But then Sydney and Anthony came in, spotting me immediately, since I was sitting so close to the front door. “Hey,” I said lamely, and Anthony gave me an equally limp “hey” in reply. I knew he was disappointed about Connor’s and my breakup, since that sort of killed his “in” for possibly getting a vineyard of his own. Life sucks sometimes.
Sydney, however, chirped a cheerful “hi!” before sliding in the booth next to me. She gave my glass of mineral water the side-eye but didn’t say anything except, “Hey, Anthony, can you get me a rum and Diet Coke?”
He didn’t quite shudder, but I could tell what he thought of her drink choice. Not that surprising, considering he was something of a wine connoisseur. Being a wise man, though, he didn’t say anything, just nodded and headed off to the bar.
“What is up with that?” Sydney asked as soon as he was gone, pointing a hot-pink fingernail at my glass of mineral water.
“I just didn’t feel like drinking, that’s all,” I replied.
“Seriously? Miss ‘I’m Going to Arm-Wrestle You for the Last Half Glass of Wine in That Bottle’?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
I shrugged and pretended to be absorbed in watching the artist on stage start prepping his canvas, even as the band went through their sound checks. Not that they had all that much to do, as there was only a drummer and the lead singer/guitarist. I knew on their album they had a cellist play on some tracks, but I didn’t see a third person. Maybe she wasn’t available for this particular gig.
“Maybe I thought I should lay off for a while. Drinking really doesn’t solve anything.”
“No, but it at least makes you feel as if you’re solving something.” She subsided a bit as Anthony returned, holding her rum and Diet Coke and a glass of red wine for himself. “Thanks, sweetie.”
Did it make me a horrible person to think how hard it was to watch their casual intimacy? They’d definitely toned it down around me, but I could still see how close they’d gotten, how Sydney seemed to have clicked with Anthony in a way she never had with any of her other boyfriends. I was happy for her, truly, and yet it hurt to see her happiness and know that mine had been torn away from me through no fault of my own.
Well, all right, I’d made the decision to stop Damon Wilcox, keep him from hurting anyone else. I supposed I could’ve just walked away. But I had a feeling that would only have made matters worse. How could I have possibly known that doing the right thing would end up destroying my relationship with Connor?
“So, what up?” Sydney asked, and I blinked and glanced over at her.
“Huh?’
“Earth to Angela. What’ve you been up to? I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”
I gave a too-casual shrug. “Oh, nothing. Getting ready for the contractors. They’ll be here next Tuesday, right after Memorial Day.”
Anthony sipped his wine before asking, “So what are you going to do while they’re working on the kitchen?”
“Eat out a lot, I guess,” I said. “Although my aunt has said I can drop by for dinner whenever I want while the remodel’s going on.”
Yes, bless her, Aunt Rachel hadn’t been quite as “I told you so” as I’d feared. Not that she could completely conceal her relief at my being back in Jerome, but I thought she also worried for me, could see that I wasn’t bouncing back from this separation the way I should. How could I, though? This wasn’t just a simple girlfriend/boyfriend breakup — this was a prima separating from her consort, something that had never happened before, at least in McAllister history.
“Mmm,” Sydney put in. “Your Aunt Rachel is the best cook. I’d stretch out this remodel for as long as possible, if I were you.”
“Considering the way most of these projects tend to go, that’s probably going to happen whether or not I want it to.”
She giggled and sipped at her rum and Diet Coke, then leaned her head against Anthony’s shoulder. I forced in a deep breath and drank some of my mineral water, telling myself I couldn’t forbid the entire world a PDA just because I’d been deprived of it myself. That sounded very sensible, even though I could feel the ache beginning in my chest, the hot sting of tears in my eyes.
This was really getting old.
Luckily, though, the band started up then, playing a song I recognized from Connor’s CD. It sounded a little different now, minus the long, mournful notes of the cello moving behind the quick finger-picking on the steel-string guitar and the driving beat of the drums. Still, it was enough to recall how I had awoken that morning in Connor’s apartment, hearing this music drift up below and wondering how I would be able to free myself from him.