Page 40 of Never the Best

She shrugged. “I didn’t drink wine for the longest time. Just a few years ago, I slowly started…." She hesitated for a moment. "It’s not easy for me to try new things, so…it’s been a process.”

I loved that she was being open with me and hated that I was the cause of her having a fucking eating disorder. She could say it was her family, her mother, her friends…but the truth was, I’d been the one who had seen her naked for the first time in her life, had sex with her, and then called her repulsive. If only I’d known, then, the weight of my heartlessness, the price Pearl would have to pay for my cruelty.

But would that have changed anything?I asked myself.

I liked to think so. I wasn’t a monster. But when I remembered how I talked about her that afternoon by the pool, I did feel like one, the worst kind, with no integrity, who preyed on the unsuspecting and the innocent.

“But,” she continued, her tone brightening with cheer, “I’ve learned how to enjoy food and drink—obviously in a balanced way. I love wine. Places like Garçon de Café, and there's another wine bar on Olive called Good Clean Fun, have helped me figure out what I like and why.”

We talked for a while about several things, and I finally asked the question that was burning inside me. “Have you had any long-term relationships?”

She shook her head. “Mostly, I used to Tinder to…you know…have some fun.”

“And was it fun?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s like when you pick up a book, you don’t know if you’ll love it until you read it.”

I grinned. “Are you equating sex to reading?”

She chuckled. “No, a booty call to a book.”

I snorted. “Speaking of books.” I took a sip of my wine, and it was good, earthy, and not heavy at all. “What was the verdict onThe Grapes of Wrath? Was it worth it? Before...well, you know.”

She swirled her wine in her glass thoughtfully, watching the light catch in its pale, golden depths. “It was. I mean, at the time, I loved it. It’s this big, sweeping story about injustice and survival. But afterward….” She trailed off, shrugging. “The day at the pool ruined it for me.”

I winced, setting my glass down. “Fuck, Pearl. I?—”

“Please don’t apologize,” she pleaded. “And don’t sound so wounded; after all, we’re going to reclaim it when we read it together, aren’t we?”

I wanted to rage at myself, but that wouldn’t help Pearl, even if it made me feel better. Maybe I needed to think aboutherfor a change, not just myself.

“Yeah, yeah. Redemption through Steinbeck.” I kept it light, wanting to move forward and not keep looking back.

“Steinbeck would approve,” she offered.

I took another sip of wine, glancing around the café. “What was the least favorite book you had to read in school?”

“Oh, that’s easy.The Scarlet Letter.” She made a face, leaning forward as she dropped her chin into her hand. “I hated every single person in that book.”

“Even Hester Prynne?”

“EspeciallyHester Prynne. I mean, I get it, poor woman and all, but let’s be honest—she could’ve just told everyone to shove it, and moved on with her life. I have no patience for martyrdom. What was your worst read?”

“Great Expectations.” I leaned back in my chair, grimacing at the memory. “Pip’s the most annoying character ever written. He spends the entire book pining after someone who clearly hates him. I wanted to shake himhard.”

Pearl laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. “You hated Pip? I didn’t even think that was possible. He’s so….” She paused, searching for the word.

“Pathetic?” I offered.

She made a face. “Not exactly,” she said, and then, with a twinkle, added, “In British English, they’d saywretched.”

“Exactly.” I pointed at her with my wine glass. “You get it.”

“He isn’t my favorite, buthatemight be too strong a word.” She raised her glass in a mock toast. “To being mildly irritated with Pip.”

“That’s too coy. I’m going to go strong with hating Pip.” I clinked my glass lightly against hers.

Mathieu returned with our charcuterie board, setting it down between us. For a moment, the colorful arrangementof cheeses, cured meats, and fruits became the center of attention—until she began to eat. I found myself watching her closely, curious if her anorexia might reveal itself in the way she handled her food. There was no such sign, but then again, what did I know? I wasn’t exactly an expert on the disease, was I? Still, I resolved to learn more—something a good friend would do—and to stay vigilant for her sake.

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