7- Boston

Despite having lost a favorite shirt over the course of the evening, I went to bed feeling oddly happy. It had been a rollercoaster of a day. I’d resigned myself to saying goodbye to El—not that she would actually want me (or allow me) to actually say goodbye to her when she left West Wines. But in my mind, I’d begun to try to get used to the idea of not having her around.

It was strange. Up until the wine festival, I’d seen her at work now and then. I’d always thought she was attractive. But it was the texting, I decided, that had pushed that moderate attraction over the edge into something new, something different. The texts she sent me—well, okay, the texts she sent Chad—were honest and open, and I felt like I got an insight into the real El. The Isabel Watson she kept hidden most of the time, or covered up with too many words and a moderate amount of flailing around. They let me see the real her, and even though she didn’t know it was me, the ones I sent back allowed me the freedo