got home, if we both wanted, we could start up exactly where we left off.

It all sounded perfectly logical at the time. I’ve worked in the entertainment business for years, and (with the exception of the marrieds) I’ve yet to see a four-month break ever lead to anything but a breakup.

Ever.

So, at the time, I felt like I had no choice.

That said, the moment he left, I backtracked like crazy. My first day alone I worked myself into a tizzy, convinced that the moment he walked off the plane, he would go to the film set and run right into a gorgeous, thin woman with a sexy French accent and her sights set on my hunky American man.

Oh, she’s out there, and I hate her already. Cheeky little . . .

Anyway, I have spent the last two weeks continuing to work myself up into a psychological frenzy, and this past hour has been no different. I cannot leave my computer screen for more than two minutes. Gazing at his latest e-mail is like watching a bad car wreck, or the latest Tom Cruise Scientology video—you want to turn away, but you can’t.

I walk back to my living room, grab my notepad and my unopened cigarettes, head back to my office, look at the screen again, and stew.

Charlie, you’re overthinking this. Have fun at the Halloween party. Talk to whomever you want. As you said before, we’ll figure this out when I get home. No worries.

xoxo

J

He wrote
xoxo, J
. Not
Love, Jordan
. Not even
Love, J
. Nope—
xoxo
.

Okay, yes, it’s better than
Cheers! Jordan
, or (God forbid)
Best, Jordan
. Or his initials—
JAD
—that would be obnoxious.

But, I don’t know, I use
xoxo
for the friends I adore, not the man I’m sleeping with.

Was sleeping with.

Then dumped for no good reason.

Scratch that. A very good reason.

Besides, we’ve never said the L word to each other, and I’d rather hear it in person (preferably when he’s sober and standing up) rather than in an impersonal e-mail.

My God, if I spent half as much time exercising as I do obsessing about men, I’d weigh what it says on my driver’s license by now.

I glance over at the pack of cigs and sigh. I also quit smoking six weeks ago. I didn’t do it for Jordan, I did it for me. Well, the first six hours I did for me. After that, my only motivation was the promise of sex whenever I wanted. Which does help with those oral cravings, I must admit.