Chapter 15: Never The Best: Chapter 15

Since Pearl had lived in Downtown LA for many years, I wasn’t surprised that she knew all the cool places. The wine bar she took us to was a not-so-hidden gem.

Garçon de Café made me feel like I’d stumbled onto a Parisian side street.

Inside was an understated yet elegant bar with a long, polished counter. Bistro tables scattered across the room, their surfaces catching flickers of light from the votive candles. Soft jazz floated through the air, and in the corner, a sleek black piano stood waiting, promising live music later in the evening.

Behind the bar, the bartender looked like he’d stepped straight out of central casting—effortlessly suave, with a neatly trimmed beard, and a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves.

As soon as he saw Pearl, he hugged her, and they chatted in French. Sure, we’d all taken French in high school, but I could barely say more than oui and merde. Pearl sounded fluent.

“This is my friend, Rhett,” Pearl introduced me, and I shook hands with Mathieu, who owned Garçon de Café and had known Pearl for many years. Stupid jealousy reared its head.

Mathieu handed us menus and poured water into crystal-clear glasses before stepping back to let us browse.

The wine list was as eclectic as the bar itself. Alongside the expected French selections, there were bottles from lesser-known regions like Jura, along with an intriguing mix of natural wines from Portugal and Spain, made with grapes I’d never even heard of. Scattered among the offerings were California wines from small, independent vineyards, the kind you rarely found on standard menus. It wasn’t a list designed to impress—it was curated to invite exploration, to make you want to linger over every sip.

I’d never been a wine guy—not like my father, who pretended he could taste notes of leather and tobacco in every glass—but this place made me want to lean into the aesthetic. When I told Pearl, she giggled.

“Mathieu, here, has enhanced my wine education,” she told me.

“She has specific tastes, so serving her the wine she likes is always a challenge,” Mathieu explained in a French accent.

We sat at the bar, and I watched Pearl and Mathieu chat about people they knew. Sara, the bartender who was doing a PhD in psychoanalysis, someone called Patti, who was a singer, and others.

“Well, what would you like?” Mathieu asked both of us.

“Ah….” I perused the menu.

“Don’t tell me you’re the kind of guy who orders Chardonnay just because it’s the only thing you recognize,” Pearl teased.

I smirked. “Do I look that uncultured?”

Mathieu raised a hand as if swearing in. “I have some excellent Chardonnays from Burgundy by the glass. Would you like to try?”

“Absolutely.” I set the menu away. As the bartender went to get our glasses and wine, I sighed. “I told you, my father is the wine aficionado in the family.”

“Your father is a wine snob,” she exclaimed. “Trust me, I’ve met the kind who think that because a bottle is expensive, it’s good.”

“I thought that was sort of the rule.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Absolutely not! I have found some amazing wines under fifty dollars. I’m assuming that’s not the kind of thing George Vanderbilt ever indulges in.”

There was strength in her voice when she spoke—a quiet confidence that was unmistakable. This was the new Pearl, the grown-up version. Since moving to Savannah, she’d kept her distance, only interacting with me when work required it. But now, for the first time, we were having a real conversation. She didn’t mince her words, and I could tell she had no intention of tiptoeing around anything to spare my feelings.

It was such a stark contrast to most of Savannah’s social circle, where conversations were full of polite half-truths and carefully veiled intentions. Pearl spoke her mind, plain and simple, and I liked that about her—I liked it a whole lot.

“I’ll have you know, I once shared a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with my father and his equally insufferable friends. I’m not saying I enjoyed it, but I survived.”

“That could be harrowing, depending on the vintage,” Pearl mocked.

“Now, who’s sounding like a wine snob?” I teased.

Pearl tilted her head and shrugged. “What can I say, it’s just who I am,” she said in a very bad French accent.

Mathieu guided us through a tasting of the wines he had by the glass. Pearl eventually settled on a Sancerre—crisp, refreshing, and apparently, exactly what she wanted. I chose a Pinot Noir from Oregon, which, according to Mathieu, was light enough for a sunny LA afternoon but carried enough depth and complexity to keep it interesting.

“See, I didn’t get a Chardonnay,” I showed off to Pearl.

We ordered a charcuterie board to share—prosciutto, brie, olives, the works—and I watched as she leaned back in her barstool, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass after Mathieu delivered our drinks.

It was easy with her, easier (and more fun) than it had been in a long time with any woman. The silences were simple without the need to be filled up with small talk.

Is this what life could have been for me if I’d had the courage to be in a relationship with Pearl or even be her friend? Instead of the constant chatter and gossip about others, would I find myself learning new things, like how an Oregon Pinot Noir could, apparently, be as good as one from Burgundy?

“You know a lot about wine. How did that come about?”

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 on The 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 about her for 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?”

“Especially Hester 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 him hard.”

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 say wretched.”

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

“He isn’t my favorite, but hate might 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 arrangement of 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.

Yeah, your fiancée is going to really appreciate that, Rhett?

Fuck! Being with Pearl made me forget Josie, forget that I was trapped in a relationship I didn’t want. Could I break free? It would be a shitshow, but then wouldn’t divorce later be a bigger one? My real friends knew this was a bad relationship for me, I just needed to find my balls and do the right thing.

Pearl and I fell into an easy rhythm of conversation, picking at slices of prosciutto and soft brie as we talked about everything and nothing. Books, mostly old favorites, recent discoveries, authors we’d loved and hated. But there were other things, too. Small glimpses of the people we’d become, the lives we’d lived outside of Savannah.

I learned that she’d been to Paris once, which she’d always wanted to do, and had spent an entire afternoon wandering through Shakespeare & Company, the iconic English-language bookstore on the Left Bank, just across the Seine from Notre Dame. She said it felt like stepping into a dream.

“Do you have someplace you’ve always wanted to visit?” she asked.

“I’d like to go to Patagonia someday,” I confessed.

“Really?”

‘It’s like the end of the world, isn’t it?’ I pondered wistfully. ‘Someplace untouched, wild. Like you could stand there and feel…small, but in a good way. Like all the noise and expectations would finally be far enough away to let you just exist.’

She tilted her head as if studying me. “By expectations, I assume you’re talking about your family?”

I nodded. “The truth is that sometimes I feel like I’ve spent my whole life living for other people—doing what’s expected, being who I’m supposed to be.”

“And Patagonia?”

“It feels like it would be the kind of place where none of those things would matter. Just the mountains, the glaciers, the sky. I’d be free.’

Her fingers grazed the rim of her glass. ‘So, what’s stopping you?’

I smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘Everything. Work. Family. Expectations. You know how it is.’

‘Maybe you should say ‘to hell with everything’ and go see the glaciers.’

I wanted to ask her if she’d come with me. I wanted her holding my hand when I looked up at blue skies, breathing in my freedom.

“Patagonia will have to wait,” I replied quietly.

We both knew I wasn’t talking about taking off to the southernmost tip of South America.

“Leaving Savannah showed me there was more to life than…well, whatever it was Birdie was always chasing.” She put her hand on mine in a comforting gesture. Her compassion bowled me over. I was the asshole, the villain in her story, and yet, she was being kind to me. But what was even more surprising was how easy it was to open myself up to Pearl, to show her the cracks I’d been hiding, the weight of expectations I wasn’t sure I could carry any more.